✧ ROYALMUSES : 𝙱𝙴𝙽 𝙴𝙻𝙳𝚁𝙸𝙳𝙶𝙴
‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒ He stands by her like an ancient Joshua tree, a natural sentinel, as she pries free the boards obstructing the way. Keeping up with her has proven little trouble for him, all long legs & lean, tempered body. A ghoul’s eyes are not keen at the best of times, & this is far from that ; he should be fast separated from her were it not for his own swiftness in following the nigh — otherworldly seeker as she rushes through the sands like a vision ( how fitting !! how ridiculously on the nose ).
& he would have offered in own knife in her endeavor of breaking down the boards, but she’s a little quick on the draw for him. So he watches. The winds still a howling shriek just behind them, but no longer whipping at their flesh or their hair ; the relief is so great that it’s like stepping into warm water, but it leaves his skin tingling all the same, & a soreness in his radiation scars that doesn’t quite feel like pain just yet. Ben hums, but it can’t be heard above the din outside the crevasse.
A gloved hand rests on the unyielding red stone. He’s come far enough to trust Pythia with whatever happens next. He reaches up with his opposite hand to push the thick waves of his hair back out of his face. He has a feel for where they are, but the route’s unfamiliar. The markers have been lost to the blinding sand, & his eyes are still adjusting to the dark space inside the rock.
Anyway, seems the desert’s vengeance is not going to reach them, this time. It falls just short, not impotent, but simply evaded. It’s the way of survival in the Mojave.
❝ You got it ? ❞ he asks her, still obliged to keep his roughened voice loud. He’s a little hoarse, too. Small price to pay. He’ll feel better once he’s gotten the chance to rest & wash his clothing. Mind stays in the present, though. They’re not there yet.
it isn’t much, their temporary sanctuary, but it is safe & spares them a great deal of the desert’s undulating wrath. make something out of it. nevertheless, an awkward silence, while she’s worked her little knife into those spaces —— right up to the point that she ends up with a stack of two-by-fours. reflecting on what to say next ; words that can further drive home the importance of his pilgrimage. with how readily & WILLINGLY he follows her down a path of uncertainty, pythia consults with herself that the need to do so is a moot point. ( there is an old proverb that her mentor, a learned old shaman, uttered to her whenever her heart filled to the brim with doubt, ‘if the mountain will not come to muhammad, then muhammad must go to the mountain’. ) it is not until gruff intonations reverberate across the dried cavern-like locale does regal oracle skull rise. rejuvenated & eternally grateful for his confidence in her. blind confidence.
❝ ah. yes, thank you, ❞ she says, offering a nod for emphasis.
she casts an eye to the small crevice behind him, examining the current state of things. a dust storm rages on, kicking sand no more than two feet into the opening every now & then. not enough to assault them. ( the path to zion will remain as unyielding as one’s faith ; for the next-in-line oleander shaman, vuzayali has good-naturedly lent his ear to her ! she prays for victory over the elements. ) her companion is in the same predicament as she is ; grounded by the sand & undeniably calm & vigorous in his positioning. just so, turns attention back unto where pale-as-space dust hands lie & works in less-than-ideal condition of minimal lighting as best she can. carefully, digs blade’s tip into nail-punctured areas to SCOOP out the studs —— for a ‘purer’ quality of firewood that the steel will otherwise hinder.
❝ we are very fortunate for the wood being here. it will serve well for an outside campfire, ❞
after the tedious, pre-emptive manual labor, she stands upright with the stacks of plank under her arm, just to set them in his arms via a gesture, & pushes the door open. dark, but she can make out a few wooden beams & columns holding the place together from moonlight. reaches behind her for a smallish lantern secure by a metal implement on leather knapsack & then procures some home-cultivated paraffin oil ( just a few droplets inside the cylinder! ) & flint. a filter of an orange glow awash the space ; mostly bare, smells ANTIQUE, like an old grapefruit & waterlogged without having ever touched a lick of moisture. piquant like salt. earthy. sets the thing down dead center of the shed. & her bag near it, now crouching down to rummage through it.
❝ have you ever been to the sacred land where man has not salted the earth? ❞
