A Parable of Sand
The flesh of the old man’s face is the color of well-worn leather, burnished and creased. A white beard glows silver beneath dark eyes sharp as a falcon. His glittering eyes sweep over the gathered, but they do not fear him. A smile creases his beard and he is unmasked.
A wiggling girl child speaks above the crackling of the flames.
— Eldest, may we have a story?
It is thus and so at every circle. The adults wait for a child to find the courage to speak. The ritual question asked before the entire clan, a tradition and a lesson repeated.
— Yes, yes, may we please have a story Eldest?
Other children learn from the chorus. They will be brave the next time.
Chuckling quietly, the old man nods, as much to himself as the circle before him.
— What story would you have me tell, my beloved?
A small boy leaps at this blessed second chance to be brave. He shouts into the night and the adults laugh at his bravado.
— The Water Sellers, Eldest; please tell us the story of the Water Sellers.
The old man scratches his beard and looks to the stars, as if contemplating the choice.
— Ah, the Water Sellers. That is a sad tale. Are you sure you wish to hear me tell it? It may cause you to shed tears of sadness, and that would be a waste.
The adults smile at this oft-repeated banter. The children shake their heads in an over-solemn way. The old man nods, as if the matter were decided. Then he begins to speak.
* * *
In the long-ago times, water flowed here, and this land was green. Young ones, can you imagine it? I know this truth may be too big to swallow, but truth it remains.
Here in this valley were trees, and their strong roots pushed down into the warm earth. There were fig trees, broad of leaf and heavy of fruit. Old man olive grew here, gnarled and ancient, with a memory of the long-ago before the long-ago.
The trees were loved, as you young ones are loved. The people of the valley cared for their trees as they cared for their children. They climbed wooden ladders and disappeared inside the shady canopies.
The people trimmed branches and healed scars. The trees swallowed the bodies of the tree-tenders. Imagine it, walking down the path between the trees. Here and there, legs seem to be growing down from the branches, as if the trees would learn to walk away. Alas, young ones, better that the trees had grown good strong legs. Perhaps they could have followed the water when it went away.
Then came men with bags of gold. They bought the mountain where the stream began. How they bought a mountain, no one could ever say. The men filled great earthen jugs from the mountain spring. They hauled the water to the thirsty towns and there they sold it.
The flow of the stream grew less, but wagons of the Water Sellers continued to carry away the stream. Water grew scarce along the orchards of the valley, and the people quarreled. When the Water Sellers heard of the quarreling, they offered to sell water to the people of the valley. The people loved their trees and they loved their children. There was no choice but to pay for their own water.
Seasons passed. Summers became drier and hotter. The winters grew warmer. Snow came less often to the mountains. The valley stream shrank until it was a trickle. In the dog days of summer, the trickle disappeared beneath the stones.
When there was no more water to sell, the Water Sellers tried to sell sand to the people. The people of the valley refused to buy the sand, for they could not drink it, nor could their trees.
The Water Sellers, now Sand Sellers, became angry with the valley people. The Sand Sellers used hard words, calling the people traitors.
Soldiers came to the valley carrying weapons. The Sand Sellers pointed accusing fingers at the leaders of the valley clans and the soldiers gathered them up. The clan leaders were put in chains and taken down to the thirsty towns. They were never seen again.
The people of the clans began to leave the dry valley. Their trees withered and died. The Sand Sellers had no one to sell to, so they carried their gold back down to the thirsty towns. Perhaps they bought another mountain, but the tale does not tell.
One clan remained in the valley. They dug deep wells lined with stone. There was just enough water, young ones, just enough. Babies were birthed, the elders passed, and the clan lived on. You are that clan; each of you, my beloved. The Water Sellers have gone, but we remain. Our roots have grown deep.
* *
The last of the old man’s words swirl with bright embers, climb above the fire to dance in the blackness between the stars. The people lift their faces to bear witness as his words rise into the dry dark night.
Outside the circle of firelight, beyond the low huts of the clan, star-glow illuminates the orchards. Fig and olive trees grow in the ghostly silver light, their roots grown as deep and tenacious as those who water and love them.
Marco lives and writes in Vienna, Austria, reputed to be the third-grumpiest city in the world and he is okay with that. His writing has been featured by reviews and journals in Canada, The UK, and the USA. When he is not writing he is traveling and writing simultaneously. His author website is here.