Dust: (Part I: Sandstorms) (3 page)

Sandstorms

The origin of recent meteorological phenomena is so unlike anything that existed on this planet before that our previous knowledge is almost certainly irrelevant. Yet, even so, it may be instructive to explain some of those old ideas to give some feeling for the things we once thought we understood.

The sandstorm or duststorm used to be a relatively common occurrence in certain regions of the globe, constrained mainly to certain arid regions. Deserts and drylands were the main sources of these events but they could often blow out over hundreds of miles. They would start with strong winds driven by atmospheric pressure zones. Regions around the Horse latitudes or subtropical high being notoriously prone.

These areas were associated with the subtropical anticyclone, where high-altitude currents moving toward the poles caused the large-scale descent of air creating a high pressure zone. The planet’s atmosphere was relatively stable then and three large convection cells provided the steady circulation of air from the equator to the poles.

At the equator the ground would heat the air causing it to rise and be forced outwards to the North and South. As this air travelled away from the Earth’s surface it cooled and would fall back under gravity at between 30 and 35 degrees North and 30 and 35 degrees South. These regions, on either side of the equator, created high pressure zones known for their hot, dry weather and referred to as the Horse latitudes.

The name was believed to derive from the "dead
 horse" ritual carried out by seamen of old, bound for the West across the Atlantic Now it is impossible to tell how much truth there is in it but it was once said that the sailors would throw a straw-stuffed effigy overboard as their ship passed this latitude.

In those times the crew received an advance on their wages from the ship’s paymaster when they boarded and it would take a month or more to work off this ‘dead horse’ debt. The sailing time to reach these tropics took a little over a month in those days and hence the ceremonial jettisoning of the “dead horse”.  As the boats sailed through these latitudes the sailors knew they had worked off their debts and were nearing their destination.

In those days the oceans must have seemed an endless stretch of raw power, unforgiving, ceaselessly accepting of battered souls. Those sailors could hardly have imagined the sight of once mighty bays, choked with sand, dry as bone, absorbed out of existence.

Abiding names such as Sahara or Gobi, the world’s great deserts, had existed of course, sandstorms blew across their surface, but they must have seemed mere fantasies for those sailors. The wind they knew swept deep currents, adventure, salt and spray.

The dry, falling air in the horse latitudes had a quite different effect when it passed over sandy expanses. There it would lift the loosely held particles of sand, at first causing them to vibrate slightly, throwing them up into the air. A stronger bluster of wind might then cause some granules to saltate or leap up, causing skirls of sand close to the ground. The friction caused by the saltation of sand particles induces a weak static electric field, giving the dust a negative charge relative to the ground. This then loosens more sand particles which begin to be borne into the air.

If the wind is sustained, this process will cause the granules of sand to repeatedly strike the ground, loosening and breaking off smaller particles of dust. These dust particles then begin to travel in suspension as they are carried up and along by the wind.

Where the wind is stronger still the suspension will become thick in the air and a population of dust grains will travel by a mixture of different mechanisms, including suspension, saltation and creep. This often created massive walls of dust and sand, propelled along at great speed.

The exfoliating nature of this wind-driven sand is quite immense and combined with the heat and arid conditions already in place in a desert the results for humans were generally devastating. As cooler air passes over heated ground it becomes unstable and in desert areas, dust and sand storms commonly appeared in the wake of intense thunderstorms. The dust and sand thrown up by these winds could be lifted as high as 20,000 feet.

I had studied much of this. I had spent hours sweating over books on Atmospheric Physics but none of it added to anything. The chaos that now reined was unintelligible to anyone. No doubt the same fundamental laws still governed the movement of individual particles but the planet as a whole was out of control. It had happened to fast no-one knew what drove it. Every day was the same, a constant swirling sandstorm. We had given up expecting anything else. All the understanding and explanation in the world would have done little to change the reality in any case.

As a child I had viewed sandstorms as something mysterious, exotic. They occurred in far flung locations and devoured everything in their path. They happened to Pharaohs and their armies, they descended on weary adventurers trekking across the desert, they swept down and changed the course of battles, cloaking the enemy and filling soldier’s boots, they were not something real.

This was as much as I knew about sandstorms as a child. I had trouble picturing the ferocity.  The largest stretch of sand I had seen was the thin beach near our house. The seaside I knew was mainly rocks and cliffs. The power of the ocean, waves smashing against rock, that I could understand but a wave of dust was something else altogether.

I remembered the two of us as children. We had stood at the edge of the cliffs by the yellow house.

‘I dare you,’ he said.

We were a metre or two from the edge but close enough that my head swam as I looked over at the pounding sea below.

‘I dare you to throw it,’ he said.

‘Maloney is not an it,’ I said defensively. ‘He is a He.’

I was holding Maloney tight, protecting him. His fat body squirmed in my thin arms.

Abel looked at me. I knew he could snatch Maloney from me easily.

There was a warm wind blowing in from the sea. I wore a summer dress and felt a tingle across my skin.             

‘Don’t worry,’ Abel spoke matter-of-factly, ‘Maloney can fly.’ He stretched out his arm towards me.

‘No he can’t.’ I desperately wanted to believe him. There was something magnetic about Abel. His dark hair and pale face stood out three dimensional against the scene. For a moment it seemed everything else was a painted stage, two dimensional.  I was drawn into his vision, pictured myself standing on the cliff top, on the brink, releasing Maloney to fly free out across the sea. I knew it was not true.

‘Give him me.’ Abel took a step closer to me and I felt the warm wind lick at me again. It blew between my legs and inside my dress. I felt a shiver as my body tingled. It was only when Abel was close.

It was impossible to resist him, I knew that much. Meekly I transferred Maloney into his arms. He lifted him delicately. I could see the love with which he handled him. In comparison, my movements felt crude, unloving as I had grasped Maloney, struggling with him. In Abel’s arms he was docile.

With a brisk movement Abel jumped to the cliff edge. I gasped, unsure if I was afraid for Abel or Maloney or both or neither. Abel was fearless. His body trembled but only with excitement, with energy. The same energy that animates the world.

I felt my clothes fizzle against my body. I could not tear my eyes from Abel, standing on the lip, the absolute edge of the void. He held Maloney up over the edge.

‘He can fly,’ he said. ‘He can fly.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

He let go.

Maloney left his grip and I saw it was true. The cat lifted up into the sky and flew out across the ocean. Slowly he picked up speed. We both stood and watched, entranced. I was standing on the edge with Abel and he had his arm around my waist. My thin dress felt wet with excitement. To see Maloney fly so gracefully. To be standing there on that cliff with Abel.

When we returned home they never asked about Maloney. I’m not sure if we would have told them. I knew that cat’s cannot fly. I knew that and yet I witnessed it. I saw Maloney disappear across the ocean.  I stood there with Abel.

We had been able to see miles then, as children. We had been able to see forever. Forever was the future and it stretched on and on. Now I could see no more than a few metres. The dust blinded everything.

Somewhere, though always well hidden, this future had been in us. Even as children our future had been enfolded, everything was already contained in that moment on the cliff, everything that happened after. We were not wrong to believe in the future, only optimistic to believe in that particular version.

Who knows if it is fate or the invisible, I don’t know how to explain the peculiar inevitably with which things happen any more than the next person, all we can do is try to explain the events that happen, as simply as possible, and hope that for someone we might conjure the correct impression.

Bonmont

It was three days travel to Bonmont. He told me, apologetically, that I would not be let out of the cabin until we got there. I simply nodded. I had no reason to contest my captivity. Outside was as much of a prison and he would look after me well enough.

With time on my hands I explored the inside of my cell. The space was well utilised and drawers and storage had been cleverly concealed in the walls. There were no windows but I surmised that the door set in the wall on the far side from the bed led to the outside world and was the entrance through which I had been carried. Another door on the opposite wall presumably led into the interior of the vehicle and the driving seat. Several times I felt the engine shudder to a halt but they never paused for more than half an hour. The less time anything stood still in that wind the better it could keep on moving.

I was surprised to discover a number of books amongst his possessions. What would he need with books out here? Were these private belongings or were they plunder from some previous engagement?

I struggled to picture him having any sort of private life. Despite his kindly face there was no substance to him. He was the leader because he did not allow space for a personality. No doubt to his men he projected an image but, as with any true leader, he was beneath it all simply a vassal for power. 

Amongst the goods I recognised the cover of a well-thumbed book. I started reading. It had been years before, as a student, that I first came across this novel and the arch-aristocratic style now gave me a wry smile.

The habit of reading however had slipped in me and it took an immense effort to concentrate on the words on the page. The letters and phrases blew about on hidden currents and it took determination to marshal them into a plot.

The novel told the adventures of a nobleman torn between artistic expression and the real world. Inexplicably, after having lived several lifetimes, the main character awoke to find himself transformed into a woman. This transformation complete, the character lived on several more centuries. I had forgotten this important twist in the book and now I wondered if I had really read it all those years before. None of it seemed familiar and yet I remembered it as an important novel, a cornerstone in feminist thought.

How foreign that concept was. All the isms that had long since been buried in the sand. When no-one has any rights then everyone is equal. Perhaps that is the only way it can be.

Next to the bed there was a small area of floor where I could stretch. I decided to do some exercises. I felt rested now and I was aware that I might get comfortable if I was not careful. Comfort was death and I was not ready for that, not until I faced Abel.

The time passed quickly and I read more of the book. Its structure was curious, hinged in its middle, folded around a singular event that was both explicatory and mystifying. It felt very much like my own life, everything came back to that central hinge, filtered through a singular lens of before and after.

Despite the apparent connection to my own travails it gave me a queasy, unpleasant feeling to read such obvious fictions. To imagine some creature not only having the time but the inclination to invent these tenacious lies. Had I watched a film where the author had walked into the river, her pockets laden with rocks?

There was a small bell rigged up in next to the door and every time I pressed it someone would appear to ask what I wanted. Having the bell there delighted me and aside from the obvious limitations of my captivity I think I would have been perfectly happy there for some time, simply ringing the bell and waiting on the arrival of a man.

The men had clearly been ordered to cater to my wishes.  I was tempted to make outrageous demands ask for sweet meats or beverages that would be impossible to deliver but they all had such idiotic expressions that I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

I presumed that the leader must have some other place to sleep as he only appeared once in the time it took to reach Bonmont. He was very straightforward. I had been unsure if he would visit at all but in the end I suppose he had to, for the moral of the men.

He was altogether more hesitant than in my fantasy. He paused as he removed his clothes.

‘You understand,’ he said.

I couldn’t think of any answer for a question like that. I could see that he would not take me as I had imagined.

He was gentle with me and unduly worried about my wellbeing, as if afraid of hurting me. How many others had he taken in that layer? We were both animals after all. I did my best to excite his passion. I trembled, I cowered, I breathed fearfully, I did everything to become insipid, inspire his anger, provoke him, but he remained stiff, courteous. There was a fire in him but I was unable to ignite it.

It was only later that I realised he was probably mindful of my connection to Abel. He was afraid of the consequences, afraid that anything more than professional rigour, any enjoyment, would put him in a weak position later, could kill him. He was probably right.

By the time we reached Bonmont I had nearly finished the book. I wondered if the author had ever visited the long vanished place that bore the protagonists name. It seemed strange now that a location could have any sort of meaningful name, anything other than sand to distinguish the landscape.

The vehicle stopped. The door was opened and there was no dust.

We were parked inside a hangar. My eyes took a moment to adjust to the gloom outside. Assembled in front of the vehicle’s door stood a group of men who I took to be the unit I had been travelling with. They had stripped down from their thick, dust covered military garb and now wore slack civilian clothes.

Without exception they looked tough. They bore that masculine resolve, a chiselled willpower that I could not help but find attractive. I remembered their hands all over me, lifting me through the sand, and I smiled from my captivity in the rear of the cabin. They shifted deferentially.

The leader appeared behind them.

‘We will stop here for a few days,’ he said. ‘We will use the time to find the information we need.’

I stepped out of the rear of the vehicle and into the hangar. The men stepped aside. The air was clear but without the vehicles filter there were inevitably particulates in suspension. I could taste the dry dust as it entered my nose.

‘It appears a small number of inhabitants have remained in the town.’ He ignored the other men talking directly to me. ‘I would like you to join me in interrogating them.’

‘What makes you think they will talk to you,’ I said. I wanted to see how he reacted, in front of the men. ‘I can speak to them on my own.’

I could sense the men tense at my disobedience. It gave me a thrill, to be disobedient, to mock his power. They could pounce on me and punish me, pound me senseless but instead they had to stand and take my facetious swipes.

He didn’t respond to my comment but curtly turned his attention to two of his men, his deputies I presumed. He made a precise motion with the glove of his right hand, a command, an order related to me. I did not understand what it signified but presumed I was to be watched.

It was a joke in any case, this captivity. They knew that I was no more their prisoner than they were mine. Where could any one of us wander off to? I was not going to walk out into the dust any more than they would, tied as we were to the task of finding Abel.

As my eyes adjusted to the gloom of the hangar I was able to see the rest of their vehicles, dark steel beasts, huddled in formation, ready to make an escape should things go wrong with the locals.

In total they had five vehicles. The leader’s was the biggest, from my new vantage I could tell its true girth, it housed more than one living quarter such as I had been held in. Presumably it was from this vehicle that he ran operations. It looked like it might even hold some form of communication device.

All the trucks were heavily armoured but two of them were more like tanks. A light force like this would still need the ability to defend itself, to tackle blockades or road blocks, to threaten indigenous populations that they might encounter. What would the people of Bonmont be able to tell us?

At another signal from the leader the men disbanded, disappearing back into the vehicles to prepare the crates for loading. Only the leader and his two deputies remained. He took my hand. I was surprised that he would be so delicate, in front of his men.

‘We can work together,’ he said, lowering his gaze on to me. ‘We all want the same thing after all.’

‘What makes you think that?’ I was probing him hoping that he would react, shout at me, strike me, but he simply smiled and dropped my hand.

He led me to the rear of the hangar, his deputies following several paces behind. A door led into a passage, stairs, plastic sheets and connecting tarpaulins hastily taped to form shelter, store rooms, dark corners, a warren of makeshift corridors constructed to ensure a route around the town without the need to step outside.

Although the makeshift passageways did keep the worst of the storm from our faces the air was still thick with dust. Only the most intensive of purification could stop the finer particles from finding their way into a space. I wrapped my thin scarf across my nose and mouth to prevent coughing.

We walked slowly, close together, like a couple might, going out for an evening in the old days. I fought the urge to slip my hand in the crook of his arm. We were not there for pleasure. His kind face focused straight ahead, intent on his purpose, the information he needed, the next step.

Turn by turn we entered buildings that were more substantial, stone and concrete replaced plastic sheeting as walls. We pushed passed sealed double doors. There was no-one around and yet electric lights shone from the roof.

‘They have energy,’ he said, a grim look on his face.

Energy was everything, even in the best placed cities there was a constant struggle for power. I wondered what sort of people lived here that could afford to waste light so frivolously. What secret had they retained to power these unneeded bulbs?

A distant sound started to filter down the corridors, a frothing hubbub, shouts of delight, exclamations. Hesitant pictures formed in my mind. I had imagined no more than a few weakened survivors out here but now I could see there might be some more substantial force. Could Abel be here? I had assumed he was somewhere further out but had we not travelled far enough already? Was everywhere not a wilderness now in any case?

We walked along corridors of polished stone, glass divides and open spaces interspersed by brash art works, gargantuan sculptures, fountains, staircases and overhanging balconies. The arcing lines of the building swept us along. It must have been a corporate office at some point, an oil company no doubt given the expense and the location.

It managed, simultaneously, to suggest lavish expenditure and restraint, there was nothing corpulent, no artistry behind anything; the extravagance went only so far as was necessary to prove the point - that the people who built this had money.

The dust here was thinner, the surplus energy evidently ran some sort of ventilation. This then was their hub, where they congregated, this disused headquarters of a provincial headquarters of a long obsolete oil company.

Despite the grandeur and the executive minimalism of the building I was still taken aback when we entered the atrium. I had thought we were on ground level but now, as we came into this space, I saw we were several floors up.

The atrium formed a negative space inside the building. The building was at least ten stories high and an outer wall of glass stretched up in front of us protecting the space from the storm outside. On each floor a balcony, such as the one we stood on, overlooked a reception area on the ground floor below. This created a column of clear air several hundred metres high.

I could not remember the last time I had seen such a huge expanse of clear space. There was barely any dust here and looking over the balcony I saw splashes of green. Could it be possible that there were plants alive down there?

In my momentary shock my other senses had stalled as my eyes greedily drank in this clear expanse. Now, as I adjusted to the space, the echoing sound reverberated in me. A large crowd of people filled the reception foyer. They heaved to and fro in waves, a festive, drunken mood floating up to us several floors above. Shouts and music leapt upward.

We shared a worried look. The energy they must be using, to keep this air clean alone, could run a small village. The people looked like ants, so far below, but there was every possibility they hid something far more dangerous.             

Winding our way down the stairs we entered the foyer through automatic double doors. Everyone was dressed casually and held a glass in their hand. They ignored us talking loudly in small groups.

We pushed a path through the revellers. The music thumped and it felt as if there was no centre. We stopped to question several groups - who was in charge? Was this the main settlement? Was there some event they were celebrating or commemorating?

The answers we got were fragmented, nonsensical, but they pointed deeper into the crowd so we got the sense there was someone, somewhere that was responsible for this gathering. Bit by bit we reached an entourage surrounding a raised area, like a small stage.

This area had been roughly cordoned off and was less crowded than the surrounding thronging crush. At the centre of the stage was a seating area with comfortable looking armchairs where a withered old woman sat half hidden in the voluptuous cushions.