Michael Haskins
The Philosopher
A
stranger to the desert, a
philosopher from one of the great
cities on the continent to the
north heard of this oasis and
undertook preparations to travel.
He was an admired and respected
man, and he possessed in himself
all the best virtues of his people.
He was systematic in his thought,
receptive to new ideas, generous
of spirit. But despite these
attributes, the body flagged even
as his mind excelled. The
philosopher
determined
to
sojourn to the oasis because he
had heard of its healing waters
and although he did not fear
death, he still believed he had
more work to do. Of course,
rumors of the desert water’s
healing powers ran rampant in
the north; the people of the
desert knew the sad inaccuracy of
these tales, for they had bathed
in those waters for thousands of
years and still they watched their
loved ones die from the failings of
the body. Nevertheless, all the
credible
sources
to
the
philosopher’s ear extolled their
healing powers—or perhaps the
philosopher merely assigned his
faith where he wanted, for when
days are days of exhaustion and
pain, even the greatest minds
seek comfort—and he sailed to
the mouth of the desert, where
he loaded a camel with supplies
and bowed his head to the wind
blowing across the sands.
The pace of his journey’s
beginning was no slower than
anticipated, and steady. By
nightfall of the tenth day
however, he could no longer
control his fear. He sat on a
carpet in front of his camel-dung
fire and, in the sand, he redrew
the map of the land from
memory. A five day journey for a
young man in good health, the
philosopher
had
reasonably
allotted to himself ten days, had
hoped for eight or nine. He had
yet, in all his time in the desert, to
see another wanderer, although
he could find little reason for the
inhabitants of this place to stray
far from their city and its water.
The water sprang four days south
and one day east of the port on
the sea. Was it possible he had
turned east too early? By what
arrogance had he not first
followed the coast? He had
supplies for twenty days. If he
turned back now, he would leave
the desert only as alive as he had
entered it, succumbing to the
body. The philosopher snatched
the robes about his attenuated
chest. He had been made old, not
by the revolutions of the seasons,
but by the deficiencies of the
flesh. He cursed his wretched
body, but knew that when the
sun rose upon the sands, he
would continue south towards