Author Aerobics. Prompts: Setting. Home.

In response to this writer prompt from the Ink Stained blog. 350 words.

It was in the hot sands under her feet, the sliding whisper of the dunes, the tiny little tick-tock trails of the ants and beetles that broke and tumbled as she climbed. It was in the pressure beating down hard on her covered head, and in the need for her to keep silent, lest the dry wind steal her moisture away and kill her. It was in the very wood she held, taken from a long-dead tree and fitted to her hand, and the thunk and scrunch as the stave found purchase for her to use as she climbed. As long as she was here, this feeling could not be taken away.

It was possible that she would die here. Not today, while she still had water and strength. Probably not tomorrow either. But soon, if she didn't find what she sought. At the top of the dune, she paused to scan the landscape, taking the time to drink as much cold water as she could hold, until her belly felt heavy and tight. Movement was everywhere - a snake moving with clockwork precision, a bird darting out of nowhere to snatch a tiny insect from the dessicated dunes and the shifting sands themselves. A traveller, one of many, had complained to her about this dead and empty place, but she saw tiny pieces of life everywhere she looked. One just had to look with accustomed eyes. At the right times, the shimmering bell of the sky would ring with birdsong and flowers would carpet whole areas as if for a party. In between these times of lush fecundity, the permanent dwellers clicked about their orderly business, not a drop wasted in anything they did.

The worn goatskin bag settled onto her hip with a soft thump and a reassuring rumble of water. She might die here, but the desert had given her a lot, over time and death was no longer the enemy it had been. If she failed this once to find other people then the dunes were welcome to hold the polished heirloom of her bones.