The Sands of Time
West Island School, Adrian Tang, Fiction: Group 4
The Snake
The sandsnake twitched its nostrils. Death was in the air. Tucked behind the snout, the viper’s
slender heat-sensing organ quietly observed twelve blotches of heat as they marched across its
field of vision, wavering in the mid-morning heat. Food. Danger, possibly. But food nonetheless.
The sandsnake cocked its head quizzically, as if contemplating what to do. The decision came
quickly. Scales rustled and rasped in imperceptibly soft shimmers as it slithered and wound across
the face of the dune, the hot sand warm on its belly.
The Trader
The trader studied the coiled pit viper with disgust. Beady black eyes stared back, expressionless.
Perched atop his mount, he could not reach the sandsnake - and more importantly, it couldn’t
reach him. Thus assured, he returned his attention to the long-suffering camel beneath him,
enjoying its familiar loping gait.
Overhead, the sun was a blinding nexus of light as waves of oppressive heat beat down on
the solitary file of traders. They’d have to reach shelter soon. Around them, the unending desert
stretched on for miles, a barren wasteland of silence. The long journey had taken its toll on the
men. Feral sandstorms that occasionally materialized out of clear blue skies to wreak havoc on the
exposed convoy had not improved matters. They were almost six weeks behind schedule, a passing
heartbeat for the desert but an eternity for the merchants waiting on the cargo they carried.
The trader stole a look at his goods. All twelve casks of wine and trinkets and spice were
accounted for. They were lashed securely to the sides of their camels so that even if their riders
were killed they could still be retrieved. It was not such a rare event, after all. Four days past, one
of the camels in their company had injured its leg in a fall. It had been a simple choice between
carrying the trader or the goods.
The man had been left behind even as his injured mount hobbled on with the company, now
carrying a lighter load. They had kindly left him with a skin of water and a dagger. The water
was for if he decided to fight his fate, the dagger if he did not. Having traders return safely was a
secondary objective. Merchandise came first, then the animals. Men could always be replaced at
little cost - two months’ pay, and the promise of more to come.
Almost automatically, the trader reached for the waterskin slung around his waist and raised
it to his mouth. It was empty. He spat in annoyance. The pit viper squirmed and hissed with
indignity as the spittle landed next to it.
The Raider
The raider squinted in the mid-morning sun. From atop his rocky crag, he watched the line of
men and beasts crawl across the sea of dunes. In the far distance, sluggish clouds merged with the
jagged peaks of lifeless mountains to form a ragged slash across the horizon. The twelve traders
almost seemed out of place in the motionless desolation of the desert.
He nudged his mount forward, now perilously close to the edge. A few rocks crumbled off and
tumbled down cliff face warningly. The raider did not retreat; he had long since made his peace
with fate. On the dune below, his men shuffled about impatiently. Their hardened features were
