"Eli´s journal_part3" by Marijke Mahieu

I awoke this morning to the sound of a singing angel. I knew then that I had died.

The pain is gone. So is the thirst and even the hunger.

I feel nothing. Nothing at all.

Strange. My angel has green eyes and a dark skin. I never knew angels looked like that. And I had thought they would at least speak the same language I do. But this one doesn’t. She sings strange, but beautiful words to me.

And I honestly thought the afterlife would have a much greener setting than this place. There is only sand here. For miles and miles. It actually doesn’t look any different from the desert where I was slain.

I don’t understand. This is all wrong.

Evening, Day 152, year 538

I am in a desert. I am lost, but not longer alone.

Several days ago I was found by a nomadic desert tribe. They gave me water, food and an angel to look after me. She has healed my burn wounds by some strange ritual magic and sat with me while I passed through the hells of the sun-fever that had wrecked my body and mind.

The nomads speak a language I don’t understand. They cannot understand me either. From the moment I felt good enough to sit up again, I tried to explain to them that I am looking for my sister. That I need to get out of the desert. But I honestly couldn’t say if they understood that.

They mean me no harm. I could keep my weapons so I don’t think they see me as their prisoner. I think I intrigue them with my pale skin and blond hair. I have seen my angel carefully touch my hair while she thought I was sleeping. I am as much of a mystery to them as they are to me.

I think she’s one of the leader’s daughters. He came last night to try and talk to me again. He made all kinds of funny gestures to explain whatever he wanted to tell me. I did not understand him. I never was good at playing charades.

They leave me be now. There is no point in trying to talk anymore.

The nomads all look the same to me. They have dark skins, burned a deep brown from a lifetime in the sun, and they all have black hair and the same pale green eyes. I think they belong to one family. There are 38 of them in total, most of them men, but several women and even children too.

They gave me new clothes to wear. I have never seen this sort of fabric before. It feels cool to the touch, much like satin, and has an almost liquid texture. These are not normal clothes, but magical constructions.

I suspect these people have a natural tendency towards magic. My angel, the leader’s daughter, certainly does. She has the power of healing.

She reminds me of my sister. But just slightly.

My sister. I keep having this dream about her. It never changes. Something is wrong, I can feel it. I need to find her, but I don’t know where I should start looking. If only I could remember where she is.

This diary. It was a gift for her. How come I still have it with me then? I remember packing it the day I left the village to visit her.

Visit her…

She had left, but why? I can’t remember. This is so frustrating.

I hope the nomads are leading me out of the desert. If I leave them I will be cast back into the endless, lonely sea of sand and I will still not know where I am going. If I stay, there is no telling where I’ll end up. But what choice do I have?