Flash-the Prophet

     A rough coming we had of it.  The last miles across the silent desert took only a slight toll on the men.  Now in the shade of this red rock we shall take rest and drink.  Out provisions are sparse, and it will be another day's march before we may fully fill our stomachs.
     The star dappled sky above shone slightly dulled by the dusk of the second sun.  But they stood out brighter and brighter every moment.  What must the stars think of us?  Could they whisper to each other and to the Father, "See these people.  See how they struggle to find their Eden.  Can we not give them aide?  They are so weak.  Let us help them."  And the Father must say no each time.  But it is for the best.  We do this as a test, a test of our devotion to Him and his sacrifice.  Without trials and suffering, we would never know what it means to truly live.
     We live in the south, the far south, between the ice and the sand, a paradise between two deserts.  There our elders and children stay, having already proven themselves or waiting to do so.  There is a land of plenty.  But as our ancestors dictate, all souls must first be tested.
     I, an old man, know this truth.  I have seen the mothers and wives sob at their son’s departure or their husband’s return.  Many succeed and go on to teach others.  And others, others fail and die on the sand or the ice.  Such sadness.  I an old man.
     A fire went up struck from rock and steel.  Slowly it grew until large enough to warm the entire company.  In each desert, cold happens at least once a day.  I stood still on the top of the red rock, looking down at the group.  They are all young.  Three are taking this test for the first time.  The others have already passed.
     “Venerable One,” one of them called.  I turned to see the speaker.  “May we have your water?”
     “You would like my water?”  I asked.  It was an old saying.  In place of liquid water, we called thoughts our water, as sometimes, it is all we had to nourish us.
     “Indeed.  Tell us.  What thoughts, what thinking, what?”
     “I will give you my water.”  I said beginning my thoughts.  “I look up at the stars and I marvel.  Not because of what the First Father gave himself to be, but how he takes our dear ancestors and kinsmen, and how they can be up there, forever, with Him even in death.  What makes one that selfless?  At the beginning of the world, he stood upon the sand and saw something more.  He saw the paradise of ages in his mind.  Yet he tried and tried.  He sowed seed into the dunes and built upon the ice.  Yet the ice did not recede nor did the dunes yield.  The wind swept all his efforts away.
     And in his grief he turned to the sky.  It too was blank.  No stars, since no one had ever died.  He thought, “How dark the night is.  Why is the night so dark?  This barren world, why must it be like the sky?  What is needed to breathe life into the world?
     And the answer came to him clearly then.  Without a hesitation or care, he drove the spade into the chest.  As his blood dripped down onto the sand, flowers bloomed.  Quickly, grasses and trees started to grow.  And he saw above, with each drop, stars started to shine in the sky.  “Well,” he said with the last of his life.  “Though I do not live to see it, my children may enjoy this paradise I give them.”
     That is where we live.  The south, the north, where there is no sand nor ice we live in the paradise He gave to us.  Our ancestors carried his body to the heaven with the wings He gave them.  None stayed.  After the sacrifice to create our Eden, they would not dare shame his work.  So they landed, and sowed into the soil all the things needed to live.  Maize and corn, grapevine and spice.  Apples and pears were picked from trees and meats were hunted in the fields and rivers.”
     “Venerable One,” a boy said from the circle.  He was the youngest on this test, and I believed he would pass.  “Why do we not have wings now?”
     “After spending much time on the ground, our ancestors questioned the need to fly.  They knew it to bring joy, but to them, it also brought danger.  Only the foolish would fly over the sand or ice and too many fools tried.  So, as a people, our ancestors forgot how to fly.”
     I reached around the boy’s shoulders and directed him to the sky.  “But do not be afraid.  With our ancestors as my witness, I tell you.  They may have chosen to forget, but we can remember.  Things that are forgotten are not lost forever.  One day, you will remember how to fly.  And when you do, fly up, and tell them about it.  Tell them that they were not fools.  They were human.”  A hush fell over the camp.  “One day my son, you will remember how to fly.  And you must come up to heaven and tell me all about it.”
     “I will granddad,” he said.  “I will.”