"Tiama" by David R. Downing

David R. Downing

The story is told of the time when the sands nearly swallowed our people. In this time there was no hope, no thought for the future. Hope had been replaced by worry, worry by fear, and fear by desperation. Desperation led to conflicts and to the gradual abandonment of the works that the ancestors had scraped from the dunes. The story tells of a time when hope had been defeated by hopelessness.

The hopelessness had been driven on the winds. For weeks that grew into months and months that lengthened to years, the winds had blown off of the great deserts of Zangaria. The tireless gales carried with them the fine sands of the dunes. The sands piled against our buildings, scoured the fields, and silted the wells. The wind's ceaseless pounding burned the ears of our people—whistling through their dreams and powdering their food with grit. There was no reprieve from the winds, no escaping the sands.

At first our fathers fought the growing dunes with shovel and fence, but these small wars were lost one by one. Gradually the canals that brought clear water from the wells were silted, muddied, and clogged. The fields that relied on the waters for life turned instead to the quiet certainty of a slow burial beneath the swallowing sands.

Our people grew restless. Increasingly they looked to the seasonal caravans not as a source of revenues, but as an escape. Family after family packed up their meager possessions and left with the caravans to seek a better life at either end of the desert trails. Only a few families remained to keep the deepest wells clear and to continue to operate the caravansary that was the lifeblood of our town. Eventually, even that shelter was lost to the sands and the merchant nomads were forced to set their tents in the open spaces nearest the only source of water.

The caravans were not pleased with such arrangements. The crossing of the deserts was a difficult journey. They needed some assurance of shelter to break the monotony of the dangerous passage. The merchants began to seek alternate routes across the dunes—routes that held promise of some respite from the demands of the journey.

Only two families remained to service our dying town. Each looked across the evening fires to the hungry faces of their neighbors and tried to hide their own fears. It was late in the season, and it had been a meager season at that. There was no assurance that another caravan would follow in the tracks of the one whose camels were now hobbled around the last open well. The camel trains had been slow in coming, and each person feared that this train would be the last to take rest and water.

The story then tells of the arrival of the one named Tiama. The old woman came out of an evening storm, wandering alone across the desert. She was dressed in the flowing indigo robe of the nomads, her garments well worn and soiled with the effects of many nights spent on the dunes. Her skin was browned by the sun, her face scoured by the sands. Her long grey hair whipped in the winds, hiding her crusted lips from clear view. Tiama was alone, and she carried only an empty flask that, if full, could hold scarcely a single day's supply of water.

Tiama's wandering was spotted by one of the children, a young girl by the name of Leilah; the meaning of which was "born in the darkness," for such was the mood of the times. Leilah dashed across the sands to take the old woman by the hand and lead her to the meager comfort of her family's shelter away from the winds.

The sudden appearance of Tiama was not remarkable. There had been other elders cast away from their tribes in these trying times. What was remarkable about the old woman was the mystery of her eyes. The left was dark blue, like the depth of the ocean reflecting the light of a summer's evening. Its gaze was cool and comforting; fresh. Her right eye was of a different color. It held a pale green tint that reminded those who looked into it of the legendary northern forests, or of the grassy hills rumored to skirt the southern reaches of Zangaria. And while her eyes reflected magnificent images to those who gazed upon them, they served no purpose to the old woman. Her eyes had been too long exposed to the harsh sun and scouring sands. Tiama was blind.

"She would not have seen us," Leilah told her father, "she would have been lost to the dunes." Both father and child understood the dangers of the desert. One as frail as Tiama could not have survived for much longer.

Our ancestors could not ignore the needs of one whose situation was so desperate. Tiama was given fresh dates and water. The old woman took the provisions without a word and, with some measure of life returning to her parched lips, laid her head to rest on Leilah's bed. Tiama slept, and our fathers left her to her peace. The families had agreed that they would all leave with the caravan, and now the old woman must accompany them. She would need her strength for the journey.

The merchants, however, had other plans. They felt no obligation to be burdened with one who had been cast out. To take on such a passenger was a violation of their nomadic inheritance. They saw the old woman as a curse, a bad omen. With little fanfare they settled their accounts with our forefathers, loaded their camels and continued on their journey. They would not allow our fathers to take the old woman with them. Unwilling to leave Tiama alone to die, our ancestors stayed behind. Leilah joined the other children as they tailed the caravan to the high eastern dunes and watched until the camels disappeared into the swirling dust clouds of the afternoon storms.

Tiama slept through the evening, but some time in the night she arose. She felt for her flask, pulled back the curtains to the shelter, and went out alone into the night.

It was Leilah who discovered Taima's wandering. The winds beat against the flaps of her family's shelter and woke her sometime in the night. She came to check on the old woman and found her missing. Leilah followed Tiama's path out of the shelter and could just make out the old woman in the moonlight and swirling sands not far from the wells.

Leilah ran to the old woman. "Taima," Leila called out above the gusty winds, "it is night! You should be resting."

Tiama turned to the young girl, a smile flashing in her sightless eyes. "To me, the night is the same as day. There is no difference."

But Leilah knew the dangers that the night held. She understood that the jackals and leopards owned this portion of the day. She also knew well the stinging bite of the nocturnal scorpions. "It is not safe," Leilah said while taking Tiama's hand. "Here, let me lead you back to our shelter."

But Tiama resisted. Instead of following Leilah's lead, she held out her empty flask. "Look," she motioned to the ground where she stood "the earth is thirsty."

Leilah glanced down and saw that Tiama had dumped her entire flask of water into a small depression scraped into the ground. The thirsty sands soaked up the water, leaving only a muddy circle in the vast expanse of the desert. "There is much work to be done," Tiama said, motioning across the plain with a sweeping arc of her arm.

Leilah's eyes followed Tiama's motion. In the dim moonlight, she could just make out the outlines of several dark circles in the sand. They stretched across the plain, forming a straight line across the path of the winds. There must have been dozens of these puddles. Leilah looked at Tiama's tired face. "How? How did you do this?" Leilah struggled to understand. "How did you find the well? You must have been out here all night!"

"My child, it is difficult to rest when there is work that must be done." Tiama's smile was wide, and truthful. "But I would welcome your assistance," she said as she held out the empty flask.

Leilah took the flask, and sprinted back to the well. In just a few minutes she returned with the flask full with another load of water sloshing to the rim. Tiama had already scraped out a small depression a few feet from the first. "Here," she motioned, "fill it with the water, and I will start on the next."

Tiama and Leilah continued this activity through the night. When the first rays of dawn streaked across the sands, Leilah looked back to their village. With each trip to the well they had moved a few feet further from the town so that now their mud-walled shelters appeared as only a small rise on the horizon. Tiama patted the dust from her robes and took Leilah's hand. "Thank you child," she said as Leilah led them back to the shelters, "without your efforts, not nearly enough would have been accomplished."

"Tiama," Leilah began, "what is the meaning of this? Why was doing this so important to you?"

"My child, there is life in this desert. Beneath these hard sands lay the seeds of your future. Find them. Let them know of your resolve. Where there is a vision and one willing to work to see it realized there is always a chance."

Leilah squinted into the mounting sun and wondered at Tiama's words. Already, the heat was rising and the small pools of wet soil were dried into hard depressions that would soon be filled by the drifting sands. By noon, there would be nothing to show for their efforts.

The families did not understand Leilah's and Tiama's activity. They cautioned the girl, "The old woman was in the sands for a long time. The sun has damaged her ability to reason. You must be more careful." But Leilah, her head full of fanciful thoughts, laid her head down and slept through the heat of the day. In the evening she was awoken by Tiama, prodding her with her empty flask. Leilah led Tiama back out to the line of depressions and together they repeated the activities of the previous night, bringing fresh water to each small circle and returning in the morning to the shelters.

They continued in this fashion for several days. Gradually, Leilah noticed a small change. The depressions were staying moist. Even when they returned in the night, the soil was still dark, and held the water for much longer. The sands were soaking up the water, filling with life. Then came the day when that life sprouted out of the sands. Somewhere, deep in the soil, forgotten seeds had been awakened. Drinking in the life of the water, and strengthened by the moist soil, the seeds had opened and now sought the energy of the sun.

Tiama spent more care now, carefully scraping away the sands that piled against the sprouts and directing Leilah to pour the water very carefully. Leilah marveled at the tender sprouts poking through the moist soil. Whatever was coming to life was growing rapidly. "Tiama, what is this. What are these plants?" Leilah asked of the old woman.

"All seeds are a mystery. Even the smallest carries with it all the information needed to grow a great tree. Even so, this plant," Tiama caressed a tender sprout with her leathered hands, "is a special seed. It is a seed of your people. It is a symbol of your faith, and your determination. This small plant carries in it your heritage, your future, and your dreams." Leilah just nodded her head and smiled. To her, Tiama's words were no less a mystery than the green life now sprouting from the desert floor.

In time, the sprouts blossomed to knee-high shrubs. Leilah continued her nightly rounds at Tiama's side, but there was less effort in the activity, less urgency to the task. The plants seemed to need the water less and less. Their roots were strong, and deep. They had tapped their own source of strength from the underground waters.

Listening to the sounds of the young leaves rustling in the morning winds, Tiama rested a tired hand on Leilah's shoulder. "Our work is done," she said softly, "it is time for me to go."

Leilah looked into the blue and green of Tiama's eyes. Somehow she knew that this day would be coming, and she knew that she dreaded it. A tear rolled down her cheek as she thought of her old friend leaving. "Must it be? Can you not stay?"

"From the sands I have come, and to the sands I must return. You are no longer in need of me. These young plants will continue to grow. Let them fill your sight with a vision of strength, with a promise for the future. Their life is a reflection of your own. Care for them and you will be rewarded".

That was Tiama's goodbye. With little fanfare she gave Leilah a parting hug and turned to leave. Leilah's last sight of Tiama was of her indigo robe flapping in the morning breezes as she crested the dunes far to the west.

The trees did continue to grow; displaying a stubborn resistance to the continual assault of the winds. Their thick branches caught and held much of the windborne grains and over time the line of trees formed a shallow dune, a slight windbreak and shelter from the howling desert. For month upon month, the trees maintained their remarkable ability to resist the encompassing drowning of the sands. While they continued to trap the sand, they also managed to just outgrow the dune that formed at their base. Their green boughs crested the rise, forming a living crown to the wall of sand that was of their formation.

The traveling caravans began to look for the cresting trees as a sign that they were near our city. Over time, the nomads grew to call them the "Trees of Tiama." It was said that they were drawn as a green line on the few sketchy maps known to describe the desert routes. And on those maps the location of our city, indicated by a small dot at the center of the green line, was written in blue ink. It seems that our little town had been given a new name. From these days onward our home was known simply as "Tiama."

Eventually the sands did bury the trees, though it was of little consequence. By that time the dune had grown to a tremendous height and, strengthened by the skeletons of the trees that had formed it, was unyielding to the winds. The dune towered above our town, driving the gales around and above it. The dune sheltered our people from the desert's fury.

Spared from the worst of the winds, our forefathers began to rebuild our city. They dug out the caravansary and worked to restore the grandeur of its interior patios. They labored long hours to keep a fresh supply of water flowing to the thirsty soils of the small gardens struggling to flourish at the base of the walls. New life sprouted from long abandoned fields.

The caravans did return to our city. Many found that the thick walls brought a pleasant cooling even to the hottest afternoon, and were impressed with the quality of the melons available in the small market. The waters from our deep wells brought strength to tired beasts and the caravan drivers enjoyed the cool respite from the desert's heat. They lingered, and allowed themselves to spend a few extra coins in the boarding house and market of the caravansary. Our fathers were thrifty with this newfound abundance, and soon a departing caravan left with one less beast of burden—the youngest calf having been purchased by the pooled wealth of the townspeople.

Our fathers rigged the calf to the well and put the camel into service. Thus freed from the obligation of continually drawing the water from the deep well, the men had more time to clear the canals and to plant the fields that soon began to surround our city. The afternoon winds of the following spring were filled not with the smell of dust, but with the scents of Apricot and Pomegranate blooming in the sun.

One intrepid young camel driver paused long enough to grow to love the freshness of our desert town. He was a tall and handsome man, whose eyes could see past the obstacles of the present. He walked the plains and saw that the soils held promise of great bounty. "This is where I will stake my tent," he explained to the caravan master as they loaded their beasts for the next leg of their journey.

This man was to stay and to sow a bountiful harvest. And the one that stood by his side and watched as their children played in the shade of the tall corn stalks was none other than Leilah—the young girl who had led Tiama, the old woman of the sands, out of the desert. It would be said of Leilah that, although she was born in the darkness, her life was full of light.

The caravans were not blind to the rebirth of activity within our town. Other routes across the desert had proven to be difficult and dangerous. It seems that our city was ideally situated to provide a refreshing stop on a long journey. The caravans started to trade more freely in the burgeoning marketplace. They began to anticipate the pleasant stop on an otherwise rugged journey. The sight of the city's white washed walls and rising towers soon gave inspiration to many a tired and parched traveler of the desert.

More people followed in the footsteps of Leilah's husband. Many made the decision to stay and make a new life here in Tiama. Each new settler brought a new skill, and a strong back. They labored in the shade of the high dune, and their efforts were rewarded. They began to produce a variety of crops from the fields and products born of the raw materials of the desert.

Most famous of the all were the products made by the glassmakers. These men found the desert sands to be exceptionally pure, and that the molten glass could be formed into the finest bowls, cups, and vases made anywhere. The delicate pieces, carefully packed in straw-lined boxes, were said to carry the light of the desert sun with them. Most precious were those pieces that had been tinted with the copper-laced soils mined just beyond the city walls. These subtle blue-green pieces were said to brighten even the dark halls of the stone castles far across the seas. The merchants, eager to keep their prices at a minimum, were quick to counter any such speculations. But the demand for such pieces of Tiamarian glass continues to this day.

In time, students of the sciences would examine the shifting patterns of wind and sand. They determined that while there were minor variations of the seasonal patterns, the winds that drove the sands to very nearly bury our city were a constant. The winds had always existed, and would probably always persist. The conclusion of the scholars brought a sobering awareness to our peoples. It wasn't the adversity that determined the fate of our ancestors; it was their response to it.

Years later, while extending the eastern canal to bring fresh water to the recently built stables and storehouses, workers unearthed the ruined walls from the city's former glory. Digging in the long buried chambers the workers discovered a vast trove of scrolls and writings. Of these dusty tomes the scholars were particularly excited about one scroll—a combination dictionary, encyclopedia, and record of our forefather's former lives. The scholars found the language in these scrolls to be similar, but somewhat distorted from the expressions that we now use. Many words had been lost or replaced, and many words existed now only as namesakes or markers.

In these dusty scrolls the scholars were surprised to find many references to the name of our town. It seems that our ancestors had placed great value upon the word. They had often used it to represent dogged persistence, or a determination against difficult odds. Tiama could also mean a thing of great value or an idea, such as a vision for the future. It seems that the term, the name of the lady of the sands and of the gift that she brought, was best translated from the ancient language of our ancestors to a single word. Tiama simply meant hope.

Laboratory Informatics consultant by day, struggling author by night, David R. Downing just tries to keep up. You may come across David typing frantically away on his laptop in some hotel lobby, airport waiting area, or cramped airplane seat. David travels frequently for his day job and it is often that while he is on the road that his better efforts surface.

David received his first break with “The Dragon Princess” in The Sword Review and has since had a few more stories published at the site—'including “Prayers” a Bonus Feature. He’s got several more tales on the streets and his stories “Vilkatis” and “The Executioner” (Both featuring Kalat from “Prayers”) will soon appear in Forgotten Worlds magazine.

All this as a result of a decision to quit donating his evenings and traveling time to the betterment of Informatics and instead devote the time to putting down on paper (well… electronic bits actually) some of the stories that keep floating into his head.

The wisdom of that decision has yet to be determined.

Cover: "Dragon & the Raven"

Original Art - 12" x 9" colored pencil illustration on Strathmore Artagain fiber-enhanced paper.

Specializing in colored pencil works on fiber-enhanced paper, more of the work of Michelle J.A. McIntyre can be found on her webpage, < www.fantasyrealmcreations.com >. She creates a variety of fantasy art subject matter including dragons, unicorns, gryphons, fairies, and centaurs.

Tiama

www.theswordreview.com