Desert Refuge

Rawiya, the caravan storyteller, casually glanced at the novice retreatants scheduled to cross the Cham Desert with her this season. She mused wryly that they were swirling around her more than necessary probably enjoying the way their new robes billowed out. They all wore coarsely woven, voluminous, ankle-length desert robes for comfort and protection, which differed so much from the narrower robes or simple trousers of city and agricultural folk. The bleached, rough fiber of their robes would soften with desert wear and tighten to a soft, supple finish with repeated washing at the oases and daily use; at the end of their journey the robes would feel light and comfortably cozy, and would merely be loose-fitting, softly flowing garments. This was standard garb for someone on a pilgrimage on the planet Hidaya.

The travel agent’s prattle back at the cross-roads city of Viñay truly had inspired these pilgrims not just with visions of personal renewal, but with misleading descriptions of exciting adventures and breathtaking sights they were now anticipating to be revealed just beyond every thorny desert bush. Yet, even though the travel agent’s promises were blatantly excessive since not all crossings of the Cham were adventurous excursions into beauty or spiritual renewal, he had successfully extracted money, waivers, contracts, and time from an eclectic number of individuals who had randomly tarried in Viñay.

As frantic late arrivals rushed to join the already chaotic assembly, Rawiya deliberately absented herself from amidst the organizational frenzy. She moved beside the restive travel beasts standing in a rough, impatient line calming them with crooned encouragement while observing the frenetic excitement from a safe distance.

Names were checked off; supplies, personal bedrolls and backpacks were tagged and given to runners who stowed the bundles on specified travel beasts by securing them in expandable leather packs slung behind the cushioned blankets upon which the travelers would sit for their rides between oases; only when all belongings had been stowed properly were the pilgrims shown their assigned shaggy travel beasts. They were carefully given instructions on how to identify and treat the enormous animals; and finally the enthusiastic retreatants were directed towards public sanitary facilities for a last-minute comfort break.

Meanwhile, Rawiya had crooned and calmed her way along the travel beasts’ ragged queue until she stood beside the last one. Cid, Rawiya’s favorite travel-beast, woofed warm air out at her through his large, hairy nostrils before nuzzling her shoulder. She caressed his velvety nose affectionately, and held her hand out flatly to him offering a sweet grain-roll, which his thick, sticky tongue immediately curled around, pulling it back into position for his stained molars to crunch and grind into a mushy, palatable paste.

“Don’t roll your big, brown eyes at me as if you were surprised, you furry lunk! I know you’ve smelled this treat all across the city when the supply arrived yesterday. What you don’t know is that it’s doctored with herbs to limit your fragrance. Aha! If it works we may have to call you something else, you nasty monster.”

The service-attendants were thankful that Cid was Rawiya’s first choice of travel beasts though she ritually pretended to do them the favor of reluctantly choosing Cid for their benefit; but truly Cid’s gait was one of the smoothest and most comfortable of any travel beast she had ever ridden, and that was a definite draw when traveling for several weeks. His name, unfortunately, had been justifiably earned because Cid – the abbreviated name for Rancid – tended to develop a delicate, sour stomach after several days of traveling. The foul fermentation subtly permeated his breath, flesh, and fur, which was distinctly released through his hide as well as through his flatulence. It wasn’t strong enough to cause nausea or choking, but travelers tended to hold their breath and move away rapidly when near Cid. It was Rawiya’s luck that she had a poor sense of smell and a hedonistic need for traveling comforts, including extra time to cleanse herself after riding Cid. That hygienic necessity often eliminated her from the tedious chores of unpacking at a new campsite for if she didn’t carefully complete washing up after riding Cid she was sure to be avoided by the other travelers who found her as repulsive as her mount. For now, though, Rawiya scratched Cid behind his nervous, swiveling ears before turning back to idly observe the gradually quieting crowd of travelers.

Even though most guides, attendants and pilgrims by now were standing expectantly beside their travel beasts, there were still some spontaneously enthusiastic puppy-like yelps and hurried errands. Almost everyone had gathered shapeless hoods or swaths of veiling around their heads in the pre-dawn chill so their faces were hidden in deep shadows even though the overhead energy panels lighting the plaza glowed gently above; but there were also a few overly-thoughtful novices who wore woven, wide-brimmed, shading hats for the daytime anticipating that they would need the protection when Bozidara, the day star, had risen and had begun to shine warmly on them all.

“Thrilling. Just thrilling,” Rawiya mumbled grumpily to herself looking at these mobile cocoons. “Where are the fashion consultants when you need them?” But she shrewdly felt her belt to be sure her own shade-hat was securely attached, and then also pulled up her hood.

Nurtured with a raw sense of adventure fed by exhilarating naiveté, neither even remotely touching upon reality – at least not the reality Rawiya lived – the unlikely pilgrims listened with guides and service attendants for one last check-off before departing as the scheduled caravan retreat into the soon-to-be-springtime desert. Dawn was still a distantly gentle prospect when they mounted their travel beasts and hustled away from the sheltering gates of Viñay to disappear beyond a scuffed-up dusty cloud into the darkness.