This story is inspired by the two images below - Desert Ruins by paooo and the man on the right - he was found on Pinterest, but I've not been able to find the original artist - if anybody knows who it is, please let me know so that can attribute properly. I'm not sure if it was the artist's original intention, but the blues and greens on the buildings in the Desert Ruins image made me think of glass, and then it being covered in sand led to this story. Babatunde crossed the ridge, the sand firm under his feet, and planted his staff in the ground whilst he surveyed the image before him. Isixeko Seglasi filled that image – the City of Glass. Here, in the deepest part of the desert, stood the legendary city that Babatunde hadn’t been sure was real until he saw it. He had, of course, heard the legends. Everybody had heard the legends.
They were old – and some of them older than old. They spoke of these towering buildings, rising from the sand like in towers and spires. In the gleam of the sun they were beautiful, perhaps too beautiful to be real. None of those legends told how this impossible city had come to be here, but Babatunde thought that he knew the answer to that question. He approached, seeing as he did that the city was not quite as perfect as it had first appeared. The glass was cracked in many places, each one telling a story of long neglect. Or did he judge too harshly – if none knew how it was made, did any know of how it might be repaired. Did any live here? He saw no signs of it. The sand covered much of the ancient city, and he wondered how much of it might be buried. How much of the original could he now see? Half? Perhaps less? He saw the tips of maybe a dozen buildings, that clearly had their bases buried at least – but how much further down did they go? And how many of them might there be in truth? Still, he approached. He was not worried about what he might find here, whether there be residents still, or guardians of some kind. This place was his birthright, and, even unsure of its existence, he had come to claim it. Or, in truth, had been guided to it. Now he followed that guidance still. As he approached the nearest building, the sand grew looser, his steps descending more and more into it, and he started to use his wide staff to sweep it out of the way. Babatunde was grateful for a breeze that picked up and helped him with his task, blowing the sand from his path at the same time that it made folds of his robes rustle and the pendants he wore jangle against themselves. By the time he reached the nearest building, the sand had given way and he could see a door. More sand still lay on the buildings sloped walls, but the door was largely visible. He swept the remaining sand away from the door with a simple movement of his hand. From so close he could see that the glass that made up the outer walls, along with the door, was opaque, further up he could see translucent sections – clearly windows. Again, his mind marvelled that such a place could exist. He reached for the door, trying to open it, and the glass responded to his touch, collapsing into sand. He nodded to it, showing his respect, and passed through. Behind him, the sand rose and reformed into the same door he had seen a moment before. However, from the inside he found he could see out. He wondered if it had become fully translucent, or if it was still opaque from the outside. He smiled – he might never know, given that he could only be one side at a time. The inside of the building was cooler than he had expected, and he started to explore the inside of the building. The inside was simple and stark, but beautiful in that same simplicity. He found that he could merely place his hand on a wall to change how it appeared – from solid to transparent, and anything in between. With some concentration, he could even change the colours and create rudimentary artwork. As he was exploring, he also found the bones. The bodies were partly hidden by piles of sand, and he found it easy to discover them for above each was a missing section of glass wall. It was as if the building itself had turned upon these people, but he did not know for what purpose. He had a sense of people losing their way and turning against the buildings first – the city had simply retaliated. He nodded to himself and poured a little from his waterskin onto the sandy ground – a sign of respect and thanks for the insight that had been offered. He found the building and its surfaces gloriously malleable and found that he could create doors wherever he wished – the walls were more than willing to respect his will and to shift to his whims. Several times, he lost himself in simply watching the glass become sand, shift, and then reform into the original state. Each time, he caught himself and laughed. He might be standing within an impossible tomb, but there was still beauty, and a joy to be found in it. When he reached the highest point of the building, he willed the glass to allow him to go up, and it formed into a ladder and an opening in the ceiling. He gave his respect for the aid and climbed. Standing on the roof, he could see more. The wind had continued to blow, and the sand had moved to reveal more of the city. Mighty Isixeko Seglasi was even more expansive that he had thought. Looking out he could see at least three score buildings. Was each of them as this first had been, filled with nothing but glass and bones? Or could there still be living people somewhere here? The wind whipped up the sand which, as it reached Babatunde’s altitude formed into a long bridge of glass between his rooftop and a distant one. It was a long walk, on a narrow, slippery beam, but he stepped out without concern. He did not slip – his sandals sticking well to the glass in spite of the smooth surface. The sand that made up the glass did not want him to fall, and so he would not. He reached the other building, and he turned to, again, spill some of his precious water onto the bridge. It collapsed and a hold opened in the roof behind him. A ladder had already formed, and he climbed down eagerly. He had been guided to this particular building – there must be a reason for that. The sand would not have brought him here otherwise. He descended and found it different indeed. In this building, no bones sat in corners, and the walls already displayed beauty in artwork far more practised than his own. He continued his descent until he reached what he thought was the base. There was no door but when he went to make one, the wall refused to budge. He turned back into the building – clearly there was something else he was meant to see before he could leave. And now he did. Unlike the first building, there was another opening downwards which led, he though, under the sand. He followed it and descended down glassy steps. This too was novel – previously, ladders had been used to move through the levels. He followed a passage at the bottom of them, feeling the weight of the sand above him. He soon came to a door but, rather than open it, he made the wall translucent. The room beyond was full of sand. Curious, he opened the door and watched the sand flood out into the passage. As it moved, he saw what it had concealed – the room contained dozens of people, lying on beds. Unlike the other bodies Babatunde had seen, these had the semblance of life and, in fact, some of them were starting to rise from their beds. They spoke to each other with great animation, though in a dialect that Babatunde could not understand. After only a few moments, one of the waking people noticed him and walked over. When he reached Babatunde, the figure nodded to him with hands held out wide. He tried to speak, but Babatunde’s obvious non-understanding he moved his hands in rapid sign language. Are you a Sandspeaker? Babatunde replied, surprised to see the man using the sign language that he had been taught by his mentor so many years ago. I am. The sand guided me here to you. The awoken man smiled widely. Then we are at last saved. I am Imari, and we have been waiting for you. Please – how long has it been? Babatunde returned the smile along with his signings. I am pleased to meet you, Imari. I am Babatunde. I am sorry – I do not know how long it has been since your civilisation flourished. Imari shook his head, though the smile had not left his face. It is not important. What matters is that we are free. The sandhas finally sent us a saviour, one to release us. Babatunde offered his waterskin to Imari who took it and drank. He passed it back to the rest of his people – it would not last long, but it should still be shared. Imari – can you tell me what happened here? Of course, though it has clearly been long if our story has been forgotten. Once, we were a strong people, followers of the sand and the sand gave us a mighty city that we might live well. Over the many years, sadly many of our people lost their way and fewer and fewer Sandspeakers were born. Eventually, there was but one – Faraji. He spoke to us of the sand’s wishes and told us that we took it for granted. Many of us did not listen, and so the sand bade Faraji leave. Before he did so, he closed us in here, those of us who still tried to serve the sand and respect it, and he begged the sand to protect us. The sand told him that it would, but in return he must give up his gift. One day, the sand told him, his line would birth another Sandspeaker, and that one would return and release us. That one would teach us anew of the ways of the sand. Imari stepped close and bowed his head, clearly seeking some kind of blessing. Babatunde, unsure of how to react, picked up some sand and let it trickle through is fingers, onto Imari’s brow, where it slid down to the ground again. Improvised as it was, Imari seemed pleased with it. It would seem, Imari continued to sign, that you are the one we have waited for. Babatunde looked out over the others that were milling around. It seemed that he was. The sand had guided him back to his own people, who knew how many generations later. His own face cracked in a smile – amongst these men and women, boys and girls, he felt at home in a way he never had before.
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October 2021
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