The clear night sky was a mixture of indigo and gold, the stars glittering invitingly like treasure. Having just finished his evening prayers, he set about preparing the fire for dinner. "One, two, ...," he hit the rocks together, and sparks began to fly. With a crackle, the dry wooden sticks ignited, and a warm orange glow washed over everything nearby.
He set up the pot over the fire to boil the water while he prepared the ingredients for the stew. His trusty mule, Shera, lay comfortably by the dancing flame. It was getting cold out, and temperatures of blistering height plunged considerably. He diced the vegetables and the dried camel meat and threw them into the pot with some salt and pepper.
"Isn't this night a beauty, my dear?"
Shera turned to look at him, her mouth still chewing on the carrot he had fed her earlier. He walked over and kissed her on the nose, then proceeded to cut the bread.
It had gone a little stale now, they had yet to embark on their weekly visit to the market. The Arabs were always extra kind to him, allowing him discounts, but they could never understand why anyone would want to live in the middle of a desert.
What they didn't know, of course, was that he loved this life. Every atom of his being craved adventure, and he took pleasure in suffering for it. The company of Shera was all he needed, he disliked having other people's expectations to live up to. This was freedom.
Dinner was ready now and eagerly, he ladled himself a big bowlful, but not before he gave Shera her dinner of mixed vegetables and hay. He sat by the fire, the bowl and bread on his lap. "Bon appetit, Shera," he said to the mule, who was already tucking in. Then, he savoured slowly, his warm dinner of stew and bread, inhaling the aroma as he did so.
Ah, what a beautiful feeling. He sat in the warmth of the fire, enjoying his dinner under the star-speckled sky. He was what he had always dreamt of being; a nomad, an adventurer, a survivor. He was beyond reach in the world, and nothing could dissuade him from wanting to die this way.
After dinner, feeling comfortably full and warm, he decided to retire to his tent. He left Shera by the fire with a big bowl of water and then snuggled in the sleeping-bag. It had been his for as long as he could remember, and from it he derived comfort.
Staring up into the darkness of the tent, he smiled to himself when he heard Shera start to snore. In his last conscious moments, he gave thanks for the day and, wearing a silly grin, drifted off to the land of dreams.
He set up the pot over the fire to boil the water while he prepared the ingredients for the stew. His trusty mule, Shera, lay comfortably by the dancing flame. It was getting cold out, and temperatures of blistering height plunged considerably. He diced the vegetables and the dried camel meat and threw them into the pot with some salt and pepper.
"Isn't this night a beauty, my dear?"
Shera turned to look at him, her mouth still chewing on the carrot he had fed her earlier. He walked over and kissed her on the nose, then proceeded to cut the bread.
It had gone a little stale now, they had yet to embark on their weekly visit to the market. The Arabs were always extra kind to him, allowing him discounts, but they could never understand why anyone would want to live in the middle of a desert.
What they didn't know, of course, was that he loved this life. Every atom of his being craved adventure, and he took pleasure in suffering for it. The company of Shera was all he needed, he disliked having other people's expectations to live up to. This was freedom.
Dinner was ready now and eagerly, he ladled himself a big bowlful, but not before he gave Shera her dinner of mixed vegetables and hay. He sat by the fire, the bowl and bread on his lap. "Bon appetit, Shera," he said to the mule, who was already tucking in. Then, he savoured slowly, his warm dinner of stew and bread, inhaling the aroma as he did so.
Ah, what a beautiful feeling. He sat in the warmth of the fire, enjoying his dinner under the star-speckled sky. He was what he had always dreamt of being; a nomad, an adventurer, a survivor. He was beyond reach in the world, and nothing could dissuade him from wanting to die this way.
After dinner, feeling comfortably full and warm, he decided to retire to his tent. He left Shera by the fire with a big bowl of water and then snuggled in the sleeping-bag. It had been his for as long as he could remember, and from it he derived comfort.
Staring up into the darkness of the tent, he smiled to himself when he heard Shera start to snore. In his last conscious moments, he gave thanks for the day and, wearing a silly grin, drifted off to the land of dreams.
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