The Waning Salt Sun [ENG]

It is true that the men and women of the Six Day Stilt pray to God, yes, but theirs is not the one I’m looking for. If it was somewhere, settled within the confines of our mortal realm, it had to be there. Where else would they fit? Where else would their vastness rest? I pondered on my own doubts for so long, they lost all meaning. Of course they had to be there. Of course God had found his home in the Great Salt Desert. I was a fool, closing my mind to theology and hiding from my own lies. I searched and searched for so long, and the only thing I found were desperate answers to my existentialism. I too, as many others, entered the edge of the world known as Moghra’yi, and felt the words of those who never come back. Those who are never the same. Those that once didn’t belong to the desert.

Oh, how the Jeweled Sun forces a new day upon us who walk the Great Salt Desert. 

Oh, misericordious Moghra'yi, you greet us in your ever-dunes, blistering sands of white salt, ivory thorns, shining solace.

One does get used to the heat of the fire and the scald of the water, but it’s different there. The fire burns too bright. The waters boil too quick. Moghra’yi is not friendly, it is not familiar. It’s not supposed to be, either. One thing to understand, once you cross the threshold into the desert, is that it does not want you there. You’re an invader, an outcast, a sickness to the land. Once you set foot inside, you have to understand, Moghra’yi is not a place. It’s a grave. There are those that would call us mad, to even come close to the sights of it, incapable to consider wandering inside. I do not blame them. We are not better, nor worse. But us, we simply accept Moghra’yi as it is: Death. Beautiful, meaningful death. 

And with death came penance. You see, there is no shade in Moghra’yi. The plants grow too low, barely standing a head above the ground. The trees are too rotten to offer anything useful. The bones of those who walked this lands lay too deep inside the sand. There is nothing to protect yourself from the heat. The only hope there is once the high salt sun arrives is to find others. Other people. Other wanderers. The first settlement I found in my journey was only a husk of its former self. Stacks of limestone bricks, husks of houses eroded by the winds of time. Whoever built those houses went away with them, long claimed by the sands. Not all of them are like this, though. Culture still thrives in the harsh Moghra’yi, against its will. Once the nights fell, with the arrival of the waxing moon, all I had to do was listen. Focus on the horizon and follow the stars. I found some of them in my journey. Small towns, villages of sorts, dead in resource but living in spirit. Not easy to find, but not too hard either. I just had to look for the sound of soft flutes and pounding drums. 

The weakness of the wind and the pouring of the sand. 

Most people I found were surprisingly kind. I guess the desert brought us all closer. We shared stories, food, even some of them would offer their drams of water, something that I had very rarely experienced before my journey. Some entered Moghra’yi in spiritual trips, some entered seeking adventure, or even following tales of great treasure. Some, like me, entered the Great Salt Desert in search of something bigger than themselves. Of the latter, most were mechanimists. Although I fundamentally disagree with almost (if not all) of their beliefs, they all shared very interesting ideas about their cosmology and interpretation of God. Sometimes I even found machinimists disagreeing, very respectfully, as they are, but with very notable intent. I want to think they enjoyed my company too, as they invited me to pilgrimage towards the Six Day Stilt by their side, but I always refused. I wasn’t there to see their God, but to look for mine. I thought like this at first, yes, but eventually, I changed my mind. Maybe it was their kindness. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe their eyes, shining bright with the dim light of the waning beetle moon, filled with the joy of faith. I found myself next morning walking alongside a group of mechanimists, children of Shekhinah.

What few clouds were in the sky did a poor job hiding the Six Day Stilt from vision. The massive tower of the cathedral pierced the clouds, reaching heights many will never experience. The closer we got, the more intimidating it felt. The mechanimists grew happier, of course, feeling closer to divinity, talking to each other about the absolution of the sin and cleaning of the soul. I suppose they thought I really was interested in joining them, even if I denied it every time they asked. Their company was still better than traveling alone, even if their singing attracted more than a pack of snapjaws during our trip. Luckily, they were prepared, as religion was not their only forte. They were just as proficient at self defense, which made sense, considering their habit of making themselves such an easy-to-find target through Moghra’yi. 

The company was good, yes. I felt safe among them, I felt like I belonged somewhere, for a while. Even though my lies still guided my mind, I found a sliver of peace walking the dunes with people. Our true company were not the people, but the stars. Far, far away lights of so many different intensities. Shining glimmers, glint of a different world. The mechanimists saw them as ruins of the creation of the world, left there as a reminder, humbling.

“O’ sovereign Fathers! I tremble before your glory.”

Maybe they were right. Maybe their Shekhinah brought us to this world. Maybe that was truly God. That would not be an issue, not to me.

“My heart quivers for the righteousness of your judgment.”

I was still so sure that their God was not the one I was looking for. No, the mechanimists spoke of creation, the birth of chrome and the guilt in the flesh. But to me, God was something completely different. Millions of stars grouped themselves into an infinite tapestry that covered the night, providing a home to the waxing moon. 

“For you to humble the Proud! To bear witness to their Fall!”

It was all there. The flutter of dead leaves. The murmurs of the boiling salt rivers. The trembling of the sand. The flutes and the drums. The stepping on the vines. The dunes’ last breath. An everlasting chorus, made from shivering stardust, and the silences of the void, bearing so much meaning.  

I knew we were arriving at the Six Day Stilt. Not because of the lesser winds, nor the sound of the people. Not even because of its imponent silhouette in the horizon, no. Within the path, at the sides of the road. Tiny, sprouting blades of grass. Eventually, all around, scattered but present. Plants. Taller ones. Living trees. Not many, but enough. It was at that point that I understood why those men believed in their God. They had tamed the desert. There is no miracle more spectacular than that. Not even the spire that stood among the clouds and from the ground. Nothing compared to that. Life in Moghra’yi. Hope in the sand. We camped at the outskirts of the temple, one last waxing moon among them. 

That might have been one of my most cherished nights. Among people I fundamentally disagreed with. Covered in the dim moonlight. Resting our tired bones on the salt sands. Moghra’yi is death, yes. But it is not violent. I would never blame violence on the desert, it’s not its desire to be. The desert simply is, and among it, we are. We shared  our last drams of water, and, with the fading warmth of the fire, we fell prey to tiredness. 

In my mind I knew that Shekhinah was not for me. They told tales of them, born, not made, with an initial purpose of creation. A god that was organic and living in essence, but venerated in hate and shine. I could not see my God in them. There was life, yes, but with thoughts far more elaborate and cruel than I wanted to believe. It was not my God but I was curious, still. I wanted to see why they were so delighted with the idea of their presence. I dreamed of it. The cleansing of the metal and the growth of the mind. An honest cause, but not the one I was looking for.

The light of the Waxing Salt Sun hit my eyes with enough intensity to pry them open. The darkness that covered the night had been swept away, replaced with a shining resonance of reflections. I was not ready for what the light revealed. As soon as I crossed the high walls of The Six Day Stilt, I was greeted with chrome. Enormous temples built one next to the other, inscribed with the words of an unknown, dead civilization, Every unit of light, silvery metal, covered in glyphs and symbols. More people together than I have ever seen. An uncanny, almost pure silence, only disturbed by the rhythmic, but slow, sound of a horn. I followed it, the pulsing vibration of the air, walking first, but running eventually, tones that are still stuck in my mind. It was not desire that pushed me, it was need. I could see light at the end of the street, the buildings opening up to a pristine square. The people around me let me through, smiling, gently, as if they understood. I understand now.

How had I not noticed sooner, I wondered, where that sound came from. I fell to my knees, scared, defeated, as the spire that pierced the clouds showed itself to me. 

Glorious, divine, absolute. 

The peak of the tower truly got lost into the clouds, disappearing from all vision. Was there even one to begin with? I lost myself against its presence. It was everything. Oh, the reassurance that this was not the God I had been looking for. The sun became but an accessory to that shining tower, an endless machine god that had laid its infinity in front of me. This was wrong. I was searching for wind, a force, nimble, organic, belonging to the roots of the desert, hiding among them. My God was to be humble, etheric, a creature. Not built. Not standing. Not there, no! And the horn, the sound, repeating announcements of a gospel I did not care for. But even if I rejected their word, I was curious. What was inside that immortal cathedral? Who did they chant for? Why?

“There stood His Holiness Eschelstadt II, high priest of the Stilt and voice of Shekhinah. Behind his presence, five stoic figures, carved in flaming stone, the Argent Fathers. Above, the boundless interior of the Stilt. “

Infinite, yes. But hollow nonetheless. As were their words. The high priest spoke in the name of their God and they listened. He thought himself worthy of the message of divinity, and they thought him worthy back. I could confirm before my very eyes that this was not God. Not in his words, not in his movements. Their canticles chromaic lacked grace, flow, life. Constructed verses for a constructed mind. Plants growing withing their temples to mimic the spirit of the true desert. An artifact that stood alone in the middle of everything, away from civilization. I could not hate them, I still don’t. I understand the greatness of the heavens, the promise of a better tomorrow, of glorious purpose. But that? To me, that was the furthest away from God I had ever been. And that made sense. God would not hide among men in a gilded beacon of faith. If I was to look for God, my God, I’d have to get away from temples and towers. Away from civilization and people. Away from myself.

There are shadows hidden within the grains of sand. Maybe, if you look very closely, and very silently, you might see them too. Or maybe it’s just me.

Oh, the heat. The ravenous scorch of the Salt Sun. It followed me around, a continuous reminder of how easy things would’ve been, had I stayed with the mechanimists. But my convictions were strong, far stronger than they’re now. Too strong, maybe. It takes mistake to become better, I know that now, but I was stranded deep inside my own convictions. I guided myself not by reason nor faith, but out of spite. I could not accept a god engraved in shining plates, in clouded sounds and everlasting orations. No, I needed something sentient, the currents that moved the sand, the very breath of Moghra’yi. The dunes lowered as I kept walking. The grains of sand and salt turned thinner and thinner as the moon approached. I had my last dram of water that night. That was my last warning, the droplet that emptied my canteen. Unbounded desperation. An omen of a blinding sun.

“Oh, what sets us apart from animals is that not one creature would dare enter that which is past the sands of the desert. That’s why we sit here, and here we pray, a watchtower engulfed in the holy heart of the land. Away from the dry death that lurks around Moghra’yi.”

The light covered everything. Cracks and crevices marked the end of the desert. While still Moghra’yi, the Steppe was not alive. It did not breath, it did not grow. I walked the border, once again doubting myself. The warm breeze that came from within the desert stopped there. It was hot, yes, but not in the usual way. The desert was aggressively hot, as if it was trying to push you out of it. That place was different. Its warm was calm, not gentle, but calm. Like holding a weight while diving in a lake, slowly drifting to the bottom, helpless, but tranquil. It did not call, it did not repel. If the desert was death, the Steppe was dead. I looked ahead, feeling the last gusts that tried to return me back, but my mind was set. When I turned,  just for one last glance, it was already gone. Used to the warnings of the living Moghra’yi, I noticed how the ground didn’t react to my movement. No vibrations, no reaction. No comfort in knowing that the earth was aware of my presence. Nothing.

How would the ground tremble, if it’s soul had been ripped out of it. How is a place to live if there is no desire. Devoid of everything, a sliver of the desert, a reminder, a husk. 

I had found reassurance in Moghra’yi. In its constant rejection of my breath. It didn’t want my presence, and that made me think that the path I had chosen was right. But then, when all of that had gone, when there was nothing anymore but me, I found myself lost. I could not wander, for wandering implied a goal, one that I lost somewhere in the way to that place. I walked in a line, or what I thought was a line, until the Salt Sun lost its grasp on me. When night came, the Waxing Moon didn’t show up. As if hidden, scared, pure darkness reigned all over that wasteland. 

Oh, how the jeweled sun forces a new pain upon those who dare enter the Steppe. 

Oh, the blissful remembrance of Moghra’yi, now turned into a  lasting memory, beating over the silence of the dry void.

I still doubt myself in what I found there. After walking aimlessly for what felt like days, I had lost all hope. Every unit of land was covered in imposing light, an endless heath of pale oranges and yellows. No instance of shade that wasn’t brought by the night. It was hell, if even comparable. Still I did not die. Even when I had lost all expectations, my heart wouldn’t let me fall. My eyes would not stop blinking. My ears would not stop drumming. I spotted something in the distance. A slope. Slight, almost unperceivable ascension. 

I ran, of course, or the closest thing to running that my dying, malnourished body could achieve. A pathetic, dragging sprint. Slower with the increase of the ramp. But pushed by wonder, I reached the top. I looked up, aspiring, defiant. I could keep going. I could persevere. The sun was my rival, I thought, an obstacle, a challenge. I looked down, complacent, and found death, not familiar, but death nonetheless. Another slope. Down, this time. A basin. An enormous depression in the ground. Ignoring whatever could have caused it, pushing curiosity aside, I threw myself down that ramp, my eyes locked with what seemed like a splinter of shade at the bottom. Shade. An impossible longing. A craving for something to cover the daylight. I rolled down, obsessive progression to plunge myself into the darkness. Every time I got stuck between the sand and the ground, I got up and hurled myself down again. I could not run fast, but I could fall. There it was. So close, ever so close.

As I got there, the slope lessened. I had to walk for the last parasang of distance. What at first seemed like a small shade, now felt so much bigger. So much wider. I dreamed of its borders covering me, hiding myself from the Jeweled Sun. I got so carried away by madness I almost fell into it. 

A hole. An opening in the ground. Maybe fifty units in diameter. Not even half a parasang. I looked down and found nothing. The same darkness the moonless night provided, endless falling, blindness and fear. I shouted into it, for the sound never to come back. The stones I threw never echoed. The noises faded with my hope, as I bordered the rift. It was hard for me to realize when I had done a full turn around, as around, all terrain looked equal. Sand. Stones. Silence and death. Burrowing lines of white. I sat down, defeated. This was the end. It had to be. Maybe this was Moghra’yi, the true soul of it. Maybe what had been presented to me before was just a disguise, a tempting promise of answers and thorns. It was over. No matter how many things I dropped down the abyss that opposed me, none would return anything, not even a light whisper of reassurance. I was going to die there, and I was okay with it. Maybe I didn’t deserve a great death. Nothing to be remembered for, nothing built to last. No legacy, no tears, nothing. A lost wanderer. One among many. No different from all the tales of long gone travelers I had heard before I ventured into Moghra’yi. I closed my eyes, ready for the ground to take me, for the sun to claim my ashes.

Burrowing lines of white.

A million thoughts jumped from side to side, reordering my mind in an instant. I got up as quickly as I could, almost trembling, my legs pushing what little energy I had left into my starved bones and muscles. I threw myself into the ground, once again. My hands went first, focused on digging, on discovering what lied hiding as pale chalk in the sand. I delved into the people of old, bones upon bones hidden beneath my feet. Not just one, no. As I uncovered a pile of bones, it would give me enough energy to look for another two. Then five. Ten. Twenty. I found about fifty of them. Some long rotten, some almost felt fresh. All kneeling towards the chasm. All praying towards the same God. 

As the sun hid, I found myself lost within the dead. They were no different than the pilgrims of the Stilt. I could see it, yes. It took me a little time, but that infinite gap felt the same as the cloud piercing cathedral. Even I found myself numb against it. It was not the voice of any priest that powered that place. There were no tales of this incredible place. But its presence was the same. It convinced me of its holyness just by existing. There was no better argument for God. The rift existed in the same way that the Six Day Stilt did. It was so much more than a presence. So much more than a site to pray. It was terrifying. It was forbidding. It was imposing. It was a question without an answer.

I then understood, of course, that I would not find my God anywhere. 

Night fell and I left the prayers behind my back. I could not see but I could feel. The deafening presence of what I naively baptized as the “Heart of the Steppe” left its grasp on me as I crawled my way away from it. I was blind to my steps but I kept walking nonetheless. I tripped and I fell and I kept getting up, all of it because I had found my God to be something so much more profound than a place, than a monument. I walked through all of the night. My body aching with tiredness and pain, but my mind forcing itself through it. I was not going to die there. I could not allow myself such pleasure, not yet. I knew where to find God and I had to make my way there, whatever the cost.

The Waxing Sun rose shily, adjusting its pace to not get in the way of my intent. I was not lost and the desert understood that. I found myself among the sands of Moghra’yi once again, released from the hands of the Steppe, ready to brute my way to knowledge. I walked the paths I knew once again, determined to follow the one trail I had left. 

I found my body covered in cuts and bruises, my hands dry and callous, but the pain that surrounded me was simply clenched away by purpose. I could suffer later, I could die if I had to, but I needed to see it first. I placed one foot upon another as the rock grew higher and higher. I grasped the flint and bled my hands dry, but I kept climbing. The Stilt would greet me from the distance every new morning. I looked back at it, defiant but contempt. 

I could smell the very clouds that filled the sky, the humid, strong air of the desert peaks. I could see the sun rising from above, understanding that I had reached my destination. The towns that once fed me where now little patches of smoke among the sands. The temple of the Six Day Stilt appeared as nothing but a chrome shade in the horizon. The site that once had left me crying was nothing but a blur in the distance. The Stilt itself appeared just as a silver nail cutting furthest skies. I might have even seen the silhouette of the Heart of the Steppe, frightening and profound, but not imposing. I could see all of Moghra’yi with my very own eyes. And so much more. The deep jungles of emerald in the distance, the swamps of blue and the heights of snow. I could see all of nature in a tangled dissonance of colors and biomes, trees in millions of shapes, a million more stories carved in any of them. I could glance at temples long forgotten and shining new. 

I shivered for the first time since the beginning of my journey. I felt cold. The compassionate cold of change. I cried and cried and my teardrops ran across my cheeks, renewing, healing. They dropped down from my face to the ground, revealing distant shimmers, reflections from the newfound night. The distant stars greeted me as they always had, not further, not closer. Just the same, comforting cloth of celestial tears. They felt just as mine. 

I could see all of God in its very essence. Not as a chrome icon. Not as a figure to revere. Not punishing. Not kind. Not a chasm in the ground nor a tower in the sky. 

Not a place, but a view.