A gaunt figure sat hunched in the saddle of his equally gaunt horse. Their shadow stretched to one side, a gigantic caricature highlighting every rib and sinew. Rags hung from his shoulders, barely hiding the peeling skin of his torso from the glare of the afternoon sun. A broad brimmed hat tilted to one side offered minimal protection, but at least it kept the glare from his eyes.
One shaking hand raised a cracked water skin to his parched lips. A single drop emerged. The man shook the skin, desperate for more, cursing when it remained stubbornly dry. He closed the lid and slung it from his saddle, the movements feeling rote and meaningless.
Cracked hardpan stretched in every direction as far as the eye could see. Waves of heat rose, covering it in a shimmering veil. Nothing broke the endless monotony. No cacti or coarse bushes. Not even a rocky outcrop that might provide a modicum of shelter from the scorching rays.
The horse’s head hung low. With a sigh, the man gently nudged the weary animal in the ribs, urging it to keep going. To stop was to die, and he wasn’t prepared to give up hope just yet.
Somewhere nearby lay an oasis.
Every trader he had talked to before departing insisted it existed. Unfortunately for him, they were also convinced it lay just beyond the reach of all but the most foolhardy. Even camels were parched by the time a caravan reached the life giving liquid.
He had no camel. No great store of water. Nothing but his pride and stubborn insistence.
Now, after ten days, death seemed inevitable.
The man shook his head in denial. He refused to give up. Where there was life, there was hope.
Day gave way to night, and still the pair pressed on. There was no point stopping to rest now. Either they stumbled across water in the dark, or they died.
Soon shivering wracked his exhausted body. Teeth chattered. Weary hands rubbed across raw skin. His actions brought little warmth, and his rags offered as little protection against the cold as they did against the merciless sun.
Swaying in the saddle, he began to doze. This was not the content catnapping he had learnt in the army. Instead, it was the final sign his body was close to collapse. He forced his head up, too tired even to attempt the slap required to snap him out of his reverie.
A splash caused the horse to come to a halt. The man looked down, scarcely daring to believe his ears. He knew his eyes were not to be trusted, but he had never heard of an audible hallucination. Then again, in his current state anything was possible.
Cautiously he slid from the saddle. The splash was repeated when his boots reached the ground. The man allowed himself to fall, though he was unsure as to whether or not he would have been able to stay standing, even if he tried.
He lowered his head, taking his first full mouthful in days. The urge to drink deep rose in his breast and was hurriedly squashed. He had seen men drown in their desperation before, and he refused to fall into that trap. One mouthful was enough for now. It would keep him alive while he regathered his strength.