The scrub grass waved slowly in a gentle breeze, sparsely scattered among unending dunes, struggling for existence, roots digging into soft sand, grabbing at nothing solid, only to be uncovered in the constant wind, clutching at kaliche and clay, travelling through ancient rodent tunnels. Slowly carrying the moistness from deep within the desert into roots thin and fragile as mycelium, designed to withstand the elements over ages of constant torture by nature. The horizon lay in an unbroken line, steaming with heat and hunger, thirsty for change, constantly moving sand from one dune to the next, winding its way through the desert in unforgiving consistency.

Amman held his head between two leathery palms, steadying his gaze on the small groups of livestock scattered around him, a mere twenty head of sheep and fourteen goats had become his simple existence. Without them, he was better off sold to traders to be treated with as much care as a pack mule, for in the ancestry of these animals his family had survived for centuries. Amman was the youngest of twelve, taught to herd and attend to the needs of these animals since early childhood, he was able to hear their bleating as a language, sense their movements as if he were one of them.  He never was taught to be literate as were the rest of his siblings, for his father never saw any need to waste their time educating Amman, when all he would ever be was a shepherd. Grandpapa showed him the ways, waking him early on the day of Amman’s fourth birthday to walk the long dusty trails into the scrub, to watch for danger, to blow the curled horn when in trouble. Grandpapa had always been the mentor, the master of sheep for his tribe; he knew the subtleties of their moods, the gentle nature of their movements. He could read in the wind when a predator was nearing, when a storm was brewing in the distance marked only by minute wisps on the horizon of angry sand, and passed all this to Amman in the last days of a frail man’s life, as if that was the final purpose of his existence.

The early sun rose with a vengeance casting a faint shadow over the sand as Amman raised his eyes to survey the animals. They were used to the daily routine and never strayed far, wary of the countless hungry beings that were lurking, waiting to rip the flesh from any who wandered beyond the sight of their master. Amman’s eyes drooped, the wind licking at his skin with a sandpaper tongue, dry and hostile.    He chanted under his breath, praying to the gods for mercy and strength as he had done most every morning, repeating the memorised phrases with no more enthusiasm than a minister at a funeral repeating the solemn incantations of death. He sat in his favourite spot, sheltered from the morning sun by a bush barely two feet tall, slouched into a ball, his legs tucked under his body in a tight curl. His mind drifted into thoughtlessness and eventually, his eyes closed into silence, punctuated only by the occasional bleating of his wards.

 

Slowly, cautiously the burning sphere worked its way across the sky, arcing up into the center of the heavens in a predictable pattern. The bush lost shade, baking in the dry heat of summer, cooking the sand into cakes of brittle grit. Amman stirred slightly, precious water beading up in lines of sweat on his exposed skin, blistering and boiling as it dropped to the hot earth and evaporated. He rubbed his face and remained still for some time as if remembering his location, then struggled in a trancelike stupor from the heat to regain his footing and stood up. His legs buckled, asleep from the position he had held for the last hours, giving him up to the relentless ground where he fell to stare at the dry sun. His vision was faded, head thumping from the heat; he relaxed and fell back into a dreamless sleep without the shelter of the scraggly bush, its shade now diminished into a speck of blackness directly around the stem. Time passed in frenzy, finally shaking Amman to consciousness with the gentle, persistent bleating of a ewe nibbling the thin stems of ephedra grass near his head. Hands rubbing briskly at his eyes, he opened them, seeing nothing but blue-white light. The bleating was increasing, to his trained ears telling of danger he began to panic, still seeing nothing but blue-white, he stumbled to his feet and shook his head, now slowly making shadow from the blankness of vision. Hours of sunlight had closed his pupils to pinpoints, blinding him to all but the faint shade of grey in a sea of blue, as if he were looking at a clear blue sky in the evening. He cursed at the stupidity of his tiredness that morning, why was he so feeble to allow sleeping a foothold in his day’s work. But vision would not come to his eyes, blinded with the brilliance and heat where shade crept like a wanted villain, lurking in the cover of any living thing, not to be seen. Darkness grew into calm, comforting blackness broken only by the increasingly desperate wailing of the sheep. Was there a predator on their heels, nipping at the young to rip their flesh apart and carry it into the distance? Finding him in his hour of weakness they would carry him as well, unable to defend himself, blinded and weak.

But nothing was to come of this fear, trembling in his rage Amman knelt in the sand to beg forgiveness, he must be receiving a punishment for his carelessness, the gods did not approve and he would pay the price. The blue turned to shadow, fading the sun into sky as if it did not exist, and a cold wind blew upon him as if he had walked into the shade of a large tree, but he had not moved from his place of rest. Amman rose in wonder, raising his hands high into the sky. What could possibly make this feeling of coldness in a world surrounded by heat and blinding light? He stood for some time, singing praise to an unseen god, awed and frightened by the darkness that overcame him as if he stumbled from midday into midnight without time passing, and gradually vision came back to him, at first nothing but a blur.

To his raised face, there appeared a dim form stretching to the heavens, a pair of giants like no mind could imagine, taller than the mountains. They were brothers in every distinction, giants that could shake the very foundation of the desert with their footsteps, each foot as large as an elephant. Amman knelt before the forms and prostrated himself on the sand, weeping in submission to these foreign apparitions. ‘This cannot be real’ he muttered, there is no such god in our land. But the sun did not hasten to warm his skin, hidden from view by the towering beasts. His vision cleared in time, and he made out their particulars. It seemed to be that one of the brothers had blue skin and one had yellow, dressed in cloth of a similar color, waving in the cool breeze like the main sails of a galleon, they appeared as magnificent as any dream. The apparitions turned to each other, clasped their hands together and held a gleaming object to the sky, their rumbling voices carrying over the wind in some ancient language, melodically enchanting. The golden object dropped, falling swiftly into Amman’s up stretched hands with the weight of a cannonball, swiftly knocking the breath out of his chest.

 

 

 

Although Amman was barely seven years of age, he had learned a lot in his short life through vigilant observation. There was little he did not understand of the mannerisms of sheep, of their moods in rut or the complications of birthing. He had brought many young into the world with his supple hands, to watch them wriggle at their mother’s teats with vigour and enthusiasm that is unmatched at any other time. He had followed the herd to the best patches of bitter grass, memorised the patterns of the shifting dunes to place the valuable food sources, and returned in the evening with a large sack filled with the dung for fuelling fires and forming brick.   Today luck had been with him regardless of his laziness in attending the herd, none had strayed and no harm was to come of it, and he gathered his flock and stumbled home, fingering the amulet in the folds of his robes.