A Long Time Coming

As the sun ducked beneath the horizon, only the tallest peaks of the Iron Dunes remained visible, glowing in a brilliant, quickly fading twilight-orange. Soon those too would disappear into the night, leaving the world dark and lonely once more. Wind came down harshly into the valley, as it funneled through the narrow cliffs on either side. Dust suspended in the air from last night's storm scraped against the man's face and stung his skin as it blew in the wind; he did not care. Behind him in the darkness, he could hear the festive music of the crowd from which he had departed. His chest was still sore and red from the tattoo he had received the day before - a seventy-one year old's body was fragile as it was, and that had not helped his aching. As his body ached, his legs burned from the endless walk up into the mountains. Every moment he felt as though they would give out, but he did not stop to rest, nor did he look back on the crowd below, or the sun as it finally finished setting. Tomorrow morning, the Final Reformation would be complete, and the rest of the pilgrims would begin the trek home. But Khuba would not.   He stopped briefly to remove his sandals, and continued walking. As he walked, he felt the sand between his toes and noticed the makeup of the ground beneath him. Mostly fresh sand from the recent storms, and judging by the solid red color and the consistency he figured it had blown all the way here from the coast. It was moist sand, the kind you could compact easily and bake into bricks. He had been a mason for most of his life, and until recently, this knowledge would have been useful to him. It occurred to him that it was not anymore. He felt the bass of the drums beating in the distant crowd as it resonated in the earth, and he began to think about his family. Five sons and three daughters, born from his three wives, with one more child on the way. He had lived a good life. He thought back to his earliest days, living in the deep caverns of Vmalasi. Until his first Completion Festival, he had not seen the sun once. After that, it was another 22 years until the First Reformation. He had no problem seeing in darkness; even as he had begun to make more frequent trips to the surface and grown accustomed to the sun, he preferred the opacity of the Caverns. They could have lit them with torches, but most Khangka had no need for the light. "A man who needs light to see must live with his eyes closed." Khuba had been no such man.   Slowly, the beat of the drums tapered off into nothing, and the brightest constellations began to appear in the sky: first The Navigator, then Whomádh, then The Windsaddle, and so on. He would not need them to navigate - although this was his first time walking this path, he knew it perfectly. He could follow the footsteps of the others, but he would not need their assistance either. He had known this day was coming for a long time, and he knew exactly what he must do. Continuing ahead, the valley at last opened up onto a wide plateau which he knew overlooked the desert. If he turned around, he would be able to see the dying embers of ring-fires, and the bioluminescent vegetation of the Fossil Garden, shimmering elegantly - an omnicolor pearl in the vast, plain desert under the starlight. It would be a spectacular view of the only land he had ever known. He did not turn around. The path was almost at its end. He hoped that he had been redeemed, that his worldly debt had been repaid. He spoke a brief prayer of forgiveness as he climbed higher towards the stars. The man was almost out of breath.   He came at once to the point where the footsteps began to diverge; one had wandered off to the North, towards the Flaming Cliffs - he could not be seen anywhere on his path. Another had begun the hike towards the peak of Mt. Pubu - he would be visible in the daylight as a tiny silhouette hiking the southerly ridge, but in the shadows of night he could not be seen either. Khuba departed from the stream of footsteps and began his own path, meandering towards a steeply overhung meldstone crag, which shone red in the moonlight. As he approached, he visualized himself climbing the crag, mentally dividing it into small sections and thinking about how he would conquer them each, one at a time. He estimated the height at a hundred and twelve meters. Fifty years ago, it would have been easy. Now, as the sand whipped across his face, his legs shaking and his breath heavy, his old body at its limit, he knew it would be impossible. He looked down at his chest, reading the fresh, black ink which told his life's story in the ancient script. A good story indeed, but it was no longer his to write. At last, the man came to the bottom of the crag; as his pace slowed, he sat beneath the cliff and looked skyward to find the constellation of Mān - the stone tablet. He drew a deep breath, shut his eyes, and surrendered to the desert. At last, he was alone.