Free The Tenth Saint by D. J. Niko Page B

the sand and gravel to give the land a prehistoric appearance. It was just one of many faces of the desert. Day to day and week to week, the terrain changed from vast dustbowl to scattered stone fields to brush plains to fecund oasis. It was this variety that enabled the nomad to subsist, and his survival depended on his knowing the idiosyncrasies of each terrain as he knew the stride of his own camel. But to Gabriel, it was all frustratingly foreign and unpredictable.
    Gabriel wondered where the young man was leading him. The Bedouin tents were well out of sight now, and the two of them were threading their way around a basalt labyrinth. These stones, bleached to a chalky gray by the cruel sun of the millennia, had surely seen it all: volcanic eruptions, continental drifts, ice ages, meteor impacts. Now they were headstones in a sandy graveyard, the silent sentinels of some universal secret containing all the wisdom of the ages in their fossilized masses.
    Da’ud said something to him, then disappeared behind a monolith and into a cavity in the massive boulder’s underbelly.
    Gabriel crawled in behind him. It was dark and cool, a welcome reprieve from the punishing heat. The air smelled of ash.
    Da’ud proceeded to light a fire with some sticks and dry brush that someone had left in the cave.
    A refuge. Gabriel would have never fathomed, had he not seen it with his own eyes, that a place as hostile and bleak as the desert could provide so well for its creatures. Shelter, food, and water were always available for those who knew the desert’s curves and caprices and were willing to submit to her rhythms rather than create an order of their own.
    Gabriel sat on the cold ground, gathering his knees to his chest. Though his line of sight was limited to a stone wall tentatively illuminated by the anemic fire, their voices bounced and echoed off unseen chambers. Shadows danced around him like the silhouettes of muses, alternately hiding and revealing the texture of the rock.
    The young Bedouin stuffed a clay pipe with tobacco and, with a kindly smile revealing his misaligned gray teeth, offered it to his companion. Gabriel used a piece of kindling to light the pipe and drew back, coughing as he inhaled.
    “What is this stuff? It’s disgusting.”
    Da’ud howled hysterically.
    Gabriel laughed too. He drew back again and feigned his pleasure on the exhale so as to not offend his new friend. He was repelled by the substance, but the act of smoking was comforting.
    Da’ud wrapped a piece of gauze around a stick and dipped it into the fire to make a torch. He gestured to Gabriel to follow him as he scooted, using his hands and feet like a monkey, toward the far end of the cave. He held the torch close to the wall.
    Remarkably, the rock from the base of the wall to the ceiling was covered with strange drawings and what appeared to be characters of a language, all carved into the stone.
    “You can write? You know language?” Gabriel was stunned.
    Da’ud pointed to the stick figures accompanying the text, which were lined up in storyboard fashion, and with charadelike gestures proceeded to explain their meaning. He pointed to the figure of a horseman raising a spear and emulated a mean expression.
    Gabriel watched intently. Though he understood nothing the boy was saying, he could sense his anger. He read the gesture as the description of an enemy.
    Da’ud pointed to another scene, showing the horseman and his men trampling people and tents. His voice grew loud—almost frantic—as he recounted his story. The next figure depicted a man lying on the ground and the horse rearing over his body while a small boy stood nearby. Da’ud wrapped his arms around himself and rocked back and forth, his eyes glistening with tears and his voice full of angst.
    Gabriel struggled to comprehend. Was the trampled man a relative? His father, perhaps? Was he the small boy watching the scene unfold?
    Da’ud composed himself, and his eyes filled