Lochlan Bloom - Dust - Sandstorms

The exfoliating nature of this wind-driven sand is quite immense and combined with the heat and arid conditions already in place in a desert the results for humans were generally devastating. As cooler air passes over heated ground it becomes unstable and in desert areas, dust and sand storms commonly appeared in the wake of intense thunderstorms. The dust and sand thrown up by these winds could be lifted as high as 20,000 feet.

I had studied much of this. I had spent hours sweating over books on Atmospheric Physics but none of it added to anything. The chaos that now reined was unintelligible to anyone. No doubt the same fundamental laws still governed the movement of individual particles but the planet as a whole was out of control. It had happened to fast no-one knew what drove it. Every day was the same, a constant swirling sandstorm. We had given up expecting anything else. All the understanding and explanation in the world would have done little to change the reality in any case.

As a child I had viewed sandstorms as something mysterious, exotic. They occurred in far flung locations and devoured everything in their path. They happened to Pharaohs and their armies, they descended on weary adventurers trekking across the desert, they swept down and changed the course of battles, cloaking the enemy and filling soldier’s boots, they were not something real.

This was as much as I knew about sandstorms as a child. I had trouble picturing the ferocity. The largest stretch of sand I had seen was the thin beach near our house. The seaside I knew was mainly rocks and cliffs. The power of the ocean, waves smashing against rock, that I could understand but a wave of dust was something else altogether.

I remembered the two of us as children. We had stood at the edge of the cliffs by the yellow house.

‘I dare you,’ he said.

We were a metre or two from the edge but close enough that my head swam as I looked over at the pounding sea below.

‘I dare you to throw it,’ he said.

‘Maloney is not an it,’ I said defensively. ‘He is a He.’

I was holding Maloney tight, protecting him. His fat body squirmed in my thin arms.

Abel looked at me. I knew he could snatch Maloney from me easily.

There was a warm wind blowing in from the sea. I wore a summer dress and felt a tingle across my skin.

‘Don’t worry,’ Abel spoke matter-of-factly, ‘Maloney can fly.’ He stretched out his arm towards me.

‘No he can’t.’ I desperately wanted to believe him. There was something magnetic about Abel. His dark hair and pale face stood out three dimensional against the scene. For a moment it seemed everything else was a painted stage, two dimensional. I was drawn into his vision, pictured myself standing on the cliff top, on the brink, releasing Maloney to fly free out across the sea. I knew it was not true.

‘Give him me.’ Abel took a step closer to me and I felt the warm wind lick at me again. It blew between my legs and inside my dress. I felt a shiver as my body tingled. It was only when Abel was close.

It was impossible to resist him, I knew that much. Meekly I transferred Maloney into his arms. He lifted him delicately. I could see the love with which he handled him. In comparison, my movements felt crude, unloving as I had grasped Maloney, struggling with him. In Abel’s arms he was docile.

With a brisk movement Abel jumped to the cliff edge. I gasped, unsure if I was afraid for Abel or Maloney or both or neither. Abel was fearless. His body trembled but only with excitement, with energy. The same energy that animates the world.

I felt my clothes fizzle against my body. I could not tear my eyes from Abel, standing on the lip, the absolute edge of the void. He held Maloney up over the edge.

‘He can fly,’ he said. ‘He can fly.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

He let go.

Maloney left his grip and I saw it was true. The cat lifted up into the sky and flew out across the ocean. Slowly he picked up speed. We both stood and watched, entranced. I was standing on the edge with Abel and he had his arm around my waist. My thin dress felt wet with excitement. To see Maloney fly so gracefully. To be standing there on that cliff with Abel.

When we returned home they never asked about Maloney. I’m not sure if we would have told them. I knew that cat’s cannot fly. I knew that and yet I witnessed it. I saw Maloney disappear across the ocean. I stood there with Abel.

We had been able to see miles then, as children. We had been able to see forever. Forever was the future and it stretched on and on. Now I could see no more than a few metres. The dust blinded everything.

Somewhere, though always well hidden, this future had been in us. Even as children our future had been enfolded, everything was already contained in that moment on the cliff, everything that happened after. We were not wrong to believe in the future, only optimistic to believe in that particular version.

Who knows if it is fate or the invisible, I don’t know how to explain the peculiar inevitably with which things happen any more than the next person, all we can do is try to explain the events that happen, as simply as possible, and hope that for someone we might conjure the correct impression.

It was three days travel to Bonmont. He told me, apologetically, that I would not be let out of the cabin until we got there. I simply nodded. I had no reason to contest my captivity. Outside was as much of a prison and he would look after me well enough.

With time on my hands I explored the inside of my cell. The space was well utilised and drawers and storage had been cleverly concealed in the walls. There were no windows but I surmised that the door set in the wall on the far side from the bed led to the outside world and was the entrance through which I had been carried. Another door on the opposite wall presumably led into the interior of the vehicle and the driving seat. Several times I felt the engine shudder to a halt but they never paused for more than half an hour. The less time anything stood still in that wind the better it could keep on moving.

I was surprised to discover a number of books amongst his possessions. What would he need with books out here? Were these private belongings or were they plunder from some previous engagement?

I struggled to picture him having any sort of private life. Despite his kindly face there was no substance to him. He was the leader because he did not allow space for a personality. No doubt to his men he projected an image but, as with any true leader, he was beneath it all simply a vassal for power.

Amongst the goods I recognised the cover of a well-thumbed book. I started reading. It had been years before, as a student, that I first came across this novel and the arch-aristocratic style now gave me a wry smile.

The habit of reading however had slipped in me and it took an immense effort to concentrate on the words on the page. The letters and phrases blew about on hidden currents and it took determination to marshal them into a plot.

The novel told the adventures of a nobleman torn between artistic expression and the real world. Inexplicably, after having lived several lifetimes, the main character awoke to find himself transformed into a woman. This transformation complete, the character lived on several more centuries. I had forgotten this important twist in the book and now I wondered if I had really read it all those years before. None of it seemed familiar and yet I remembered it as an important novel, a cornerstone in feminist thought.

How foreign that concept was. All the isms that had long since been buried in the sand. When no-one has any rights then everyone is equal. Perhaps that is the only way it can be.

Next to the bed there was a small area of floor where I could stretch. I decided to do some exercises. I felt rested now and I was aware that I might get comfortable if I was not careful. Comfort was death and I was not ready for that, not until I faced Abel.