Dust: (Part I: Sandstorms) by Lochlan Bloom

doubt we shall.
    None of us, except for her, know what Abel is, what he stands  for but whatever we discover when we reach him, whatever he is, it is danger. That much is clear. It is written in her eyes. Written all over her face. She never says anything to me or the men but it is us that are helping her. We are the ones along for the ride, transporting her back to him.
    I asked her when the last time she saw him was.
    ‘I’ve not seen him in ten years,’ she said.
    ‘Ten years? That’s a long time,’ I could sense she wanted to say more. ‘Do you miss him?’
    ‘Miss him?’ she said dismissively. ‘He’s my brother.’
    I wasn’t sure what she meant by this. I sensed it was a lie but could not be clear what truth it covered.  It was hard to imagine that this fragile, vicious little girl was related to the big game we hunted. Our orders gave no hint as to their relationship but I had formulated various theories.
    ‘You know why we have been sent?’
    ‘Yes,’ she looked at me steadily, those dark eyes hard in her fragile face. ‘Yes, I know.’
    ‘And then why do you help us?’
    ‘You won’t succeed.’ She said firmly, confidently. I tried not to let any reaction show, like we had been trained. No doubt she had also been trained, trained to spot just such repression, the lack of reaction.
    ‘Why do you think that?’ I asked, sure that she was only bluffing.
    ‘I know him,’ she replied, a frightened look on her face. ‘You won’t succeed.’
    ‘Perhaps what we need to do is not as difficult as you think.’
    She was not interested. She shook her head dumbly, like a child or a doll. She could appear so juvenile with certain movements, not innocent but young, like children often are, aware but not conscious, not conscious like the rest of us.
    ‘I know you plan to kill him,’ She spoke slowly, admiringly. ‘I know you are trained and well-armed. I know you have enough explosives packed in your trucks to level a small town.’
    Her eyes shimmered antagonistically. I don’t know how she knew those facts. I can only presume that she was good at guessing. Had sized us up the moment we captured her. It was not an impossible leap of imagination.
    I am not too proud to admit that I grabbed her by the hair. I wanted to feel my strength over her, crush her. Her eyes widened slightly, only slightly, but she did not cry out. I was impressed by her firmness, impressed and engorged. There was a look of fear in her eyes but it was not fear of me.
    The more I thrashed at her the softer she became, supplicant, a victim. She cowed to me, spoke softly, bent before me. I was fighting against myself but I could not let go. I became possessed, possessed by the idea that I had to possess her. She did nothing to prevent me, she had become a victim, the victim.
     
     

The sandcastle
    Time passed, I had been surprised when John came to me in my cabin. He was alight, pulsating. I suppose he must have seen something new, some change in me after Bonmont, something that appealed. I tasted sulphur.
    Was I the one that let go? Or did he? I ran a finger over the soft sheets of the bed. He would return I was sure. I felt a long forgotten tide. The moon was long banished but the night carried its own luminance.
    Now suddenly this search for Abel felt real, close. I felt sure that we were closing in on him. What would happen then I had no idea but that it would be explosive I could not doubt. A termulent expectation engulfed me. I imagined touching Abel’s face.
    The truck slowed. Was John returning? I waited but the break in our journey was clearly due to some external factor, some obstacle in our path. Had they encountered other travellers? Mercenaries? Abel’s men? Minutes passed away and I tensed with anticipation at who should open the door. Of all the options I did not know who I hoped for most.
    Finally John appeared, a cloud on his brow.
    ‘You might want to see this,’ he said, dutifully, as if showing me some