Photo By Ashwin Rao
“The Waters of the Oasis”
Every movement hurt more than the
previous, shifting his broken bones, igniting his pain. Galloping was too much, but he couldn’t stop;
he was almost there, and he wouldn’t slow down now. The wind felt icy against his clammy, sweat-sheened
face and neck as the horse sped on at the speed of deadly venom.
The Oasis was bigger than the
stories made it seem; he’d thought it to be easier—run in, jar the precious
liquid, and get back. He wasn’t
expecting a battle, or to have to search a dense forest for such an unspecific
thing.
The waterfall roaring in his ears
made it difficult for him to think clearly, the night made it even more
difficult for him to see, and the pain didn’t make anything easier. He was beginning to lose hope. He would die before he found it, he was
certain.
He searched through the trunks of
the dozens of surrounding trees, trying to spot it, hoping it would stand out,
but everything looked the same through his blurry, fading vision. Under
the tree, I will be. If you dare, stir
the waters, and I’ll be there, he remembered the riddle. But there were hundreds of trees. They all looked the same… how was he supposed
to know which tree?
He was dizzy now. The thin air made it harder to breathe. He lay over onto the horse’s rough, matted
mane, not able to support himself any longer.
He knew he wouldn’t make it, but he’d try until his last breath; he
wouldn’t die having given up.
He tried to keep his eyes open, but
his consciousness was slipping quickly. Straight ahead, there was a darker tree, a
sick-looking tree, close enough that he could see its grey bark, and limp
branches. Its boughs were startlingly bare,
and its trunk appeared weaker than even he was, and brittle… more brittle than
the autumn leaves it lacked. Jet, the
horse with the appropriate name, galloped straight for the ancient-looking
tree, stopping in front of it deliberately, stamping his hoof at its base.
“Jet,” he sputtered out, gasping
for another breath, “we have to keep going.
Please. It’ll to be too late.”
The horse’s protest was loud and demanding,
as he stamped his hoof harder this time at the base of the old, dying tree.
“Jet, please,” he coughed out, losing the strength to hold on any longer.
Jet danced, stamping and huffing,
knocking him from his back. He hit the
unforgiving ground with a groan, and tried to lift his cheek from a thick,
sticky puddle. The water was warm, like
candle wax, and he felt it begin to bubble under his skin. He tried to move out of it, but Jet nudged
him back into it with a scoff and stamped the ground again.
He raised a shaking hand to his
cheek and smoothed the water from his dirty skin. Could
it be? he thought, a small tinge of hope returning to his heart. Could this sick, lifeless tree harbor the
healing water?
He mustered his strength and pulled
the small jar from his satchel. He dipped
it into the murky, shallow water, filling it and returned the lid as tightly as
he could. He slid the filled jar into
the bag around Jet’s thick neck and slapped him, sending him off. The ground pounded under him as he watched
Jet gallop away—the fastest horse in the land. Jet would make it back to her in time. The healing water would cure sickness. Deadly wounds, no, but it would cure her sickness. He could see the happiness returning to her
eyes, and it made him smile as he lay staring into the pitiful limbs of the
sacred tree. He’d die soon, he knew, but
he only wanted to save her.
--C.R. Jennings
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