Pathways - Jeri Taylor [226]
Even if it were the mountaintop that he saw in the distance, he knew the end of his quest was not near; it would take weeks more to cross the sands that lay between him (and the sehlat) and the mountain.
But his heart felt lighter, nonetheless. He had survived what he was sure was the worst of the journey, and now Seleya was in sight. That thought would sustain him.
One day after that, the Winds arrived.
Every Vulcan child had heard of these fierce desert gales, the stuff of legend and myth. Winds that whipped the sands into billowing, rasping clouds, turning the desert dark for days on end, swallowing men and beasts whole like a gluttonous leviathan. It was a thrilling legend, told in the safety of warm sleeping rooms, and children shivered at the tale, then snuggled under soft covers and dreamt of desert adventures and conquering heroes.
The sehlat was the first to detect the oncoming gusts. He was restless, pawing in the sand with his claws as Tuvok prepared his berm for the day, raising his nose to sniff the wind, uttering a mewling cry, and then beginning the whole process again.
Tuvok lifted his head from his endeavors and saw, behind him, what appeared to be a puff of dust in the distance, too far away to be of any concern. He resumed his digging, only to feel the sehlat’s strangely cold nose under his hands, lifting them from the task. Tuvok stood, and looked again at the puff of dust.
It was more than a puff now, rolling like a fog bank on the horizon, far across the sands over which he had traveled, but moving inexorably closer.
“The Winds?” he murmured, and then realized there would be no sleeping today. They must keep moving, try to stay ahead of this murderous storm. He glanced at the sehlat and then began moving forward with quick, purposeful strides, only occasionally looking back over his shoulder.
Each time, the dust cloud was gaining on them.
It made a noise like animals screaming, a chilling, unnatural sound, spirits wailing from the terrible underworld, tormented and suffering. That sound gradually overwhelmed Tuvok. He wanted to stay ahead of that bestial cry, which seemed more ominous even than the punishing grinding of the sand.
Neither, of course, was to be avoided. The Winds arrived by midday with a howling cry, a bray of triumph. The sands exploded on him and the sehlat, drilling them with millions of tiny needles which stung as though tipped with acid. Tuvok was thrown to his knees, and as he fell he grabbed one corner of his robe and covered his face with it, filtering the sand. The sehlat inched toward him, face wrinkled in misery, pitiful bleats emitting from his clenched jaw. Tuvok pulled the muscular beast in close to him and covered it with the other side of his robe. There, the two of them huddled, waiting out the storm.
But the winds of Vulcan are not so easily endured. Tuvok and his companion crouched in the vortex of sand for hours, tens of hours, days, and still the storm lashed at them. It had no beginning, it had no ending, it simply was, eternal, the only reality that existed: the noise, the stinging needles, the nut-colored mist of particulates comprised the totality of their universe.
Tuvok had no idea how long they had crouched like that when he began to hallucinate. First he detected a decrease in the noise level, as though a dampener had suddenly been applied, and he lifted his head to peer out. Utter silence then descended on him, and the swirling sands took on a diaphanous quality, a luminous shimmering which was utterly beguiling.
Then he was ascending through this sparkling mist, rising above the desert floor, looking down at his crouched body and that of the sehlat, far below. He hovered there, drifting in the vaporous winds