Burning Sands

This Short Story is selected as Editor’s Choice

Forget not our wounded companions who stood
In the day of distress by our side;
While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood,
They stirr’d not, but conquer’d and died.
That sun which now blesses our arms with his light,
Saw them fall upon Ossory’s plain; —
Oh! let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night,
To find that they fell there in vain.

–War Song, Thomas Moore

The autumn wind blew down from the east, tossing leaves of brown and red across the dying grass. A misty coolness was in the air, as stormy clouds raced across the noon-day sky. It was an abnormal coolness, he thought, unlike any other Fall day that he had experienced, even from his youth. Perhaps it was because he had not witnessed such changing of the seasons in over four years, or perhaps it was something else…something to do with the burning sand that now flowed through his veins.

The young man readjusted himself within the wheelchair he occupied. It would take time they said, time to get used to the hard leather that was now his constant companion through life, time to get used to the feeling he sometimes had that what was now missing was still there. All he had was time.

His gaze shifted for a moment to a single leaf still clinging to the branch of an oak tree in that garden. It was clinging on to something that inevitably would be lost. He watched as the wind pulled and tugged until at last it flew, without control, into the burst, twirling this way and that, finally falling to rest amongst its brethren. It had lost its final battle, a battle it had fought vigorously. He sympathized with that leaf.

In the distance, he heard the beat of an approaching helicopter. His eyes closed involuntary, and he went back.

He felt the stinging wind from the turning blades, the sun’s burning heat, and the grit of the sand in his teeth. He remembered it all…so real.

Then the sound faded, and he was drawn once more to reality: automatic doors closing with a screech behind him, doctors being called to different locations over a loud speaker, and the constant stench that filled his nostrils. It smelt of death…this place. He hated it.

“I love the Autumn colors, they are so beautiful,” came a voice to his right.

He turned his head silently and spotted the stranger leaned against a post, looking out across the garden. “Pretty,” the young man responded.

“I saw you sitting here by yourself, thought you could use some company. How about a smoke?” the stranger asked, offering him a cigarette from his soft, red package.

Company? Company was the last thing he needed right now. He already dis tasted this man. “No, thanks…don’t smoke.”

“Suit yourself.” The lighter was struck and the flame arose.

He went back. He felt the heat of the fire, the vibration of the explosion, the burning of his skin…the excruciating pain. He smelt the smoke, saw the flame, heard the cries.

His hand was shaking, as he touched his face, feeling the gauze that covered the mess beneath.

The stranger seemed not to notice. “I wanted to thank you, young man. I don’t know your story but I understand you sacrifice.”

How could this stranger thank him for his sacrifice, when he didn’t know the story? Even if understood the story, he wasn’t there. He hadn’t experienced all that the young man had. Not seen the things he had seen. Not felt the pain he felt, nor heard the cries he heard. This stranger, standing upright on two feet, he was the disabled one, not the man in the wheelchair who would never walk again, or even see from his left eye. The crippled was the real man here.

“Welcome,” the young man uttered.

The stranger felt the coldness in such a response and turned his head slightly. “Do you know who I am?”

“Can’t say, I do.”

“Ah, I thought not…”the stranger seemed disheartened by this. “So is your family here to see you?”

“Family?” the young man had not considered this. His family? “No, I don’t believe.”

“No family? Slightly strange wouldn’t you say?”

“Who are you to say? Another head doctor?”

The stranger was taken aback. “No…no I guess you’re right. It is not my concern.”

The young man remained silent for mere moments, then spoke. “My family died, all of them, the day this happened to me. We were working.”

Tears welled up in the stranger’s eyes and rolled slowly down his cheek. “My condolences, Sergeant Smith. It is Sergeant Smith isn’t it?”

The young man nodded. “What is your business at this place?”

“My son…”

The young man looked at him, pain still evident in his eyes, “What is his condition?”

“He suffers.”

“I return the condolences, sir.”

The stranger wiped the tears from his eyes, and smiled a half-hearted grin at the fellow. “I appreciate it.”

The two then slipped into the silence of the evening, and watched the clouds move across the sky. Neither spoke, even barely breathed, not daring to glance in the other’s direction. The encounter had taken a turn from the first impression, now there was awkwardness.

“My son always loved the Fall. He loved watching football, going hunting, having bonfires on our property and having a good drink with his buddies,” the stranger finally whispered ending the stillness.

“The Fall is death. Look at it,” the young man cried, lifting his hand and pointing out across the garden. “The Earth is dying right before our eyes, and we find beauty in it. It’s despicable. There is no beauty in death. We may hold such an opinion, till Death rears his head and our adolescent selves give way to true manhood.”

“In the Spring, all of this will return.”

“Not these, but others like them, yes. After the last leaf falls and disappears, it is gone from this world forever. Death always wins.”

The old man, the stranger, dropped his head, as if he had seen defeat. “I’m sorry you see it that way.”

The young man turned himself and with stifled anger, looked into the pale blue eyes of his company, “How can you not? Your son is not different than I.”

“You’re right, he isn’t. But I keep hope, cause without it, I would find myself where you are…suffering.”

The anger rose into the youth’s eyes then, and he began to yell, “I am not suffering!”

The stranger was startled, and reduced to fear.

“I am disciplined, physically and mentally tough, trained and proficient in my warrior tasks and drills. I always maintain my arms, my equipment and myself!” the young man began to shout! “I am disciplined, physically and mentally tough, trained and proficient in my warrior task and drills. I always maintain my arms, my equipment and myself…” and he continued on, chanting the same line over and over again.

A man in a white coat came running from the automatic doors that were behind the two, and rolled the young man away, still shouting at the top of his lungs.

The stranger drooped his head and began to cry uncontrollably. How could this have happened, he thought. How could such little time change someone so much?

A doctor walked out of the doors the young man had disappeared into only moments before. He had a grim look upon his face and as he came to the stranger, he grasped his shoulder and looked him deep in the eyes. “How did it go?”

“As to be expected,” the old man said through his sobs.

“Your son will remember you soon enough, Mr. Smith,” the doctor assured him.

The old man said nothing, but instead turned and looked out over the garden. The dark clouds still raced across the evening sky, and the Autumn wind still blew in from the East. A misty chill hung in the air, an abnormal coolness, he thought. Perhaps it was the fact he had never appreciated the changing of the seasons as he did today, or perhaps it was the burning sand that he had saw in his own son’s eyes, the pain…the excruciating pain.

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