Aladdyn : Episode IV : Enter the Lamp
(2) Æwakening

White flames twisted off the Sun, through a gray sky, set over ashy sands. Winds ebbed and flowed across them, carving the dunes along the blow. Not a tree nor house—neither road nor sign—broke their broad sweep. The Sahara Desert was hot; a hard place for traveling.

Amidst the swelter, a plain was centered with a large grey dune. From base to summit, it was crossed with a trail of hoof-marks, wagon-tracks, and footprints of passage. Someways back, a Mule stood in the beaten path, faced to the incline. It had not moved for some time. The Mule was sleeping.

Tick by tock, the creature swayed forth and back by the dusty draft, powdering its length—bushy-tail to whiskery-face. A braid of rope was coiled about its neck alongside the white canteen, strapped beside a black pair of binoculars. The binoculars were nestled between the folds of the Dreamcape across the Mule’s back, whereupon the Youth was saddled.

The straw hat on his head had been torn and frayed by the many travails of travels. Unruly locks flowed down beneath the brim, covering his face, nearly reaching to the shoulder-straps of the wineskin across his back. A black bandanna, tied as a necklace, rested over his sleeveless T that was tucked into faded jeans, cuffed over a busted pair of brown boots. His right shoe was untied; laces, dangling.

Elbows propped against his ribs, the Youth was holding a novel out before him, which some time ago, he had nodded off to as reading. The Youth, too, was sleeping; frames of The Dream, flashing through him, riddling his unconscious with images of revelation—

Holden was covered with sweat, unconscious and upon his back, atop a Grate Island of golden sands. The Youth was surrounded by a Bay of Black Lava.

At the island’s center, a Crystal Ladder arced through a red sky before disappearing in an Old Smokey Thunderhead. Along the exponential steeps, a Dark Skeleton was taking its time climbing towards it. The creature stopped. Holding on to a lucid rung by a bony arm, it leaned back, looking down on hell below it. Once the hollows of its skull had settled upon the Youth, floodlight brights flashed out them—upon him; the creature’s sight, overexposing the scene, pearly—

Ivory synthesis was swirling within a Holy Grail by the hand of Inventor, surrounded with dungeon darkness. For years upon tears on end, he had spent restless days and sleepless nights, obsessing over the Ælixir of Life Æverlasting. It was nearly complete. A rosy tendril, riddled of symbol, arose from the potion.

Bloodshot eyes widened. Inventor set down the chalice; beads of his fever, rising to his brow. With fervant hand, he jot down the chemical reactions happening; copying the equations his hallucinations were illustrating. The ribbon evolved unto the aspect of his Muze.

She tiptoed across his workbench by test-tube and notation; shatters bursting of her light step. Passing through the haze fuming of a bunsen’d beaker, her sinuous figure began disappearing; the steam, eclipsing her from his range of sight. Well-aware of what he was missing, his Muze paused her advance to look back; her crazy diamond eyes, twinkling upon him—

Within Outer Space, a Queen stood at the far end of a Monolith, across from Quantum[X].

He was orchestrating a creation unto existence between them. She was marveling with exceeding marvel. The object was in the process of becoming manifest. The Queen shifted her focus. Past his shoulder, far beyond him, something in the distance was becoming closer.

Far away, spindly multi-jointed legs were lunging star to star, racing across the universe at the speed of light—

Sundial wristwatch chimed alert of the hour.

The Youth was mid-dream when he awoke with a start. Holden cast the novel askance. It flew through the air ahead of him then splayed across the dull sands; the colorful front and back cover, glittery beneath the Noon Sun.

Though still waking, his eyes were wide, staring blankly across the gray vista as reflecting on The Dream he had just had. Swinging the wineskin round his shoulders, he pulled at the leather straps at its top. Once untied, he reached in and retrieved his pen and pad.

Opening it up, the Youth flipped through notes, quotes and dated-entries. Towards the end of the composition book, he arrived at a page titled The Dream, crossed from top to bottom with dozens of tally marks. Twirling his pen, he mused upon the last box of four lines, at the page’s bottom-right corner. Clicking the ball-point into action, he swooped a swoosh up across it.

“Well Girl, I’ll be...” said Holden, “That’s the hundred-and-fifteenth time I’ve dreamt up The Dream since onboarding this journey...”

Looking up from the Mule, he took in the bleak setting. For several silent moments, he wondered what he had to show for it.

“This journey across a Sahara of gray, gray, gray...”

He shut his composition pad with a cover-to-cover slam. Packing it back into his pack, he swung it back, sighed; his empty eyes settling on the novel in the tracks ahead of him.

“Shame I can’t put it all together...” he said, “Real shame, too. Where’s that seer of dreams when you really need one?”

He looked down.

“Girl, how ’bout you?”

He was addressing the Mule. The Mule was still sleeping.

“O, come, now,” he egged on, “Don’t be shy. You and I both know you’re a true-blue visionary.”

As awaiting some indication of response, Holden pondered as to why the Mule was not walking.

“Girl?”

With the inflection, dark eyes of the Mule opened wide, then slanted. Shortly thereafter, a brush of winds hushed about the grey dune ahead of them.

“O, brother...” moaned Holden, “And how long you been sleeping?”

The breeze picked up speed, nicking sands across the Mule’s hooves before blowing the hat off the Youth’s head. With swift reaction, he swung his arm up. Snatch-and-clapping the cap to his noggin, he pressed it on tight. Raising a finger to the weather, the Youth diagnosed the circumstance—

“Sandstorm...”

The Youth knew it was time to get on the grind.

Leaning forth, he closed both protective visors over the Mule’s eyes. With a roundhouse of leg, he swung himself off the beast. As dropping the wineskin to the ground he whipped-up the Dreamcape on which he was formerly saddled. A thousand and one quilted shades started rippling by winds and light.

He held fast to the cape, waving wildly behind him. With a quick advance, he charged through the current rushing against him. Once out in front of the animal, he pulled the linen out before him and opened it wide. Before he could stave off the sheets of sand, cascading across them, the winds filled the cape as a parachute. Holden was steamrolled upon impact.

“Wah!”

He flew back, smacking down upon the sands beside the Mule. Though rattled amidst the maelstrom, he kept a tight grip on the Dreamcape. Summoning all his might, the Youth tightened his abs and crunched up through the turbulence, trying to hold him down. Once on his feet, he braved the jetstream step by step, more slow and steady with his second attempt. Once ahead the Mule, he planted a firm stance and gradually opened the Dreamcape.

His elbows were shaking; his legs, wobbling. His knees started to buckle. Determined to overcome the weather against him, he managed to stand his ground. Holden had hardly begun to claim victory when the breeze settled. The sands collapsed. The scene turned calm and dusty.

The Youth continued assuming the position for cautionary measure. Once convinced he was in the clear, he relaxed his iron pose, lowered the cape and let out a deep sigh of relief. As waiting for the dust clouds to pass, he saw the Mule standing right where it had been the whole time.

“Glad you survived...” he said, “But let’s make of that a lesson learned—get caught dreaming on the journey, wake riding on the storm...”

Holden cast the Dreamcape to the sky. Via side-to-side sway, it swooped down along a spin before landing over the Mule’s backside. As it did, the Youth was unable to help noticing the ribcage of the starved creature.

Stepping up to it, he opened the visors covering its eyes.

“Good thing we stay fit...”

Wanting to cheer it up, he flexed a skinny muscle, frowning on the gray dusts coaxed across his skin and white sleeveless.

“But golly jee...” he started, dusting himself off, “We’re a pair of filthy animals.”

Finished smacking his jeans, he walked about the Mule, brushing the dust out its hide. Coming around, he began grooming its mane when he paused. Pulling apart a tangle of hair, he found a yellow-brown scarab nestled between several nappy dreads.

Pulling it out, he brought the motionless critter to his face. He examined it closely, wondering if the creature was still alive. The scarab started frantically kicking its legs.

Holden swallowed. Putting his free hand to his belly, he tried remembering when he had last eaten. Raising it to his mouth, he heard the Mule’s tummy rumble. He frowned on his lack of consideration, then extended the bug to his companion.

“Here Girl, you eat it.”

The Mule turned its head away.

“Come on,” the Youth urged, “You need it way more than I...”

Aiming a glance beyond the grey dune, he leaned in and whispered—

“You can’t take it for granted that those guys are going to feed us again...”

With head turned and jaw tight, it was clear the Mule had made up its mind. The Youth sighed.

Pinching his nostrils, he brought the very alive insect to his mouth and opened wide. He was holding his breath. Holden shook his head.

“Can’t stomach another...” he said, “Go make something of your life.”

Holden tossed the critter unto the heights.

The scarab arced up a high bow and fell along a steep drop. It dove into the foundation of the grey dune, not far from an unearthed color; a cover he recognized.

Bending down beside him, the Youth picked up his pack then advanced. At the bottom of the grey dune, he dropped to his knees. He reached for the novel.

“One Thousand and One Arabian Nights...” he said, “Where it all began...”

The cover was illustrated with dusky damsels and fair-skinned maidens, poised in a palace bedroom amidst delectable fruit; the gaze of each seductress, fastened to the eye of the book-beholder.

“You handsome lovelies...” he said, pressing tongue-tip to tooth, “One and all you laced me lazy as a sleeping beaut...”

Setting the novel aside, he dragged the wineskin in front him.

“Threw me off from my traveling band...”

He raised the pack and poured out the cluttered miscellany of contents—books, albums, newspapers, films, maps and art anthologies, most shimmering with spectrum.

“Oughta send you huns packing,” he said, reaching for a novel amidst the stack, “Perhaps stick you back to school with Don Quixote, here...”

Raising Don up beside the Nights, he studied the contrasting covers—the stark, black and white sketch of knight and steed, next to the dazzling array of Arabesque Temptress.

“Less of course, one you got the touch...” he said, winking on the lot of them. “The touch, smooth enough, to cut me free of my Long Lost Love...”

As the last word lifted off his lip, a cool breeze passed across him. Closing his eyes, Holden took a second to bask in the comfort. The moment of peace was endearing. Entangled in the brisk draft, a brusque gust whisked the hat clean off his head.

“Hey!”

Wobbling through the air, the hat landed brim-side and sped across the scene. Dropping both books, the Youth jumped up and bolted after it. Meanwhile, the Mule watched.

Along a skip and a bounce, the hat covered ground, swerving between duney moguls and launching off their crests. Sprawling one way—sprinting another—the Youth stuck to the chase. After a minute of spasmodic aerobics, the breeze calmed. The brim began ringing round in circles. The hat settled in place upon the sands several meters ahead of the Youth, who was doubled-over, palms-to-thighs, catching his breath.

Straightening up, Holden wiped the sweat from his brow. He took stock of the mazy tracks between him and the Mule. It seemed to him he had just run in every possible direction. The creature had still not motioned a step.

“Don’t worry, Girl,” said Holden, turning back to the hat, “I got this...”

The Youth was steps away when between he and the hat, grains of sands started sinking, trickling down unto the contour opening in the ground. The hollow expanded. A vibrant creature swooped out the gray foundation.

The olive-green scales gleamed as extending six-feet up from the underground. At the height of its rise, it cracked its spine and started swaying side-to-side. As turning neon-pollen eyes across the barren setting, it licked the air. Scent of flesh sharpened black slits at the center of its iris’. Turning around, the serpent marveled with exceeding marvel upon the Youth, who was doing the same until his senses returned to him, alerting him with realization of the creature before him.

“Technicolor’d King Cobra!”

Upon sounding alarm, the Mule whinnied. Cracking his knuckles, the Youth raised fists. Hood of the Technicolored King Cobra opened to the tune of a guttural hiss.

“And mama...” said Holden, “Mos’ monstrous one we’ve trekked ’pon yet...”

The Mule whinnied again. The Youth squared his stance.

“Say a prayer, Girl,” he said over his shoulder, “Lord knows we’re gonna do this...”

Squinting pensive, Holden lowered to a knee. Tugging up his pant-leg, he reached in his tubesock and withdrew an opaque vial, featuring a label that read—AV, Generic.

“Anti-venom...” he explained, holding it out, “Quick fix of this ought make the fight fair...”

Standing back up, he bit the cork and spit it aside, then raised the vial high.

“Here’s to your good health.”

Holden tipped the tube over his open mouth. He held it there for several seconds then gave it a shake. The vial was bone-dry empty.

“Dang...”

Tossing it aside, he faced his opponent, taking in its anaconda-like aspect.

“On second thought, we’ve always been up for a good, hard, challenge...”

The King Cobra lowered its head and started slithering in his direction.

Caught off guard, the Youth hurriedly back-stepped, giving himself space. As thinking up strategy, he stepped on an untied lace, tripped, fell and reverse-somersaulted to a knee, then quickly set to tying his boot.

“Come on, babe—get it together,” he self-scolded, eye on the approaching creature. “If the bull be coming, you best figure on how to take it by the horns—and fast...”

Following his pep talk, he narrowed his focus upon an idea beyond.

Tightening the double-knot, he rose up as lifting his tattered T-shirt over his head. Twisting the sleeveless up as a towel, he whipped it to his side—

Whhooo-SNAP!

Crack of the shirt triggered the King Cobra to recoil, halting its advance. Meanwhile, Holden started circling about the creature with the white shirt, draped at his side as a Matador’s red towel; the Youth, suddenly on offense.

“Careful, slick,” he warned, “The Youth, hungry, too...”

Without warning, King Cobra sprung an airborne attack straight for Holden, who experienced an adrenaline-packed expansion of time, condensed in several moments—

Along the slow-motion passage, the serpent extended the distance between them; jaws opening along a strike, aimed for Holden’s chest. On the brink of being jousted, the Youth raised his shirt, stretching the fabric tight as holding it up as a protective shield.

Four arced fangs slit through the T with ease. However, head of King Cobra did not break through. As allowing its length to enter his grasp, the Youth netted, then gripped both hands about it’s neck, spun once—twice—thrice, and with all his might, hurled the serpent back through the heights.

The reptile flailed through the air, its body, waving to the white t-shirt, before collapsing across the sands. Squeezing his fist, the Youth uppercut-jumped along a triumphant cry.

“Yeah!”

Upon landing, his hat across the way started shifting across the grounds by the rising draft.

“Not this time...” he said, bolting straight towards it .

Along the sprint, he bended over in preparation to scoop it up from the ground on the run. Looking closer, his expression alarmed moments before the olive-green patches started snapping up from the foundation.

“Yikes!”

Via high-knee prances, the Youth hopscotched—dodged—hurtled the venomous bites of baby serpents. Continuing along his mad dash across the plain, he rushed past the Mule before even realizing he was out of harm’s way. On the face of the grey dune, he cross-slapped his body to check for wounds.

“Phew!”

The Youth paced about, catching his breath, recounting all he had just been through. Coming to a standstill before the artifacts of his pack, he looked on the One Thousand and One Arabian Nights right before him.

“The trouble you ladies get me into...”

With hands fixed on hips, he looked back on all the babes he had thwarted. By peripheral vision, he observed the Mule, staring him down at length, then called it.

“What?”

The Mule turned away as though it had not been staring. The creature blinked a hard blink. After a moment, it turned back to the Youth, who was still looking its way. The Mule turned away again. Once again, it blinked a hard blink.

“Hey,” said Holden, “I ain’t, no chicken...”

The Mule looked over his way then away, again, and again, blinked a hard blink.

“Getting bit by a black-and-white critter’s one thing...” Holden started, “But a Technicolor King Cobra?”

He raised his eyebrows.

“You get bit by that and curtain’s close—show’s over, without encore.”

Back a yonder ways, several hatchlings were slithering beneath the straw hat. Meanwhile, some headed further back towards his shirt, beneath which the coils of King Cobra were already partially shaded.

“And besides, warn’t the first hat I lost me,” he reflected, “Warn’t the first shirt stole off my back...”

As watching on, beads of sweat gleamed across his upper body, save for where three aligned moles upon his right shoulder were absorbing the heat.

“But man...” he groaned, “Sunburn’s sure gonna hurt.”

Turning towards the grey dune, he tried scanning the vista beyond for sight of the Caravan.

“Gonna have to get me a fresh T from the Good, Bad or Ugly.”

Following the statement, he frowned on the odds of himself succeeding.

“And how’m I ever going to explain this to the Good, Bad and Ugly?”

Fingers to brow and stressed out suddenly, he looked down.

“O, brother... if only I didn’t see it all too clear...”

With that, the Youth enacted his side of the exchange that he envisioned taking place between he and the Caravan—

Hey, Brother! Yeah, talking to you—you got an extra shirt I can borrow? What happened to mine? T’ch! Well what you think happened? Snake took it.

Yes, sir. Real-life snake. A Technicolored King, bigger than you, with a litter of cubs to feed, too. Took on the whole lot of them, which goes to show ya the kinda damage this kid can do...

Course I wrastled! Wrangled and tangoed. Heck, real shame you missed it. Ain’t no story-teller, but if you want several circumstance, the throw-down went something like this—

Was trekkin’ ’long this very trail. Minding my business. Suddenly, devil itself slithered up’n’out the sands! Next thing I know, my chips are on the table... I’m playing a hand... But you don’t want more details than them…

O, you do? Can’t say I’m blame ya. Missed a downright ’n dirty rumble. But what you expect? I’m the Youth—sweet sixteen and nothing but nice.

Come again... ‘Who won the fight?’ Wait a second... you really just ask me that? Brother, frankly—Sun’s rays’r already scratching me rawly; I don’t have time for this. Now how ’bout that shirt?

Yeah. Now we’re talking. And hey, while you’re searching the Wardrobe, do me a solid—make it a 100% Cotton. And while you’re in there, one more favor—grasp a hat for us, too...

Mind you, tho, nothin’ straw, nor flappy! Want a hat that stays on my head, and conveys—‘Cowboy’. Or maybe even ‘Desperado’. And make sure it’s equipped with good strong brim for tippin’ on the ladies.

Come again? What happened to m’ hat, y’say? Ah, sheesh... Well what ya think happened? Snake took it. But that’s just how a day in the life been ever since my Love tore off with my heart and soul...

At the admission, the Youth bit his tongue and looked to the Noon Sun, beaming down upon him as thinking on her.

“O, babe... it all vain? How’m I ever gonna reach you?”

Hatless and shirtless amidst scorching desolation, the Youth became overwhelmed by his plight. A part of him felt like collapsing right there and then. From behind, the Mule advanced past him, patiently trekking up the grey dune.

The creature stepped through the artifacts and across his wineskin pack. Along the slope ahead of him, it stopped and tilted its head to the side. Once clear that the Mule was waiting for him to come along, the Youth felt touched by the effort.

“Thanks, Girl,” he said, “Let’s get back to our Crusade...”

Holden stepped after his companion but shortly thereafter, stopped before the resources scattered along his path.

“Just gimme a quick sec to organize our treasures here...”

On the otherside of the cluttered assembly, the Mule returned its attention to the incline. It started embarking up the dune without him. Meanwhile, the Youth went on ordering his collection to be stored back in his pack.

“Map of El Dorado... pair you with Candide...” he said, “The Wall: A Rock Opera, we’ll tuck you over here... 2001: A Space Odyssey...”

During his pause, a book with a similar title clicked in mind.

“2001...” he repeated, searching about for the familiar cover. “Naturally, we’ll be pairing you with One Thousand and One—”

The Mule brayed.

Yonder up the slope, the creature had again paused its advance. Though forward-facing, its head was slightly turned with an eye fixed upon the Youth.

“Get on without me, Girl,” said Holden, returning to his sorting. “Be up and coming in just a minute...”

He was still searching for Arabian Nights when again, the Mule brayed. Once again, Holden stopped what he was doing, only this time, more curious.

“What’s your sudden hurry?”

Dipping its head to the sands, the Mule nudged its nose along a groove of grains, then looked back and waited. The Youth began comprehending.

“What you got up there?”

On his knees, he leaned to the side, trying to see what the creature had discovered. Though he saw nothing peculiar about the dune from that angle, he knew it was unlike the Mule to cause a fuss without reason. No sooner than when he had risen to his feet did a glint of light amidst the grey flash his eyes.

“My...”

A gentle breeze pressed past him. The Youth attuned, advanced along its flow. As ascending the slope, the winds continued unveiling the golden contours; grains tingling across the object. Bit by bit, a sinuous handle—a bulbous vessel—an elongated spout, were unsheathed from the leaden environment.

“A Lamp...”

Upon the word, the Youth stopped, looked up to the Mule, then back down on the precious creation. He wondered if it belonged to one of the Good, Bad or Ugly. He entertained the possibility that it had been lost to the desert ages ago. With imagination reeling, he envisioned a fantasy—the story of the Golden Oil Lamp—becoming one with his own.

“Imagine...”

Once upon a Kansas afternoon, the Youth was brawling with a Big Ole Tornado, stealing off with his One True Love. For 40 days and 40 nights, it swerved them across land and sea. The rumble was steady going when the whirlwind had had enough and slung the Youth into the desert sands of the Sahara Desert.

Grounded flat, the Youth awoke to replace himself alone and overwhelmed. Too top it all off, he had just lost his One True Love. After serious reflection, he pulled it together and got up to his feet, determined to track down and rescue her from that Big Ole Tornado.

He wandered without nourishment, nor direction; his survival fraying fast. He didn’t make it far before collapsing across the desert sands. Hours hadn’t passed before vultures started circling overhead, spiraling down towards him. Their landing was interrupted by the Caravan that happened across his path.

Upon scooping him up, the Good, Bad and Ugly smacked him around a bit, sparking life back in him. The procession gifted him with transportation while taxing him with weight to carry, in exchange for incorporating the Youth along their Crusade.

A merciless passage ensued; desert and Caravan, continuously testing his resolve and might. He hated the setting, but in time, grew fond of the traveling band; their unique differences, along with the common bond that held them together. Beyond their hidden motives—and for reasons rather unbeknownst to him—it seemed all the Good, Bad, and Ugly trusted in the one at the head of the Caravan, delivering them through the land.

Throughout the passage, the Youth learned a thing or two—namely, to embrace the journey, as though destiny was ever at hand. One day—lo and behold! He stumbled upon a mysterious Golden Oil Lamp.

At first, the Youth didn’t know how to go about it, and hence, spent a deal of time fantasizing. Eventually, he just picked it up, naturally. Upon the touch, a Genie arose and conveniently enough, made expedient arrangements to deliver the Youth to his Long Lost Love...

Having concluded his historical-fantasy narration, the Youth stopped pacing about the Lamp. His lone audience was idly standing, staring upon him, as though waiting for him to get real.

“Hey, it could happen.”

The Mule blinked.

“O, come now,” he pressed, “You and I both know the Caravan’s faced zanier happenstance...”

Upon alluding, he realized it had been some time since he had last seem them.

“The Caravan...”

Holden looked up the face of the dune, where the tracks of the traveling band were formerly pressed. Only then did he realize their prints had been erased by the sandstorm.

After gulping a swallow, he started up the slope. Along the climb, he thought the scene to be a bit too quiet. At the top, he stopped. Looked left then right. Far as Holden could tell, the Caravan was nowhere within sight.

“O, brother...”

In face of miles upon miles of gray desolation, Holden felt clenched with profound sense of loss; a range he had not experienced since losing his One True Love. Feeling a reactive panic coming on, he starting fathoming proactive measures. The Youth took a deep breath and exhaled slow.

“Time’s come to devise a plan...”

He started pacing.

“We’re gonna stay true, follow through-and-through, and always remember—some way, color and form, we are going to get through this...”

He was deliberating as to ‘how’ he planned to do this when he caught sight of the Mule below.

“What the odds you can make like a bloodhound and sniff which way they went?”

As awaiting response, something about its neck caught his eye.

“The binoculars...”

Holden rushed down the slope. Several strides along, his legs plunged into the sands. Momentum took it from there, tumbling him head over heels. He somersaulted down the rest of the way as at the base, he unrolled before the Mule.

Lifting the binoculars over its head, he hooped the neckband over his own and raced back up to the vantage. From atop the grey dune, he scanned high and low across the rolling vistas, all the way up to the horizon line; in every direction, nothing but sands in sight.

Holden dropped the binoculars against his chest. He began massaging his temples. He inhaled deep, then exhaled slow, doing his best to keep his cool.

“Calm emotions, collect intellect, control your action...” he recited, as figuring on his next move.

The Youth looked up to the Noon Sun.

“What am I to do?” he whispered, “What is the Way?”

At a shuffling behind, he turned about. Halfway up the dune, the Mule had its nose to vessel, nudging more of the creation to the surface.

“Yes, a very nice replace you turned up there,” Holden commented, looking back to the empty expanse, “Just not so convinced the Lamp is our number one priority right now...”

Putting hands to hips, he paced forth and back across the dune’s top. As he did, he could not help but notice the Mule still looking up at him, staring between blinks. He could not ignore the lustrous shades of the creation at its hooves.

“Then again...” the Youth started, pondering fantastical, “Perhaps that Genie inside might have an idea as to how to best work through this...”

Following a wink of eye, the Youth bound down the dune’s face. Sliding in on a knee, he scooped up the creation along his extension unto stance as raising the vessel by the light.

“Lo, and behold, the Lamp!”

He held it on high; radiant light of the Noon Sun, silhouetting the vessel.

“A black pearl, positively... and where did you come from?”

Leveling it with his eyes, he turned it about, inspecting the details of its design.

Bottom up, the conical base exponentially curved up and unto the body of the vessel, which on one side, seamlessly gelled unto a hooped handle, opposed by a slender spout at the other. Atop the Lamp, the conical lid swooped to a point, crowned with an object shaped as a golden pyramid. Pressing his fingertips about its three faces, the Youth decided to have a look inside the creation.

Holden tried pulling off the lid, but was not having any luck. After several tugs, he made to wiggle it side-to-side. After failing with that, he attempted twisting it off; once again, to no avail. No matter what he did, the top would not budge.

Figuring it had to be jammed shut, he knocked his knuckles about the circular lid in an attempt to loosen it. It was then that he noticed the two digits on opposing sides, inscribed within the lid’s circumference.

“Symbols...”

A symbol—O—was engraved on the side of the lid, nearest to the handle. On the other side, a symbol—§—was closest to the spout. He was staring on the pyramid, aligned between them, when the Youth became aware of a subtle force, resonating of the Lamp along his touch. The lid started revolving.

With smooth revolution, it turned with the pyramid. Upon completing a 180-degree rotation, the lid clicked into place. The symbol—O—now before the spout—started to glow. The engraved—§—now near the handle—darkened in shade. Suddenly, black threads of silken aspect lifted of it and drifted towards his hand.

Before the strands reached his grip, the Youth let go of the creation. The Lamp dropped along a straight line, splashing into the grey. Upon impact, darkness puffed out the spout.

The billow rose, spiraling along the flow as braiding unto a familiar creature. A Dark Serpent wound unto existence. As oscillating its sinuous length in place above the spout of the Lamp to which it was attached, it continued evolving. Its eyes started sparkling as diamonds, intent upon the Youth, who could not help but stare directly unto them.

Dazzling spectrum of the Noon Sun was refracting of them, filling his eyes. Something therein attracted him to them. For some reason, he thought he was seeing her within the eyes—his One True Love. And then the Queen Cobra struck across the distance between them, sinking fangs unto his bare chest as flowing unto him through the bite.

The Youth flexed his frame against the blow. He couldn’t breathe; felt his lungs had just collapsed. At a convulsion, his heart felt to be irregularly beating. Through his skin, he could see the organ at his core, darkening, pumping the blackness throughout his body.

Holden started feeling shaky; his muscles, surrendering. Extending his palms out before him, he witnessed as the darkened swirls of his fingerprints started lifting, unwinding. Suddenly, his hands and arms—the rest of his body—was unraveling.

The darkness was disentangling his physical form. Once the Youth had become completely undone, an outline of luminous particles, in his image, was all that was left of him. The points of light started resolving, each one, assuming critter-like characteristics. Suddenly, his outline was as a pointillist arrangement of Shining Honeybees, enveloped by the darkness, flowing of the Lamp.

As the darkness continued rising, the strands too, started evolving, assuming serpentine design. Swirling along the towering heights, the snakes started turning with wild whirlwind procession. Opening their jaws wide, they swooped in on the Shining Honeybees who zipped up across them, with stingers ejected.

The bees sliced through the Dark Serpents as beams of light, splaying the tendrils. Some were side-swooped along the flight, swallowed alive by the darkness. The chaos was escalating quickly, with the Dark Whirlwind, roaring up through the sky, enclosing about the light. Most of the honeybees were surrounded when the funnel contracted—the vortex, whirling down unto the spout, till with a final flourish, the cyclone rushed unto the Golden Oil Lamp.

Sands rained across the setting. The winds died down. Quiet settled over the scene. In the midst, the Mule was standing alone. With slanted eyes, it watched the last wisps of darkness slip into the spout. Upon entering the creature raised its head and continued up the grey dune.