Trek

The sun beat down without mercy, burning the already red flesh. What was not exposed to the relentless sun, was covered in a battered white shirt, drenched with precious sweat.

Every movement was a mountain to climb, even if it were but a stone. Seconds ticked by as if hours and the mercy of the nights coolness felt like it would never come. Already new blisters were forming on old ones, nowhere near healing. The pain was beginning to reach levels that would drive any normal man insane, yet even now he could feel madness caressing his mind. 

Shaking his head, he rose like the dead once more and shuffled onwards, in the blistering sun. If not for his compass, tied around his wrist, he would have aimlessly circled around...lost. At present he knew which direction he was going and that was a boon. Countless stories he had heard of stranded stragglers walking in circles, eventually returning to where they had started from. That he knew would even break him, to be back where he left his loved ones and friends.

Faces of his two daughters, son and wife hauntingly stole across his minds eye, giving him the strength to carry on. They were still alive and safe at the crash site with the other survivors. They had enough supplies to last them two weeks and water for four, if they used it sparingly. Pausing for a few moments, he struggled to remember how long he had been away from the crash site. Five days, six? He could not remember, his mind was a haggard daze, his brains felt like scrambled eggs, burnt at that. Out of the haze, he remembered he tied a knot each day with the cord he had brought with.

Quickly he counted the knots, stopping at six, he could not help the despondency that washed over him. If only it were water washing over him he thought smiling, grimacing a second later when his cracked lips reminded him of the state he was in. A soft sigh escaped his mouth as he started walking again. North, and north only. It seemed, at the time, the shortest route to civilisation and rescue for the others. 

It had seemed the best option for him to go looking for help, when none had been forthcoming after two days stranded in the desert. He thought back to the moment the planes engines had died, the twin turbines had shut down one after the other and the pilot had miraculously landed the craft with minor damage. 

The cries and screams of the passengers had been drowned out by the silent prayer, half audible, but there. He had been drawn into the man's prayer, calm, collected and simple. It hit him and reminded him of a time when he had still believed, truly believed. What had touched him the most was the man not praying for a miracle, but rather how simply the man had asked God to remember him and have mercy upon his soul and that he hoped the life he had led had pleased God. What had brought a tear to his eye almost was when he thanked God for giving him the chance to have lived the life he had. The few seconds before the man said Amen felt like an eternity and when it did issue from his mouth, he had shocked himself by also saying Amen.

Harshly he was jolted back to reality from his recollection as he tripped and fell into the sand. Groaning he righted himself and started to shake the sand from his clothes. Around him the sand stretched on endlessly. A sea of beige, rolling on where the wind would take it, engulfing all life.

He had decided to go when it was decided that help was not coming. It had been an easy decision, his years of service in the army would stand him in good stead. Plus his faith was coming back little by little with each miracle, no matter how small. It was like looking at the world through new eyes. He had a family to save, friends, even strangers. All were counting on him. It had been a while since he had left the army, the institution that had killed his belief in God. 

The sun was setting to his left, as he mechanically trudged on. The sky was alight with reds and oranges as they set the ground alight. Mercifully the sun would soon begone, however the night brought it's own pearl.

Dropping to his knees like the cooling temperature, he began to dig a hole in the ground. An hour of exertion he was entombed within, his jacket covering the opening. This would do and see him through the night. Within moments of closing his eyes he was in sleeps embrace. His watch would wake him from his dreamless slumber and he would harvest what little water he would get from his soaked jacket. Amazing what the desert gave to the little creatures that survived here. 

The night passed uneventful, but the same could not be said of the morning. Rudely he was awoken to the sound of a camel and not his watch. What little strength he had he put into defence. With as much speed he shot from his hole, sending the jacket with its precious water flying. The water soaked into the hungry sand as if it did not exist. Inwardly he groaned at the loss but the sound of a camel meant humans, hostile or friendly, he would soon find out.

Before him were three camels, their riders staring down at him, their faces covered. All carried rifles, all of them aimed at him. From each barrel he looked till his gaze settled on his bowie knife. A heavy weight settled upon him like a coffin lid, taking away all hope. 

Once more he surprised himself, softly he began to pray, copying the words he had heard before, but this time he made them his own. He actually believed them. Felt their power and let the peace wash over him. Now he truly felt what the other man had felt in those moments when Death was standing by them. Smiling as he said Amen, he felt a pang of shame...he still did not know the man's name. None of the others had taken note of him either. He had been quiet and had kept to himself. He would have to get his name if these folk were friendly.

Dropping his knife, he watched it sink into the sand. Slowly he raised his hands above his head and awaited the outcome. There was nothing worse than having your life in someone else's hands. Sometimes it worked for the best, at times...not. Passively he watched as, the one he assumed to be the leader, dropped his scarf from his face, to reveal a wizened old face, beaming a smile at him. Only when they placed their rifles away, did he chance a smile back at them.

In broken English, he learned that the old man was travelling with his son and son in law to the next town. To his horror he learnt that at his present course he would have bisected both towns and not found another for fifty kilometers as he walked. 

He could not help but colapse at this news. His raw parched throat was closing up, making it hard to swallow. He could not recollect how they fed him water, all he remembered was how the burning had stopped...for awhile as it had raced down his throat. He tried telling them everything, yet it all sounded like gibberish in his ears. Helplessly he felt himself slipping into darkness, one so complete he was not sure if he was still alive or not.

In and out of conciousness he slipped, waking only to fall back into the void he kept trying to climb out of. Yet eventually he felt a pressure on his hand, a gentle squeeze, there, yet not there, but it gave him solace. He did not care even if he were dreaming it, because his dreams were troubled. He felt his hot body, his cracked lips, blistered skin. It almost felt like he was in hell...almost.

Slowly he woke one morning, the sun kept at bay by a white curtain. His hand felt numb and his chest heavy. It was a struggle to breath, but breath he did. Silently he sent a prayer of thanks heaven wards for being alive. Slowly his vision started to clear as he grew accustomed to the light. Sharply he took in a breath of air, his body going ice cold. Dare he believe his eyes!

Upon his chest a mop of red hair lay strewn across him. His younger daughter lay asleep by him. He looked at his left hand, which held tightly that of his wife, who sat asleep in a chair. His son and eldest daughter lay slumbering in the bed upon his right, all asleep, all safe.

Slowly, one tear then another marched from his eyes, gathering speed as others flowed after. His chest began to gently rise with sobs growing stronger as the joy overwhelmed him. His daughter was the first to wake from her slumber by his heaving. His wife awoke second, when her daughter issued a joyous scream. The other two practically fell from the bed when they saw their father awake.

Soon all were hugging and kissing the man they loved, crying with him, enjoying the moments they had with him. The doctors soon rushed in, issuing orders for all to leave, while they checked Mr. Dobson. The nurses shushed everyone out and left the doctors to their work.

A week later Mr. Dobson, stood by the grave of the sole casualty of the crash. The man he had heard praying, the man who had awoken in him his faith. Hard to believe that three days after he had left the crashed plane, the man had died because of a heart attack, holding his bible and smiling. He had not made a sound with his passing. Hours later everyone had been rescued and the search for him had begun.

He read the man's name upon the headstone. Gilbert Fleming...would have been nice to have heard your name personally he thought as he touched the headstone. Thank you he uttered quietly, before kneeling  down and offered up a prayer. One whose words were still fresh and he hoped would always be the case.