30. Part III - Witch of the Atlas
The camels, now hobbled by ta'kil,
had been afraid of the singing sands.
Astarte had left them, approached
the red mountain on foot. As if sensing her
malevolence it sent gusts of dust-laden air
to greet her, gritty blasts she shrugged aside.
She had crossed Ez-Zemoul El Akbar,
the broadest, highest range of dunes on earth,
to reach this one, for beneath it lay
the vessel containing the eternal soul
of the man who spurned her.
Now she stood before the fortress,
her mood darkened, the air became still
because she willed it. In her hand she held
the bousaadi - the long thin bladed knife
that would destroy her beloved utterly.
Deep breaths then, the uttered curse:
the mountain of rough particles that clung
to each other by their pointy, gritty nature
suddenly each became perfectly smooth.
They sloughed, sagged and flowed away
to reveal the tiny shrine and its hidden urn
containing his soul. Her blade glowed blue
and a streak of vengeance shot from its tip.
It was done, and having been done,
was now of no further interest to the Witch.
She turned away and with a wave permitted
once again the desert to grow and weave
the dunes she had so painstakingly crossed.
Her revenge was a dish best served cold.
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Originally Posted by Arlene
