Paulo Coelho

Mry-An did not weep, she would not spare a single tear for the god-forsaken hellhole she was leaving. Overhead the sun blazed on the desert stretched out endlessly. She cast one last look behind her, at the dark entrance in the sand and array of pipes, vents, and sun trackers jutting haphazardly above the dunes.

From the entrance, Jabnar watched his daughter leave. He sought to fix every detail firmly in his mind; from the way she defiantly strode away, her long sun-bleached dread-locked hair that twitched angrily like a lion’s tail of old. The way she pursed her bottom lip and squint her hazel brown eyes when upset. Jabnar knew it was a distinct possibility he would never see his daughter again. So he watched until the very last glimpse of her, and with a slow sigh and heavy shoulders he turned to the airlock door.

Damn them all to Hell! Mry-An swore silently to the blinding sky beating down on her like an unruly elder brother; the hammer of rejection beat together with the sky to crush and meld her into something new. She let the rage burn white hot until it felt as if she would turn into a new sun, but the rage let loose guttered and died leaving her calm and cool. Her thoughts crisp, laid out the next few days. First order of survival was getting to the sanctuary and informal market of the Al-Wabe caves, some two days eastwards.

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