Failing Light
Wilderstory 15
Little Abe sat on the edge of a woven grass mat. He let his hands settle awkwardly into his lap.
Across from him sat the monk, whose simple garments hung loosely against his narrow frame.
Deep lines cut across the monk’s face, which made his expression appear both intense and serene at the same time. His eyes were no more than slits; narrow gashes that seemed to be carved into a hairless head. His hands were a deep golden hue — almost orange — with tiny dents and puckers that affirmed his old age.
In one outstretched palm, the monk cradled a measure of dyed sand. He closed his fingers around it to create a sort of vessel. As he tilted his hand, a thin ribbon of crimson poured steadily out the side.
On the floor below, Abe watched as a circular motif took shape. It was a spiral, which grew from the center with each swooping gesture from the monk’s hand. As it fell, the brilliant sand glittered against the blackened wood floor.
Like a winding river of red, surrounding itself.
The monk exhaled as the last of the sand filtered out from his grasp. He settled back on his heels and composed himself.
Then he gestured — first toward Abe, and then to the small bowl beside him. It held a mound of white sand.
Abe lifted it, cautiously tilting the contents into his own tiny hand. He closed his short fingers around the cool mass, feeling the fine grit push into the folds of his flesh.
Across from him, the monk waved lightly and mouthed a silent word. Abe responded by loosening his grip on the sand — which seemed to loosen as well.
Abe fought the urge to steady himself with his free hand as he leaned forward on his knees. He could feel the muscles in his legs tremble as he hovered over the perfect red spiral.
Copying the monk’s technique, Abe tilted his fist to let the sand flow out from the side. Starting from the widest point, he followed the arc of the spiral inward. A solid white path emerged between the vibrant lines of red. He could hear the tiny grains fall steadily upon the hard wooden floor.
They sounded like tiny blades of grass in the wind.
Abe lowered his face as his hand circled, ever closer to the center. A fine dust — almost imperceptible — filtered up in whisps as the sand tumbled down.
Abe could feel it in his nostrils.
He wanted to hold his breath, but remembered the repeated instructions from the ancient monk: Breathe it in as the vision takes shape. Let it out only when it is finished.
And so Abe kept at it. But the sensation in his nose kept building. His eyes began to water, as he watched the white sand fall ever more clumsily across the red boundaries.
He tightened his fist to stop the flow. There was a brief moment of pause as he struggled to contain himself.
Focus. Clarity. Stillness.
And then, with a whooping huff, he sneezed.
The walls around him reverberated with sound as Abe tumbled forward. He braced himself against the floor with both hands, pushing deeply into circular ribbons of sand.
Abe gathered himself on the edge of the woven mat. He frowned at the scattered mess before him — and at his little palms — which glistened with a solid coating of crimson and white.
Focus.
The monk sat in silence on the other side. He slowly pulled a long strip of fabric from his lap and pressed it to his face, covering both eyes. With delicate precision, he wrapped it around his head and secured it with a knot in the back.
Abe rubbed his hands together, letting the sand fall loosely into his lap. He watched, mutely, as the monk rose.
Clarity.
As he stepped past, the monk brushed his hand lightly across Abe’s shoulder. Abe felt a sense of quiet wash over him.
And then the monk was gone, slipping silently out of the room.
Stillness.
Abe was alone. He blinked at the darkened walls of the chamber. They were covered with intricate designs — like a crisis-crossing of tree branches, or the interwoven fingers of a vast, creeping vine.
In the center of each wall, the entangled mass parted to reveal a doorway, framed with heavy wooden timbers. The doors themselves were studded with decorative hammered metal, which glinted softly in failing light. And along the bottom edge of one, a thin shaft glowed.
Abe was drawn to it.
Laying his head flatly against the floor, he pushed himself closer — fixed to the warmth and the light. With one squinting eye, he struggled to peer through the slender gap.
A hand pressed against Abe’s rounded back. It settled there for a moment, then pressed again. Harder.
Abe froze. Then a voice broke the silence.
“Get up. It’s time to go.”
It was the girl. She was kneeling beside him, nudging him awake.
Abe snorted as he rolled up on one elbow. His head bumped against canvas, stretched tight across the top of the tent. Faint light filtered in through the fabric.
“You said we have to ride by night,” said Dot, gathering her backpack around one shoulder. “The sun’s been setting for awhile, now.”
Abe rubbed his face with his free hand, as Dot pulled open the front of the tent. A cool desert breeze swept in.
Dot stepped out, scraping her boots over loose sandstone. Abe struggled behind her on hands and knees.
He squinted at the sun, dipping low toward the horizon. The colors of the canyon below crackled in sharp relief. Orange, vermillion and gold wrapped like ribbons along endless folds of stone. In the depths, huge swaths of purple gave way to silken blues and greys. A thin layer of mist hung at the very bottom, where a silvery band of water snuck through.
Dot was already breaking down the tent. “Too bad we can’t spend more time here,” She said. “My first trip to the Grand Canyon, and we rush right by.”
Abe knelt beside her, pulling the stakes from the ground and folding the waxed canvas under one arm. “You just might be in luck,” he said.
Dot stood, looking narrowly at Abe.
“Turns out, we need to make a detour tonight,” he continued. “Into the canyon on the far end.”
Dot coiled the tent cord in silence, looping it in courses around her thumb and elbow.
“It’ll be dark by the time we go in,” Abe continued, “but I know the way.”
Dot opened the leather satchel on the back of the bike, as Abe stuffed everything inside. She grabbed her helmet and jumped atop the rear fender. Abe swung his leg over the engine and primed the stick. With one more kick, the bike roared to life.
Abe felt Dot settle into her spot, with her back pushed flat against his. She turned her head to yell over the gurgling engine.
“There’s something you need to know before we go on,” she shouted.
Abe let go of the handlebars and turned himself halfway around.
Dot grinned as she buckled the strap on her helmet.
“You snore,” she said.
