The Watcher

A short snippet from a novel I got about a third of the way through before running out of steam several years ago.

Any given destination has a number of possible approaches. Choosing one that can be defined as optimum is simple if the terrain is relatively flat and there are no obstacles between where you are and where you wish to be. Life is seldom this simple.

The sun is just beginning to peak over the eastern horizon. In a different climate birds would be singing, and near the environs of man, early morning commutes would be getting under way. But this is an altogether different sort of place.

The sand is cold. Nearby rocks of gray and black poke above the surface. Below, they float either exclusively on a bed of sand or rest partially on bedrock. Above, a small light moves across the sky.

When one is describing, it is inevitable that something will be lost in the translation. Paintings lack detail and may be abstracted as well. Prose is even more lacking though it may be just as pleasing in its own right. Video comes close, but the scope is inevitably limited and the palette is often filtered. Reality consistently outstrips our ability to describe it. Even the smallest part of it is made up of billions of parts; but this scene is an abstraction of an altogether different sort.

A cloud appears on the horizon. It seems to lead the sun, like a horse unto a chariot. The rest of the sky is now clear, except for fading pin-pricks of light.

A small figure sits atop one of the boulders. He feels something calling to him, but knows that now is not the time to answer. He will continue to be patient; the payoff is coming, and someday he will be able to answer.

The sun retreats until it is again night. This is a place of perpetual first light with the watcher as its only witness.