The Sandstorm

It had been dry for months. Not a drop of rain had fallen to quench the parched earth's thirst for longer than I could recall. When I asked my sister what rain looked like, she laughed; but I wasn't jesting. I couldn't remember.

My father left that morning, headed North under the blistering heat of the sun. I watched him go from the doorway, a small black figure slowly disappearing into the desert, vanishing in the shimmering waves of heat.

Mother wept for three days together before he went. "Your father is too old to be fighting!" She cried. "He should be left home to take care of us!" My father was going to battle against Gondor, with the rest of the army. We were not optimistic. My uncles had marched North nearly a month before, and we'd had no word from them since.

Every day I walked a mile to the river for water. It was little more than a trickle, now. Today I began the long trek home with the buckets only half filled. As I walked, the air began to cool, and a breeze tickled my skin. I hurried, then. I knew what cool air and breezes meant; a sandstorm was coming.

They were already beginning to prepare for it when I arrived home. I took the water into the house, and helped my mother and sister to seal up any cracks or holes that blowing sand could slip through. We made sure that we had enough provisions to last us. Then we waited.

It blew up that evening as the sun was setting, darkness coming swiftly upon us as the sand blocked out the last rays of light. I huddled in the kitchen with my family, listening to the wind howl around the house, and the great torrent of sand crash against the walls.

"Are we safe?" I asked. My mother nodded. She was peacefully weaving patterns into a rug, and seemed perfectly at ease. She had lived through many a sandstorm in her life.

"Don't be a child," my sister scolded me. "It's only wind and sand."

I made a face. "I'm not scared," I said firmly, trying to reassure myself at the same time. "I'm not."

"Daughters," Mother addressed us, without looking up from her weaving. "Do not quarrel. We must be this close together for a while yet, and it won't help the situation if you're arguing."

We nodded, and were silent for a moment. Then my mother spoke again, with a smile. "I will tell you the story of the Gondorian man who was lost in a sandstorm here in Harad, and stumbled straight into my house, when I was a girl."

* * *

'It was the second sandstorm of the year. We barely had time to clear away the drifts, when another was upon us. That was the arid year, when all the water left the earth, and many people took ill and died from the heat. The fever had already taken two of my brothers.

My family and I were sitting up that night; one can never sleep during a sandstorm. The wind is too fierce, and the sand is too angry. It's putting on a mad performance, and it wants you awake to experience it.

We were startled by a pounding on the door. We knew that this could not be the wind, for no wind makes a noise like that. It whistles, and it sighs, and it murmurs, but is doesn't pound. Someone was outside in the storm.

My father exchanged glances with my older brothers. They had their blades at hand. Father opened the door only a crack, so that this person could just squeeze through, but the sand found its way in, and our floor looked like the desert outside before the door was closed again.

I knew at once that this man was not from Harad. He was very tall, with dark hair, and pale pale skin, and he wore strange garments, the likes of which I had never set eyes on before.

"He must be a foreigner," my brother remarked, laughing. "No man of Harad is stupid enough to be out in a sandstorm."

"Indeed," the stranger replied, seemingly unfazed by my brother's insult. "I am from Gondor. You may keep your hold on your swords if it puts you at ease, but I have no intention of harming you. I was simply on my way North, and I was caught in the storm without shelter."

"What are you doing in Harad, man of the North?" My father asked suspiciously.

"I am passing through, on my way back to Gondor," he answered. "I have visited most of the regions of Middle-earth, and Harad is no exception."

"So you visit Harad for pleasure, when you must be aware of the relationship between our land and Gondor? We have long been enemies."

"That is the sad truth," the man replied. "But I am not here to make war. I'm naught but a traveller, seeking refuge from a rather fierce sandstorm."

"And what is your name, traveller?" My father inquired.

"I am known as Thorongil," the man replied.

My father nodded, face still set in a serious, though less suspecting expression. "I am Malhad." He motioned for him to take a seat. "You may stay until the storm has passed."

Thorongil nodded his thanks and sat down straight across from me. He smiled. "You are a very pretty little girl. Here, I have a gift for you." He opened his pack and started rummaging around. I giggled. This man seemed very strange to me, and he spoke to us in the very polite form of Haradrian, which was usually reserved for military leaders, or kings, or lords.

"Here we are," he said, handing me a small, white object. "This is yours."

I turned it over in my hands. It was a little horse, just fitting in the palm of my hand, carved out of some sort of soft stone. As I examined it, I marvelled at the great amount of detail that had obviously gone into it, right down to the patterns on its reigns and saddle. Its mane was blowing in the wind, and it was frozen in mid-run. I had never received such a splendid gift in my life.

"That is from Rohan," Thorongil told me. "Do you know about Rohan?"

"A little," I answered. I knew it was near Gondor, and that the people who lived their were bad, like the Gondorians - even though this Gondorian seemed quite nice, and this little horse didn't look at all evil to me. "Thank you very much, sir," I bowed my head.

He left in the late morning, when the sand had finally ceased its blowing, and disappeared Northwards, over the dunes. I never forgot that night, though, and I never will, as long as I live.'

* * *

"Is that true, Mother?" I asked, when she had finished her story. "Did a Gondorian really come to your house and give you a horse?"

"Of course he did!" She scoffed. "I still have the horse, I'll show it to you later."

"But why was he nice, Mother?" I wondered, puzzled. "Aren't Northern men bad men? That's what everyone says, after all."

"Well everyone has not met a Gondorian," Mother replied firmly. "And if they had, their views might change. Maybe not all of them are evil like everyone thinks. Besides, in the North they think we're the bad ones."

"That's stupid," I laughed.

"No," Mother said. "You're always hearing bad things about the people you're at war with, so that you'll want to go to war with those people. We tell stories here about Gondorians doing evil deeds, and they tell the same stories in Gondor, but with the Haradrim as the evil ones. Most of it isn't true, but people like to believe it anyway."

I thought about this as I sat amidst the raging sand. Perhaps there were two sides after all. Then I thought that this man who had been so nice to my mother could be killing my uncles or my father right then.

I guess war is like a sandstorm; it roars, and blows, and blocks out the sun, and when it's over, you have to clear away the drifts it makes, until another comes, and it was useless anyway. Maybe if everyone would start giving, instead of taking, like this Northern man gave to my mother, things would be different. At least we could weather the storm together.

Fin.

A/N: I searched and searched, but I couldn't find anything on the language of the Haradrim that I could use for a name, so, for better or for worse, I gave the mother's father a sort of Arabic sounding name. I went over this about a million times before posting it, but I still couldn't get the end right, so apologies there. Once again, all feedback is appreciated! Thank you for reading my story!