The Nomad

The Nomad is lost. The winds are harsh, and they bluster with a rhythm of aggression that blows against the sand and their long scarf intensely, causing it to waver. It created the only sound in the forlorn desert that surrounds them. Nothingness deluges the Nomad, and yet they feel compelled to walk. They do, and so the silence is detained by soft footsteps and harsh winds.

Their scarf drags across the sand, in the moments it’s not being blown by the wind, and their mind begins to wander. Their legs continue in a perfunctory motion, like rusted clockwork; there was no discernible goal that they were striving towards, nor was there any kind of distinct story to be told about their motive behind doing so. To the Nomad, this is merely a way of life- but it is hollow. The incessant walking is instinctual at this point, and they appear a despondent spirit. They have forgotten what it feels like to be happy, for there is no real source of happiness in the vastness of the desert for them. No pleasure to be found in the roughness of the sand, or the blistering heat of the sun, or the dissonance of the winds. They do not know why it is that they walk, but they believe it may be fear. They are afraid of what might happen if they stop walking.

The wind suddenly surges in vigour, pushing them back. They abruptly fall to the ground, tumbling through the sand momentarily until finally resting upon the tail-end of their own scarf. They sigh, stand themselves back up, and continue walking, shaking the sand off their outfit.

Suddenly, an array of pastel totems with ambiguous inscriptions and insignia embellished upon their faces arose beyond the Nomad’s tired eyes. The totems had been moulded in such a way that the wind was passing through them and creating a pleasant melody. All seven totems combine their unique melodies in unison to produce a fragmentary song as the wind’s fervour began to steadily dissipate. The wind became serene, and the light’s rays beamed down unto the core of the totems’ disposition. The Nomad stops walking as they approach the totems, their apprehensive expression jumping from one totem to another. In the centre of all seven totems, as they are all organised in a circulatory formation, is a single wooden lyre partially covered in sand and entirely covered in light. Their focus shifts to the lyre, and they eagerly approach the foreign tool, stretching out their small hands to grasp upon the instrument. They pick it up, dust off the sand, and after moments of initial investigation, pluck once at a string. A soft tune, but solitary. They begin to pluck away at the strings in unison, devoid of experience, tact, or skill, but they do it nevertheless; they walk, continuously playing the lyre as they go.

The melody produced by the lyre is much like the dissonance of the wind, at first. The Nomad has no sense of rhythm, unable to flow their naïve fingers between the string in such a way that they can soothe the silence of the desert with rich, golden lyricism. They have no musical framework to work off, except for the melody of the wind created by the totems. However, they do not give up; they have never given up. If they are to continue to live and to continue to travel, then they are to continue to perfect their craft of the lyre. And so, they do.

Time passes. No longer is the desert inundated with silence, but rather, all that is heard in the vastness of the desert are the pleasant sounds of a wooden lyre’s melody being played by that of a proficient musician. The Nomad’s movements are electrifying, the wavering of their scarf no longer caused by the wind but by their own jumpy movements, hopping along to their own music. The wind did not appear dissonant to the Nomad, but rather, tranquil. Similarly, the sun not blisteringly hot, but appropriately warm. The sand was not rough, but soft and beautiful, glowing with light from the sun. The Nomad has found their flow of life- it is soft and purposeful, albeit solitary, like a singular note of a lyre’s string.