“Help me outside, Hardin. I want to feel the wind on my face once more,” Isha stared into the shadows that danced on the cavern wall, seeing nothing. His white eyes saw only his inner world.
“It’s night, Isha. You should be resting,” Hardin put away the tunic he was mending, alerted by something in his old friend’s voice.
“Please,” Isha said, voice soft and tinged with sadness, “I can no longer find the way on my own.”
Hardin sighed deeply. The hour was truly late, but it he knew the sky was clear. The stars would be burning above like sparks of white fire. It might be nice to sit beneath the great arching dome of the night and listen to the secrets the wind whispered. It had been too long since he and Isha had walked the ruins. Hardin rose slowly, joints creaking their protest and moved to stand beside his friend.
“Very well; take my hand, Isha.”
Isha’s hand was cold, and Hardin was shocked at how light it felt, like spun glass or dandelion fluff. Hardin drew him up like he was an infant, and Isha smiled, perhaps remembering the past.
“Come, my friend,” Hardin said simply and led Isha out through the twisting entrance to their subterranean home. The pair emerged beneath the black night sky, the warm desert wind tugging their ragged robes. Above gleamed the starts, uncountable and untouchable, but even more beautiful than Hardin remembered.
“What do you see?” Isha asked, a note of pain in his voice.
“I see the Plough, rising above Jessa’s crowned head. She’s looking mighty fine tonight.” Hardin turned to the south, “Oh, there’s the Raven! I can’t remember the last time the stars were so very bright.”
Isha smiled in response. “Let us walk, Hardin. I want to feel the sand beneath my feet.”
Hardin walked with his friend through the desert night, describing the stars wheeling above their heads. The moon was a thin sliver of herself, far to the west, hanging just above the darker line of the earth’s edge. Isha listened to it all, drinking in Hardin’s words, painting pictures of the world that was now denied to his eyes.
As they approached the cliffs, the crash of waves on stone washed over them and the tang of salt rode the night’s wind. “I always did love the sound of the sea,” Isha said. “Take me closer, my friend.” Hardin hesitated, the thought of the cliff edge hidden in the night giving him pause. Isha laughed, putting a gnarled hand to Hardin’s shoulder. “I know your thoughts, old friend. Have no fear.”
Hardin helped Isha toward the cliffs, one arm wrapped around his waist to keep him safe. Just before the cliff edge he found a fallen column, once the support for a great temple roof. Now it was nothing more than detritus in the sand, but would serve as a bench for their old bones.
“Come, sit with me for a moment Isha,” Hardin guided his friend to the stone perch, helping him find its surface.
“Ah, ah! To sit with the wind in my hair and the waves in my ears again!” Isha tilted back his head and laughed to the night sky.
Hardin sat beside his friend, happy for the warmth from the stone column, still warm from the day’s sun. Isha had fallen silent, his face expectant, almost…waiting. His frail hand found Hardin’s once more, gripping with surprising strength as the old man turned his blind eyes toward his friend.
“Thank you, Hardin,” there seemed layers of meaning in that simple statement. Isha leaned against him, white head resting on Hardin’s shoulder.
“Tell me what you see,” he asked again.
Hardin described the stars again, leaving none out, not even tiny Pimbrekie far, far to the south. “A shooting star, Isha!” he said suddenly, the vision transporting him back through the long years to a time when Isha’s white hair had been gold and his blind eyes a vivid green. “A shooting star!”
There was no answer. Hardin sat there for a long time, letting the wind sing to him of grief and loss, sadness and pain. He listened to the waves pound their aching melancholy song and then, finally, he lay his friend down for the long, cold sleep.
