The ultimate failure of civilization was its never ending quest to sustain itself. Despite its constant warring, prejudice, and hatred, the core of humanity was always a mission of advancement. By 2400, the primitive concepts of borders and property had vanished. Sprawling cities across every continent grew so high they grazed the kingdom of heaven, establishing the newly unified Earth as a force paralleling the ancient residences of Olympus and Takamagahara.
There was little left for this entity to conquer, except for the climate. Global warming was avoided long ago with the harnessing of nuclear fusion, but the weather remained. Typhoons, hurricanes, blizzards, and floods were the only reminder to humanity that Mother Earth was still more powerful than them. In 2434, Dr. Kubrick Eichenwald made the discovery that broke the threshold for controlling the climate, and a mere four months later, the Universal Planetary Group launched its weather machine. The thousands of equations and proofs had been checked and rechecked as many times as possible- the math worked out. Despite this, the forces of God outstretched their hand and put civilization in its place.
Within minutes of the weather machine’s activation, the globe cooled to levels unparalleled in history. Lightning storms and tornadoes ravaged major cities, leaving billions dead and the world government in shambles. Some say the weather machine remains in orbit to this day, maintaining the punishment of mankind.
As of today, it has been 90 years since civilization was destroyed. The survivors of this disaster- an estimated 200,000- have moved to and settled places formerly seen as uninhabitable. The deserts of the world, untouched because of their lack of precipitation, have become a safe haven for the survivors of this disaster. The Alvord desert, while small, is the only remaining livable area of the pacific northwest. This is where me and my tribe, the Selwels, live, closely protecting one of three major hot springs in the desert. My name is Kint, and, like my father before me, I am the language expert of my tribe. As such, it is my job to live alongside our leader, Culik, and assist him by translating and writing logs detailing our activities. The following is a recounting of the worst week in our tribe’s history.
When I woke up today, Culik was already awake. He stands at the end of the tent, his long black locs settled behind his shoulders and his eyes gazing out upon the open desert. As I rise from bed, he turns to me, grinning widely.
“Get enough sleep, Kint?” he sternly, yet considerately, asks.
“Yes, sir.” I respond, shaking the sand out of my blanket. “What has you up this early?”
“It’s time for you and me to run a little experiment.” He reaches over to the table, lifting up a glass of clean water. “The only reason we have this water is because of a delicate arrangement of veins beneath our feet, constantly at war with its rocky flesh.” He saunters towards me before placing his hand on my shoulder. “When’s the last time you read up on hydrogeology?”
“Just last week.”
“Good. Great.” He says, removing his iron grip from my shoulder. “Then we’re going to the spring. It’s time for a checkup”
The first part of the village we pass after leaving Culik’s tent is Ishka circle. The Ishka are not strong, nor intelligent, but harbor the most important trait for life in the desert: endurance. Every week, they rotate between themselves on shifts, spending days in the wastes spotting, identifying, and preserving wildlife. It is said that the eyes of the Ishka have adapted from decades of sand-searching, developing a thin light-resistant film in response to the blinding sun reflecting off the dunes. The Ishka are content, which is why they form a wall around Culik's tent, separating him from the masses. As Culik passes, some greet him, some bow, but most remain silent, in idle respect of his position. “Do you know why I love the Ishka?” Culik says, quizzing me.
“Without them, we'd have no way to preserve Alvord.” I smartly respond.
“No. They're always off camp, so their wives get lonely and come to me.” He says before bursting into a fit of laughter so loud I'm sure the whole camp could hear it. He then looks to me, waiting for approval.
“Ha.” I unconvincingly laugh. He sneers, playfully hitting me on the shoulder to tell me it was time to leave.
As soon as Culik lifted the cloth screen separating the Ishka from the rest of the Selwel, the campgrounds immediately shifted focus to him. It’s the same deal every day- the moment Culik emerges, everyone’s gripes emerge alongside him. The sheer quantity of yelling makes each argument meld into an unintelligible blob of anger and struggle. It’s not their fault, constant starvation will decay anybody’s sense of manners. Culik’s silence as he passes through is almost as loud as the yelling itself. His job is difficult, and one that desensitizes him to the hellish conditions he sees every day. I admire him for it- if you had been through what he had, making the sacrifices he had to, you would be just as numb.
We move past the struggling masses, Culik not offering so much as a glance at his people. I look out over the crowd behind us as we get closer to the edge of camp. A mother holds her starving child, crying out for food knowing full well this place had none for her. A young man covered in dirt yells in our direction, spitting in violent anger the same amount of water he begs for. A family sobs, mourning one of many Ishka men lost to the desert. Above them all, an avocet flies, almost mocking the Selwel for being unadapted to the sands of Alvord.
Behind us, the Selwel population shrinks as we enter the wastes. Ahead of us, the cracks of the playa beds seem to never end. If not for Culik's expertise in desert navigation, we would surely be taken by the dunes this far out. Culik walks along the shattered grounds with strength and vigilance, while I trail behind him carrying our water supplies on my back. The spring is about 10 miles west of the campground, and given current gust front conditions, the likelihood of sand storms, and playa moisture, it should take us-
“The desert is beautiful today, Kint.” Culik interrupts as I attempt to log our travel time. “It's beautiful every day. Wish someone other than an Ishka could see that.” While Culik appears strong and unemotional, few besides me know what kind of man he truly is. He loves the desert like a family member- it's in his blood. While most of the Selwel descend from European frontiersmen, distasteful of the desert and doubtful of its resourcefulness, Culik's patrilineage tracks back to the Klamath tribe. The average Selwel came to Alvord as refugees, reluctantly accepting the desert as their only option. Culik, and the generations before him, have always called Alvord their home.
Culik's father, named Steinash after the Klamath term for endurance, was born in 2415, over 400 years after the American government terminated the recognition of his tribe. Culik often says that if not for his father, the first settlements in Alvord would never have been able to survive. When thousands of refugees descended upon his home in 2434, Steinash chose to show them the ways of the desert. Not out of a desire for power, but out of love for humanity. This love extended past his leadership and into his role as a father for Culik.
Steinash chose to father his only child at the age of 78, during the last years of his tenure as leader. Steinash, in the truest sense of the word, loved Culik. In every action he took as leader, he thought of Culik and his future. To the same degree, Culik loved his father. Steinash was the only companion Culik had, and he sought his father's approval in everything he did. This only made Steinash's eventual passing in 2500 even more heartbreaking. At the fragile age of seven, Culik had to assume his role as leader of the Selwel. Culik's only remaining connection to his father was the dunes, and the lessons he was taught about it. It is for this reason that the villagers say Culik only holds love for one thing: the desert.
By the time the sun set, we had reached the spring. Culik sets down his backpack and sits down next to the steaming water. I put down our supplies and begin to set up the titration, before Culik interrupts me. “Too late now to be doing that. Gonna have to set up camp no matter what, so we'll test in the morning.” He pats the spot next to him. “Sit, Kint. You can relax. No more work to do tonight.” I sit next to him and stare into the water, watching it move and swirl with the adjustment of the mineral beds. It smells of sulfur, I can feel the sand creeping over my skin, and the hot air from the spring attacks my face. Despite this, I feel comfort.
My eyes remain locked on the spring, but I can feel Culik's gaze piercing through me. His breath hits my neck, steady and warm. I turn towards him and see him staring at me. It's not the same kind of stare he gives the villagers as he passes through them, or the kind he gives an Ishka upon returning. It's a stare lined with emotion and care, like the kind he watches over the dunes with. “You're sweating.” he says to me. He lifts up his left hand and wipes the water off my forehead gently. His skin, roughed from living with the sand, brushes against mine. It's painful, but I don't say anything. I just look at him. We lock eyes for a second, before he turns back to the spring, stoically watching, as he always does. “Set up the tent. Time we went to bed.” he tells me. “Yes, sir.” I respond.
As I pitch the tent and put down our sleeping bags, I look at Culik once more. I could not think of anyone better to be our leader.