Fiddleeebod

Once in a land where desert dunes writhed under the lash of sun-hot wind gusts a grandmother and granddaughter sat in the coolness of their burrow listening to the angry roar. The grandmother leaned forward to speak above the din into the granddaughter’s ear.

‘Now is the time,’ she said. ‘You must find the oasis, pluck two yellows, one red, and consume them. Then will the sun wraith appear. Dare look her in the eye and request our desert to bloom while holding out to her on the palm of your hand this stone.’

Between the grandmother’s thumb and forefinger, an orange stone gleamed. The granddaughter took it and tucked it away in the pouch tied to her waist.

‘I will go now,’ she said, and wrapped in her blue cloak, she went without a single glance back.

Seven days later, the grandmother woke to silence. She crept from the burrow. All around, the desert bloomed. A stream ran by. Trees leafy green sheltered singing birds. The grandmother wept in sorrow and joy.

In the oasis, the sun wraith basked, admiring the new addition to her garden of delights. The orange bush gleamed, and its berries, two yellow, one red, and one blue, hung together in a cluster.

Filed under:
Stories by Steve