The Sand Scribe
Flash-fiction - by Crystal Sidell
The edge of town is the edge of her world, and there she writes.
The sand swallows each letter before she finishes tracing it with her well-loved bamboo staff. At the conclusion of each phrase, she sweeps her palm across the granules like a teacher with an eraser at the blackboard. Then she brings the staff back to the sand.
Dip. Swirl. Dip.
She rolls onto her heels to wait—the wait is never long.
In the stretch of land between her body and the water, sand begins to collect itself. The movement is graceful, wavelike. Smooth splashes of white piling into a creamy mass that rises into the shape of Snæfellsjökull before levitating and inverting. The sandy cyclone sweeps away from her, hovering over the calm aqua water.
Play for me, she thinks.
And the particles lengthen, fluttering threads of ribbon that loop and weave and knot until the conoid is something else entirely. A stallion galloping on the sea, its mane whipping in the windless breeze.
The girl leans forward, traces more letters in the sand.
The same display follows, punctuated by the unveiling of a dog. Flinging its head to emit a series of soundless barks, it joins the giant beast in its frolic. They run in tandem, the dog’s legs pumping hard to keep pace.
She guides the staff once more.
This time a cat emerges, demonstrating a cheetah’s grace as it speeds alongside the others.
The tableau is almost set.
She records her next suggestion and a lemur leaps into being. It springboards amongst the other animals, vaulting from cat to dog to stallion. Balancing on the latter, it crosses the expanse from mane to tail on its hands and executes a somersault at the rump.
The girl claps her sun-browned hands as the long-tailed animal hops from creature to creature again.
A wave rolls in, baptizing the animals with salt-spray, and the scene freezes for a heartbeat. Then hooves and paws land sure-footedly on their sacred plane. With renewed enthusiasm, they kick their limbs into motion—galloping, gliding as one connected being. Not to be outdone by its companions, the lemur resumes its acrobatic routine.
The shoreline awakens.
Sanderlings dart through breathing sea-foam, rushing toward the girl with uncharacteristic boldness. From above, gulls and terns swoop down to roost. The girl is a conductor of energy. She rocks on her heels, wields the staff over her head. All around her, beach birds’ eyes glimmer under the noonday sun. The gulls caw with joy, terns flap their wings, sanderlings dance in frenetic circles.
“Time for lunch!” a voice calls from the hill of sea oats behind her.
The girl nods in acknowledgement, takes her bamboo to the sand, and creates another string of letters.
S-H-I-N-Y-T-H-I-N-G.
The lemur springs to action. Cartwheeling to the stallion’s shoulders, it threads nimble fingers reverently, carefully through the mane. Slowly, it peels off a thick lock and secures it in its curled-up tail.
The girl claps again.The lemur flips, landing hands first on the dog. Flips again, alights upright on the
cat. For the grand finale, it somersaults twice in the air and settles vertically at the girl’s feet.
The lemur smiles; sand lips pull back, revealing finely sculpted teeth. When the girl mirrors the expression—her own teeth not quite as white or straight—the creature frees the horse’s lock from its tail.
The girl offers her left arm. With eager movements, the animal reaches forward and twists the granulative tendril around her wrist—three times like a coiled snake. There’s a flare of heat. Touching but not touching. She blinks. The sand transforms into crystal beads: the shade of the sea, of her eyes.
“Thank you.” The girl clasps the lemur’s outstretched fingers. “It’s beautiful, just like you.” She angles her chin toward the water. “Just like them.”
Picking up her bamboo scepter, she tugs on a single green thread at the top. Out pops a scroll, which she lays across her knees. Gently, she unrolls the papyrus until she reaches a section waiting to be written.
Tapping it, she looks to the lemur.
“Will you accept this offering? It’s yours to claim.”
The lemur tilts its head, lips splitting into an even wider smile. Sailing into the air, it reverts into a twister before sliding into the scroll.
The girl watches with anticipation as the papyrus absorbs the lemur’s essence, recognizes its components, and reconfigures it in two-dimensional form—not a copy, but an improvement on the original, rich in detail and color. Velvety rust covers her lithe body. Glossy coal coats her expressive face, hands, and tail. Beneath the cream cap sitting like a yarmulke on her head appear eyes bejeweled with amber.
Dip. Swirl. Dip.
The girl taps her staff on the ground. One by one, the remaining animals cease gamboling and follow the Red Ruffed Lemur into their chapter.
Soon, the exposed section of scroll is completely illustrated. The cat reveals itself to be an Abyssinian with pyramid-sized ears, the dog a sinewy Dalmatian, and the stallion a honey-maned buckskin Andalusian.
The girl caresses the papyrus with affection.
Tonight she’ll carry the lantern to the porch and set it on the wooden planks. Lie beside the flickering flame. Unroll the scroll again. Accompanied by the summer stars and cool sea breeze, she’ll coax the animals to release their words. These words will become sentences. And from there, the story will be born.
But for now, Mother’s waiting.
With practiced movements, she rolls up the scroll and tucks it back into the staff.
Tomorrow there will be another scene to harvest from the sand. In a few years’ time, she’ll probably have enough stories for any Scheherazade who needs them.
For that is the way of fabulists: She does not own the words, the words belong to the world.
As the girl turns toward her home, the beads at her wrist wink under the sunlight and the beach birds return to the sea.