An Oasis

An old fashioned tale of riding in the desert sands.

 

An Oasis

Sitting beneath canvas and stone, that represented the only spot of civilization within fifty miles in any direction, I sipped my mint tea. Algiers is a strange place for a foreigner; when there are a million different languages in the air and not a single one your own. It's so easy to be lonely in the desert, beneath the endless skies. The only mileposts are the shimmering dunes and you own footprints in the sand. I somehow came upon this place, a small tavern, if you want to call it that. A place where perhaps, eleven others sat with the same expression of unbelievable fortune on their faces which must have matched my own. Miraculously there in the darkness we all came upon lights and sound, just like coming home after a long journey we stumbled towards the huge tent held by stones to the shifting sands. I laughed as I wondered if they were to hold it in this world; if I lift the stones would it disappear?
      There was a bar in one corner, wooden plank held by barrels of some unknown liquor, with a short quiet man living behind it. When you saw him your first thought was to wonder if he had existed there in that spot before even the dunes. I managed to get by on the bit of French I'd picked up here and there. He took my silver and I his tea. I gave up the alcohol years ago as I found the more you run from this world the more it follows you. Around the edges flattened cushions laid on the ground served for seating. After the ride I had it seemed like a feather bed. In the center a fire pit had been built with sun browned bricks creating a square wall to contain the fire. The warmth from this blaze warmed so much more than my skin, and almost made me believe there was something more than the numbing cold of the desert nights. As I looked from face to face I could see the weariness that must have been a mirror of my own. Yet still, despite it, a spark of curiosity at the voices that came from behind the tent flap. The barkeeper spoke out a command behind the flap, which was answered by a laugh so throaty and feminine, that every nerve in my body responded. It seemed there would be some sort of entertainment for the desert's refugees.
            The first I was to see of her were the most delicate feet in existence, grounded at the bottom with the thick calluses of a dancer. They were bare but for a silver bauble, strung around her ankle, which tinkled with every step. Even longer than it had been since I had seen another human face, longer still a beauty such as the one that stepped out before us. Her skin was the color of sun baked earth, and radiated a heat the desert sands could never match. With the grace of a warm wind, she let us hear each silver bell that adorned her wrists, hips and ankles. At this point a young boy came through the flap, and began playing the drum that would be her only accompaniment. Not that any of us noticed anything but the rhythm of her form. My eye slid from one curve to another, taking in the sensuous strength her body held. In every look and movement we paid homage with our eye to the goddess of miracles. She wore only a simple wrap in scarlet red, making the blackness of her eyes all the more deep.

To say that dress whirled around her as she spun would not begin to tell the story. As if her skirt were made of flying serpents, it writhed upon her body, and served to only barely keep her energy contained. The scarlet dancer drew us in with her undulating movements, and then carefully stepped upon the warming bricks around the fireside. She seduced the flames to do her will, casting a frame of light and fury around her long, black hair. We all leaned in, wondering if she would fall, if her own heat might consume her. Yet she danced with delicate perfection just out of reach of the flames. As if driven, she sprang down from the fire-bed and began to twirl with intensity, driving back even the tiniest shadows that clung to our cold backs with the glistening of her skin. Then as quickly as this fevered pace began she stopped dead, the drumbeat went silent, and with her eyes closed, and body stilled, she stood and waited. I couldn't help but hold my breath; I was waiting for life to return, and fearing this might be the end. Still she did not stir, she waited for the space of twelve heartbeats, and then the drum began again, slowly. Like the march of an irresistible army, the drum made its steps in the silence. After one beat, two, three...nothing. Then, on the forth beat, her eyes sprang open and life returned. Slowly, I felt her essence filling the room once more and her eyes spoke to me, drawing me in before I realized. Her fine hands swayed and weaved their marks upon the air as they began the enchantment. Slowly, ever so slightly, her hips began to circle calling her legs to move once more. With the litheness of a cat, she pulled a small blade from her hip, and cut shapes into the heat she had created by force of will. I could not look away, the thought refused to even enter my mind. I had been lured and captured by her magic. Then I saw she had balanced the blade upon her head, rising and lowing herself in circles, as if any of us might be doubters of her supreme balance and grace. Suddenly, the blade flew into the air, and we watched with the shock of battle spectators, as it seemed to fly and hover in the air. She spun beneath it, in gorgeous motion until arriving upon her knees with back bent towards the fire, catching the blade between her generous lips.
      As I began to guess that all had truly turned out well, that the danger was past, I felt my breath come back. I did not know how long I had sat spellbound but it lingered; I knew if this creature ever asked my soul I would give it gladly. The dancer in scarlet then stretched into a standing position, sheathing her dagger once more, turned to look at the faces of the men she had beguiled and enslaved. I could not hide my longing from those eyes, she had intoxicated me more than drink ever could, and I was grateful. She smiled at me as she slipped away, behind the flap again. Curving thick pomegranate lips, that promised something much more illusive than the world. I could not help but smile, despite my disappointment as she disappeared again. I must have been thinking what every man there was thinking. Longing for her return that I might worship at her feet. I could have abandoned all thought of pride, begging her to be mine. “Can you ride away with a dream?” I wondered. Though she seemed more real than the dunes, than the horse waiting at the stand to take me another hundred miles, more real than the home that I had left behind me, before losing myself to the endless desert. As I paid the man behind the counter for provisions and a second cup of tea, I was left empty by the absence of this newfound wonder. I tried to ask him who or what she was, but he did not understand my tongue, and what little I knew of his only served to infuriate us both. With a despair that has never been rivaled since, I went out the door, vowing to put the beauty out of my mind. I had a long distance to travel, and the longer I stayed the more nighttime hours I lost.
         I saddled up my horse again, and shook my head to clear it. My old friend looked at me as if I were a stranger, as if I had been reborn in that few hours within the tent. Reassuring him, I climbed up and tried to put distance between myself and the flicker of firelight. I rode hard into the vast, cold blue on black of the night. This may seem the act of a deranged man, fleeing from comfort and warmth, but the sun brought with it many hours I could not move forward, and there was precious little I would have wasted that time for. Then over the rise I saw a banner, not a banner but a scarf, floating in the wind from behind the dunes. I did not want to dare and hope, but something deep within me knew, there the scarlet dancer waited for me. When I reached her the thoughts of my journey tonight flew from me. I could not remember why I had been so anxious to get away; my mind was filled with the scarlet dancer and her billowing scarf that had led me here.
      She did not look surprised to see me, nor did she look like a woman daring to indulge her passions. There was nothing shy or fainting about the scarlet dancer and her cunning smile. She knew that I was hers alone, that I gave myself over gladly to the magic of her presence. After sliding off my horse, as a thirst driven man comes to an oasis I came to her. With a touch of silk and steel she took my hands and spoke the only words I would hear her utter.
            “Qu-est que vous cherchez, mon amore?” She asked smirking at me.
        I could not answer; only curse my lack of knowledge. The honeyed, alto words still haunt my mind, but then I could only look into her eyes with longing. She must have guessed that I didn't understand, and so spoke to me in a language unmistakable, bringing me to her blossoming lips. How had she known that I would be here? Why would she bless this lowly traveler with her touch? I would never know, but only count myself a grateful man that her delicate hands were on my neck, and lips had joined mine. We fell then onto the mat, on which she had been standing. It had been prepared for us with blankets and cover; I stopped asking why, and could only stare into the depths of her eyes. Her body, built for seduction, cast the shadow of it's full curves upon the sky. The eternity of stars behind her could not captivate me, at that moment, as I was lost within her. There was passion within the desert that night, like none it will ever know again, and when we were spent she deigned to stay the waning hours of the night with me. I fell into the sleep of soldiers returning from war, with a thick sense that either home or the past must not be real, for how could two things so different exist? I dreamed only of her, as I would for years to come, and did not wake until long after the sun had risen, and my horse gently nudged me for water.
        I have searched those miles countless times in the years since. Never have I found a trace of the tent, the barkeep, or my beautiful scarlet dancer. I have begun to think of that night as a wonderful mirage, after my body had grown too weary of plodding. Yet somehow, I cannot dismiss it as a fantasy. I knew the reality of her fire, if only for one night. One day, I know I'll find her out here, whether in this life or following her husky voice to my rest, when my body makes it's final journey into the sands.  

Author's Note

If you have opinions please be specific and suggestions are greatly appreciated whatever they are.

Reviews

[Creepy Swine Guy]

Your words are well chosen and fabulously descriptive. I think that when applied to a full length story, they will create wonderful art.

In the line ...

>>>The only mileposts are the shimmering dunes and you own footprints in the sand.