ICQ - Jesse
The sand was hot beneath Jesse’s paws. As he shifted from side to side, decorative metal ornaments clinked and chimed from where they hung off of the heavy packs piled across his shoulders. The small pieces of metal and colored glass reflected months of painstaking work, of hunched shoulders and cramped paws and squinted eyes trying to see if the carved edges, infinitesimally delicate, would hold in their metal cage. Jesse knew each artisan, and could recognize the personality of his neighbors in each of their creations. Along with the weight of their income, he carried the weight of their relieved smiles, relief that someone was willing to travel across Thedale for them to a town where art bursting with love and pride was not as dime-a-dozen as back home.
Oppressive heat radiated from the earth. Jesse felt small, a tiny speck of life trudging slowly across wide, flat, desolate land. His shadow was dwarfed by the shadows of rocks rising and falling from the earth like broken ribs, scraping the sky with their flat tops and jagged sides. In the carved-out space of the cracked sand flats, Jesse kept his eyes trained on a spot on the horizon where he knew civilization would appear, slowly poking up from behind the sun’s haze. He knew from experience that it was easy to get lost here, disoriented in the desert’s death and heat.
Jesse remembered his father stumbling through the door of the small sand hut, his eyes bloodshot and mouth dry as a bone. He could barely rasp out a plea for water.
Over the course of the night, Jesse’s mom managed to wrangle the story from his fragile form, slumped over the kitchen table. A dust storm, a lost sheep, and an unusually windy night all lead to his path being swept away, replaced by aimless grains of sand. It was no small miracle that after three days of wandering he managed to cross the path of a trader who pointed him in the direction of home. If he hadn’t–Jesse stopped his thoughts before they could begin the same well-worn path they always went down. It wouldn’t do Jesse well to imagine his father dying in the desert when Jesse was navigating that very same path right now.
His father was full of analogies and adages and was never without a good story, but that experience taught Jesse something all on his own. The desert was merciless and didn’t take kindly to anyone, much less those folks who spoke confidently because they thought they knew it well. That was the last journey his father made with the flock, leaving the adults to roam as wildings and penning the lambs up before they knew what freedom could be.
For the first few nights after his father’s return, Jesse laid awake long after the candles had been blown out and stared out the window, listening to the familiar bleating of the lambs crying for their mothers. His eyes traced the familiar constellations across the sky. It was like second nature picking out the shining points of the angry Scorpion, forever dancing away from Orion’s sword, claws outstretched towards his heels.
The faint sound of a hawk crying from somewhere far above jolted Jesse out of his thoughts. He needed to be careful not to let his mind wander too much: there was a delicate balance between daydreaming to pass the time, and losing track of where the path was. He couldn’t afford to get lost at any point on this stretch of journey, especially not when he had so carefully rationed out the personal supplies he took for the trip. Not wanting to overload his already hefty pack, Jesse had chosen to forgo the extra water bottle in hopes that he would move just a tiny bit faster.
There was no oasis here, not even a hazy mirage wavering in and out of reality. Jesse’s eyes were too tired to conjure up a complex vision of water and life out of the red sand.
A cloud drifted overhead, blocking out the blue sky with white, sending a cool shadow across the cowboy’s back. Though his fur was thick enough to keep most of the heat off of his skin, the black curse mark around his eyes and neck felt like a brand when he ducked his head to rub the sweat out of his eyes. With each step, each rise and fall of his tired bones, Jesse imagined himself inching closer and closer towards his destination.
Though there were a few sparse clouds dotting the sky, this was by and large the hottest season of the year. It was no wonder he hadn’t seen any other soul on his journey; if he did, he’d have called them a fool too. There were no glory points for taking this journey, no promise of fame except for the good spirits from the artisans back home. He thought of their hopeful smiles as they delicately placed the goods across his back, their whispered thank you’s that he would offer to do this. In his town, those who didn’t make their living with either livestock or hauling goods had very little chances of success or making a livelihood. There wasn’t much of a market for handmade goods back home; most people just put their heads down and worked, so they didn’t need anything fancier than a bed big enough to fit them and a place to sit down for supper. But in the city, however? People were clamoring for art to decorate their bodies and homes, from jewelry to silks to glass-blown ornaments. By delivering these goods, Jesse was giving his neighbors a chance to break into the business in a way they would never be able to back home.
Jesse lifted his head, the chimes jingling cheerfully, from where it had been trained on his trudging paws. Almost unable to believe what he saw, Jesse couldn’t do anything but keep walking as he spotted the telltale watchtower rising above the horizon, almost blending in with the orange rocky cliffs on either side.
At long last, he had made it to the city.
