Pangothean Legends: Chapters 1 and 2

After being banished from his village, Falroth must confront the wrath of the Sand God.

Chapter One

The Sand God

         For Falroth, being alone was a lot like being with people, except there were fewer witnesses.

         If banishment was the reward his crimes had rightly earned him, why did he find it so agreeable?

         The noonday sun reflected off the endless mounds of sand, bathing his eyes in a blinding sea of light. The heat that radiated from every direction lulled his skin into a soothing, sensation-free sleep. The Forbidden Wasteland had welcomed him with open arms of numb, mindless bliss.

         Perhaps it would never release him. Perhaps it was his destiny: wasteland meets life gone to waste.

         It was like some cruel joke by the Sand God. Why would his ultimate punishment be the one thing he’d always been prepared for?

         Of course, he was practically in the Sand God’s back yard. He’d likely have a chance to ask him all about it. If he survived his presence long enough to speak, that is.

         It seemed odd all of the sudden. He’d spent his entire life in service to the Sand God, yet the one place the deity actually spent his time was the one place they called “forbidden”. Apparently the whole concept wasn’t to be close to him, but rather to be just far enough away. Get too close and he smites you; get too far away and you’re helpless. It was all about staying in the “safe zone”.

         But now the safe zone was far behind. The only thing left was to confront his fate. Perhaps it waited just beyond the crest of that next dune, or the one after that, or after a hundred dunes. How many dunes would he have to pass before the Sand God was satisfied? How many could he pass before he died of thirst?

         Falroth stopped, got down on his knees, and pressed his face to the sand. “Please...” he begged.

         Why couldn’t the Sand God make this quick? Why did Falroth have to be one of only three people in the Sand who were incapable of heat stroke? Why had a soul of such powerful inadequacy been given to the Blessed Bloodline?

         Falroth rolled over onto his back and stared into the sky.

         It didn’t matter what he did anymore. It was over. The Sand God had played his prank, the prank that had been Falroth’s life. He’d served his purpose, his body was but a used prop and he’d been tossed into the wastebasket of the Sand. Why should he be spared another thought.

         He let the empty vastness of the cloudless sky wash over him. He allowed it to soak in, becoming his internal reality.



         The sun was now much lower in the sky and obscured by whirling bits of sandy wind. The air grew thick with gritty dust.

         At the corner of Falroth’s eye, something moved.

         “Who’s there?” he shouted, and stood up with a start. He turned just in time to see a dark shape disappear around a dune. He jolted to his feet and sprinted to its crest.

         Nothing. All he could see was dust and sand.

         “You’re Falroth, aren’t you?”

         Falroth rounded on the smooth, warm voice that had come from behind. He took its owner by the throat. He was a scrawny, brown-haired boy. Falroth lifted him off the ground with his burly arm.

         “Who the hell are you?”  Falroth shouted.

         The boy wriggled and grasped at his neck. Then Falroth’s grip seemed to slip away as he was blasted in the face by a heavy, sandy gust. He staggered backward.

         “Yup, definitely Falroth,” said the boy, now rubbing his beet-red neck. “That smarts.”

         “What’s going on?” said Falroth, breathing hard. “There aren’t supposed to be any people here.”

         “Of course not,” said the boy. “It’s forbidden. But you’d be surprised how many things happen, which aren’t supposed to.”

         “What are you doing here?” asked Falroth. “Where did you come from?”

         “What am I doing here...” repeated the boy and dug his hand into his curly mass of hair to scratch at his scalp. “I guess I should say ‘living’, but even that I don’t think I’ll be able to keep up much longer. As for where I come from, that’d be the same place you do, which...” He scratched his head harder now, a bit too hard in fact, as it seemed to be causing him pain. “...I think you’ll have a hard time believing...”

         A chill went down Falroth’s spine.

         “Are you a ghost?” he breathed. “Has the Sand God sent you to claim my soul?”

         A smile graced the boy’s face and he held back a laugh. “No Mr. Falroth, I assure you I am flesh and bone, like you,” he said. “Most of the time, anyway.”

         Falroth crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow.

         “Hmm... now wait a minute, let me think...” said the boy, rubbing his chin. “...my name alone would mean nothing to you. As for my title, well...”

         The boy suddenly stopped rubbing his chin and adopted a straight face. He took a step toward Falroth and leaned forward. He looked straight into Falroth’s smouldering red eyes.

         “You know, I think... I think I’ll have to give you a bit of the lie you expect. Otherwise you’ll never accept the truth you would never have guessed.”

         At that, the boy turned and began to walk away.

         “Wait a minute now, what are you talking about?” said Falroth.

         When he started to follow, a strong wind blew in his face. He shielded his eyes with his arm and turned away. A moment later, the wind let up, and the boy was nowhere to be seen.

         It seemed the Sand God wasn’t finished playing games with him. That, or he was going mad at a surprising rate.

         Now the wind picked up again, but not where Falroth was standing. Just everywhere else. He found he was standing in the eye of a massive cyclone. The air spun around him faster and faster, picking up more and more sand, and rising higher into the sky. At last there was so much sand thrashing around him that he couldn’t see through it. It was as though he stood at the bottom of a towering cylindrical wall of shifting stone.

         “Who dares enter the sanctuary of the Sand God?” came a booming voice, seemingly from everywhere.

         Falroth gave a sigh of relief. “It is I, Falroth,” he said, and fell to his knees. “Youngest of the Blessed Bloodline.”

         “And why have you disturbed me?”

         “I was cast out by Flameau, my father, Village Elder. I have failed to keep my Blood Oath. My weakness has lead to the death of an innocent girl. I have brought dishonor upon my family, and I have received my just reward. I do not ask for forgiveness. I am beyond it. I request only the mercy of a swift death.”

         “Your request is... granted.”

         Falroth watched some of the sand spinning around him form itself into a shape hundreds of feet above his head. It was an enormous, sharp-pointed spear, facing down. Presently, more and more sand joined with it, until it had become solid rock. Then it started to fall.

         Falroth pressed his face to the ground and covered his head with his arms.

         This was it. It was all over. The end, at last.

         But then everything went silent.

         The odd thing wasn’t the silence. It was the fact that he was aware of it.

         He sat up and looked around. The sky was blue and clear. The air was still. Other than a mound of sand just next to him, there was nothing to say that anything had just happened at all.

         A bit of sand rose up in front of him and coalesced into the figure of the boy from before. “Smoke and mirrors, my friend,” said the boy, who seemed fully human once more. “Just smoke and mirrors. Well, and I could crush you like a bug at any moment, but that’s not the point I’m trying to get across here.”

         “I... I don’t understand,” said Falroth, with a blank expression. “You... you’re...”

         “The real Sand God,” said the boy, with a sarcastically theatrical bow. “But as with any title, it is just a title. I’m no more a god than you are. Ancelin is my given name.”

         Falroth’s expression did not change. “All of that... just now. That was all you?”

         “What can I say?” said Ancelin. “It’s a gift, and a curse. You know how it is, right? What the hell am I talking about, you got off easy, didn’t you? So you accidentally burn something now and then. Well I can’t leave this desert.”

         “What are you talking about?”

         “Sorry. My point is you and I are in the same boat.”

         “What in the blazes is a boat?”

         “Oh god, sorry, I keep forgetting how small your world is. Okay look, you know that great big map your people have posted in the center of town that says ‘The Known Sand’? Well the Sand, as you call it, is actually a small part of a bigger place. A very, very small part of a much, much bigger place, which we call the World. Much of the World is covered in water. Huge amounts of water. Water that goes on further than the eye can see. Now your home is in the middle of an island, which is a tiny bit of land surrounded by lots and lots of water. Anyway, a boat is what you would need in order to get to mainland Pangothea, which is... a very much bigger piece of land.”

         “And why did you say we were in a boat?”

         “It’s just an expression. It means we’re the same. We’re both gifted, but human.”

         “I see... human...”

         Ancelin nodded.

         “So what you’re saying is that you...” started Falroth, and Ancelin nodded again. “...are a fraud.”

         Ancelin started to nod once more, but froze. “Ooh,” he said, and pressed his teeth together. “Well I wouldn’t say...”

         He was cut off when his jaw caught Falroth’s fist.

         “You filthy fraud!”

         “Falroth!” snapped Ancelin, cradling his jaw. “Alright look, let’s review what we’ve learned today. All Earth-shattering revelations aside, perhaps you recall my “crush you like a bug” speech?”

         “I don’t care!” said Falroth, walloping Ancelin once more. “You’re a fraud and I’ll bash you ‘til my knuckles bleed!” He threw a third punch, but Ancelin melted into a hunk of sand before he could land it.

         “Look Falroth, I sympathize,” came Ancelin’s voice, again from everywhere. “I really do. I’d love to let you beat me up to your heart’s content, but I’d rather not spend my last days nursing a load of horrible burns and bruises.”

         “What do you mean your last days?” said Falroth, still looking all about himself. “You can’t be a day over sixteen!”

         “Aw, Falroth, for shame. You should know people like us don’t age properly. Yeah, I look young and spry. Nine hundred years ago I felt it too, but now I’m tired as all hell and ready to be done with it.”

         “People like us,” spat Falroth. “You keep talking like we’re the same, but we’re not.”

         “Aren’t we?” said Ancelin. “Sure, the details are all different. I can become sand and control sandstorms; you can control and expel heat. I wandered a little too far from home and found my power; you were born into yours. But neither of us asked for it. Neither of us wanted it. Like it or not though, we’ve got it, and that makes us special.”

         “I’m not special!” screamed Falroth. “I’m weak. Ordinary. A waste. I wasn’t meant to have this power. The Sand God... someone screwed up.”

         At that, Falroth collapsed face-first into the sand. His eyes began to well up with tears.

         He felt a pair of hands on his shoulders.

         “Falroth, this is very important,” said Ancelin. “There is no such thing as a Sand God. You’ve spent your whole life believing a lie I made up to amuse myself hundreds of years ago. But now I’ve grown old and full of regret. Frankly, I’m disgusted at the picture I painted of myself in your ancestors’ eyes. But you know that line in the sand you were never allowed to cross until the day they threw you over it? Well I’ve got the same line, only I’m on the other side of it. Ever since the day I got my power I’ve never been able to cross it. So I can’t just walk into town and explain the truth to everyone. And when people come to me, they don’t go back where they came from. They move on, just as I hope you will.”

         “Where will I go?” asked Falroth, barely audible.

         “I’ll send you to the same place I send everyone who comes through here.” said Ancelin, and there was a wistful look in his eyes. “I’ll send you to her.”

Chapter Two

The Promised Land

        “It was almost three hundred years ago,” said Ancelin. “I was feeling hopeless and depressed and alone. I wanted to just disappear.

          “So I tried it.

          “I turned into sand and let myself drift away. I let my mind melt into the wind and ride its currents like an endless lullaby.

          “For a long, long time, it seemed to work. I lost all track of myself. Time and consciousness seemed to fade into a boundless light.

          “But then one day, something called me back. I found I had taken form in an unfamiliar place. It was a desert alright, but it wasn’t my desert. There were mountains there, in the distance. Dozens of sharp spires rising up to strike at the heavens. And opposite them, the ocean.

          “I was standing just outside a beautiful cottage with a dazzling, flower-filled garden and so many wonderful animals frolicking about.

          “And that’s where I met... her.”

        Ancelin smiled and his cheeks turned red. His eyes began to wander until he just stared off into the bare blue sky.

          “...who?” said Falroth, at length.

          “Laurelianna...” breathed Ancelin, closing his eyes as though half asleep. “I learned so many things from her, but when I left her presence all I could think about was her glorious beauty. Only through a great deal of time and effort was I able to recall what she told me.

          “She said the thing I had pretended to be was actually real. There was One True God, and he was amazing and wondrous, more so than I could have ever imagined. She brought me into His presence, and I gave Him my heart. My life has never been the same.

          “She also told me that the place I had come to was called the Goldust Desert. Apparently it is connected to this desert in some strange way. I find I can travel at will between them, though it takes some time.

          “Anyway, the Goldust Desert is part of the continent of Pangothea. In Pangothea, there are many people like you and I.”

        “Hold on a second...” said Falroth. “What do you mean people like you and I?”

        “Our abilities,” said Ancelin. “Here, such powers are so rare we thought we were alone. There, such powers are common. So common, in fact, that one in twelve children there will be born with some form of Meyta. That’s what they call it.”

        “One in twelve,” said Falroth. “Well how many people are there in this Pangothea?”

        “Oh gosh, Falroth, I have no idea. Tens of thousands I reckon. Nay, more like hundreds of thousands.”

        “You’re telling me there’s a place that’s full of people with as much power as me?”

        “Some have even more,” said Ancelin, with a laugh. “A lot more!”

        “You mean I wouldn’t have to be responsible for everyone? I could just fall in with everyone else?”

        “I should say so.”

        Falroth clapped his hands together in jubilation. “Ha! Well that’s... that’s fantastic. How do I get there?”

        “Um, yes, well about that,” said Ancelin, looking a bit sheepish. “It is sort of tricky. As I said before, you’ll need a boat, and there’s no way you’ll ever convince a captain to sail you to Pangothea. No one on this island knows that such a place exists. To him it would be sailing into uncharted waters. Getting there is going to involve a bit of finesse.

          “There is a harbor just a shade west of here. It’s full of boats that make regular spice runs to the Senushua Islands to the northwest. If you can get aboard somehow and reach the Senushua Islands, from there you should be able to flag down a passing ship from the Dorfish isle of Telmas, which has a trading relationship with Goldale. The Dorfs are kind. They will surely take you there if you ask.

          “And once you get there, make sure you head...”

        “...Alright thanks,” said Falroth. “That’s enough. I’m sure this Laurelianna is very lovely, but I’ve got no truck with women ever since Kath... er, come to think of it, you wouldn’t happen to have seen a young woman pass through here about a week ago, would you?”

        “A week ago? Nope. Sorry. Why, was she your...”

        Falroth shook his head vigorously. “Never you mind. It’s not important.” his gaze fell to the ground, mournfully. “And what about a real young girl with hair like mine, about a decade ago? Did you see her?”

        Ancelin absently rubbed a few grains of sand between his fingers. “I can’t say that I have. I’m not always around these parts. My territory goes all the way down to the shore. Plus I’ve got the Goldust. I can’t just hang around waiting all the time.”

        “Of course not.” Falroth rolled his eyes. “I don’t suppose fate’s gone that soft on me yet. Oh well. If you’ll kindly point me in the direction of um, west, I’ll be more than happy to get out of your hair, Mr. Fraud.”

        “Uh, Falroth, listen,” said Ancelin. “If you do happen to see Laurelianna there, would you give her a message for me?”

        “Whatever you say, Mr. Fraud. What’s the message?”

        “Would you tell her... would you tell her I said ‘hi’?”



        From atop the cliff-side where Falroth stood the view of Jeweland Harbor down below was simply marvelous.

          Or perhaps there wasn’t anything marvelous about it. Perhaps it was an ordinary harbor.

          But in Falroth’s eyes it was vibrant and spectacular. There were buildings of all kinds dotted about the shoreline, and people moving about with a purpose and an energy. Many of them were carrying large wooden cylinders and looking quite busy.

          There were long, wooden walkways suspended out over the water. These had boats of all shapes and sizes parked on either side. All of them looked to be made of wood, which was odd. Or maybe it wasn’t. Stone probably wouldn’t work, but wood always seemed so... flammable. Likely this was not a huge problem though for a vessel that’s constantly immersed in water.

          Falroth scrambled down the cliff-side and made his way to the city. He sought out someone who didn’t look to be doing anything important.

          Quickly he found a man with a large plank fitted around his mid-riff. It had several varieties of fish laid out on it, all trimmed and gutted. The man just waddled about with an unamused expression, routinely shouting to passerby about fish.

          “Would you care to stop blathering about fish for a moment?” said Falroth.

          “Hey pal, fish is my job, alright? If I don’t do it, some other schluk’ll get the nine Quartz a day. You gonna buy some fish, or what?”

        “Buy?” said Falroth, eyebrows raised.

          “Yes! Buy. What’re you deaf, kid?”

        “Well I have no idea what you’re talking about. Look, I’m just looking for someone who knows where I can find a boat bound for the Senushua Islands. Any old boat will do.”

        “Agh!” said the man, with a discourteous flap of the hand in Falroth’s direction. “Well that there’s the Wrinkly Spaniard. Don’t ask me what a Spaniard is. I think it’s some kind of trout. She’s departing for the Senushuas in an hour, but ‘er crews all full up. Tough luck, fella.”

        “Over there?” said Falroth.

          “Yeah that’s right. Now get lost, man. I got a quota to fill.”

        “Yeah, yeah, quotes...” said Falroth, already on his way. “Gotta remember those fish quotes.”

        “Hey buddy!” said a kid with a long, shabby jacket. “Your head’s bleeding.”

        “What?” Falroth felt around his scalp. “Well I don’t...”

        “Oh wait, that’s just your hair!” he said, and walked off, snickering.

          “Hmm...” Falroth ran his fingers through his medium-length, crimson-colored hair, as he studied the people around him. It seemed his Blood Brand was as distinctive here as it was in the Sand.

          Nothing to do about that now. He had other things to worry about.

          “Hey boss!” shouted a nearby workman. “Where’s all this junk in this, er, warehouse goin’?”

        “Which one?” answered a man across the street.

          “Number thirteen.”

        “Right. Yeah, the barrels are headed to the Prickly Primrose over there and the crates are going to the Wrinkly Spaniard. Oh and there’s...”

        “What?”

        “Excuse me?”

        At that, the workman finally gave in and headed across the street to talk at a reasonable distance.

          An impulse struck Falroth.

          Now was his chance.

          He ran to warehouse thirteen and burst in via the side door. There were wooden boxes and cylinders all over the place. Some were stacked to the ceiling. Most of them were small, but Falroth noticed a great big box near the back of the room. One of the corners of the front panel wasn’t nailed shut all the way. With all the strength he had he was able to pry it back just enough to slip himself inside. The box was pretty tightly packed, but there was just enough space around the edges to maneuver himself around to the back, where he would be well-concealed even if the box were opened.

          A few minutes later he could hear about a dozen men come into the building and start carrying things off. For almost an hour he waited, listening to them grunt and heave as working men should. Finally, he heard them gather around his box.

          “Welp... last one.”

        “Oy. It’s a big one. I can see why we put it off.”

        “And it’s in worse shape than I thought. Jonesy, why don’t you nail that corner shut real good or they’ll try to blame the damage on us.”

        There were several loud bangs and Falroth felt the walls start to close in around him.

          “Alright, I’ll take this corner. David, Robert, Jonesy, you each take a corner. Three to a side for the rest of you. Lets get this baby moving.”

        Falroth felt the box lift up slowly. Then for about two minutes he could hardly tell he was moving at all, as the workers groaned and complained.

          “Where the hell are you jokers taking that crate?”

        Falroth thumped his head on the box’s lid as he felt it drop, with a crash.

          “Uh, boss says this one goes to the Wrinkly Spaniard.”

        “Are you kidding? Don’t you lousy Dock Hands ever bother to look at what it is you’re carrying? See that label there, hotshot? What’s that say?”

        “Er... arms?”

        “Exactly. What the hell does a Spice Runner need arms for? Now get that mess over to the Lonely Hippo before I crack you over the head with a rusty pipe!”