I stumble forward. The winds of the desert are calling to me. The low humming of the music plays across the endless seas of sand, in a strange and rhythmic piping. The deep drumming on the dunes, the howling and hissing on the heights, it draws men. Ensnares them. Enchants them. The cry of these lost and lonely places is no natural thing, and once a man has heard this song he cannot forget it, no more than he can forget his own name. So it is with me.

Omar pulls me back.

“Zuhair!” he snaps. His voice is harsh, hard as rock amid the shifting sands. “Control yourself!”

I blink. 

The spell is lifted, and the song is gone. All that is left is the rolling dunes, crescent-shaped, a rich red in the light of the setting sun. On the horizon looms the Mountains, their slopes grey and tumbled. Omar insists the land before the Mountains is our best chance of finding an oasis, and thus fellow travellers. We are two days lost in the desert, and this is not kindly terrain for men without a camel.

“It has happened again,” says Omar. It is not a question.

“Yes,” I reply. “And stronger.”

Both of us have our head-cloths drawn tight across our noses, a shield against the sun and wind. Our faces are hidden. But I can see his eyes, and I can see the fear written therein. 

He nods, and looks over his shoulder. Behind us lies a trail of trudging footprints, impressed upon the sand. In one respect, fortune has smiled upon the most hapless of men. The bandits who accosted Omar and I two days ago, stealing our camel and our trade-goods, have not deigned to follow.

Or perhaps they laughed at us fleeing into the desert. Have we not traded swift death by sword for slow death by hunger and thirst? Maybe we have. But Omar is no fool, and young though I am, I do not cower easily. Neither of us has yet surrendered to despair, and we retain meagre supplies of food and water. Enough, perhaps, to find Omar’s oasis.

Alas, the desert sets many snares.

***

We find neither caves for shelter, nor wood for fire. At last, we rest at the base of a worn cliff-face. With backs to the rock, we nibble our dates and sip from the water-bottle, and huddle in woollen cloaks against the freezing night. The moon has risen, its pale crescent gleaming amid innumerable stars. The moonlight baths the dunes with a silver hue, even as all else lies in shadow. A sight both beautiful and soothing. Despite the chill, it puts me in mind for a story.

I have some skill as a tale-weaver, and ere we take our turns asleep, I tell Omar of a fair maiden and her journey to the moon upon the back of a monstrous Roc. 

“Did you hear that from some caravan?” Omar asks, when I am finished.

“No,” I say. “It lay within my heart all along.”

He yawns, and curls up in his cloak. Soon he is snoring.

Having the first watch thrust upon me, I walk back and forth along the base of the cliff. I always struggle to sleep in the chill hours of the night, when my mind is most active and my hands most eager for tasks. But Omar’s beard is flecked with grey, and he needs his rest, so I do not begrudge him his slumber. Would that we had the walls of a desert-cave around us though…

I blow warmth into my hands, and sing softly to myself. Or maybe to the crystal multitude of stars. The night-sky is as if strewn with diamonds and pearls, fit for the adornment of a Great Queen or Princess.

Then by chance my gaze turns east. Far off among the sands, I see a flicker that is not a star. No sky-glimmer this, but a light dancing atop a single dune. One that burns a gloomy red.

I rub my eyes. I see it still.

A night-time fire, alone in the desert.

I rush to Omar, and shake him awake.

He curses me, but I point and the scolding ceases. He too sees what I see.

“We must look closer,” I tell him.

Omar frowns. “It may be bandits.”

“Bandits out here? They did not follow us before.”

“We might be close to an oasis.”

“You and your oasis. If there were one, the bandits would already be watering themselves, not lighting fires out among the sands.”

“So who is it then?”

“I do not know. But I do know that a fire is warm and the night is cold. I do not wish to shiver needlessly beneath the stars. Let us go and look!”

Omar shakes his head. “I do not like this.”

“Then I shall go alone. But remember, beyond tonight we have few dates and less water. We sit in desperate straits, facing the jaws of death upon every side. An old man’s caution might yet see the desert-jackals feast upon our carcasses.”

“Very well. But we must still approach with care. Else a young man’s rashness might prove even worse than an old man’s caution.”

Omar shall eat these words later. But for now I say nothing.  

***

Omar and I creep swift and silent across the moonlit dunes. The night-time breeze whispers in my ears, softly, so softly. This time I pay it no heed. The allure of fire is greater. The promise of warmth beckons, and perhaps help – a chance to escape the desert.

The flickering light grows ever-nearer. It has a strange glow, this fire. It is like no blaze I have ever seen. Not here the bright gold and orange tongues of flame, but only a deep and gloomy red, reminiscent of the sands themselves. Or perhaps of blood. But whatever the colour, it is fire, and heat is what matters. At night in the desert, heat is life.

The light sits near the crest of a vast flat-topped dune. Omar grasps my shoulder, but I shake him off. I climb this last hill of sand, a fresh vigour in my limbs.

At the top, I find the fire. And a woman.

This is no ordinary woman.

Her face is unveiled, her hair free. She wears neither jewellery nor pearls, and yet I see she is beautiful beyond all measure. Her skin is smooth, her lips full. Her eyes are like the shimmer of star-light. She sits cross-legged before the blood-red fire, limbs clad in a dress both long and black. It runs so long it obscures her feet.

She smiles, and with one finger beckons me closer.

I gasp, my heart fluttering.

Boasts aside, I have never lain with a woman. But as with anyone yet new to manhood, I have my desires. I long to bed down beside her, to run my hand through that silken hair, to caress the softness of her bosom. To taste the sweet nectar of her lips, as the heat of the fire warms our bodies all night long.

“Greetings, fellow traveller.” 

Omar’s voice is once again there, to break my train of thought. But now I can only curse him. Would that this woman and I were alone. Even now, I feel my body responding to her closeness. The hunger rises within me…

But she only smiles.

“Why, two men, abroad in the desert.” Each word drips like purest honey from her lips. “A night to remember indeed. Will you warm yourselves by my fire?”

“It is a strange fire,” says Omar. “I have never seen its like before.”

“The desert is a strange place. But come. Together we shall tell stories beneath the stars, even as the winds call to us among the sands.”

“Yes,” I say. “For the beautiful things of this world are so many, but the hours to sing of them so few.”

Her laughter is like the tinkling of silver bells.

“You are most well-spoken, young traveller. Tell me, what is your name?”

“Zuhair. My gruff companion is Omar.”

“Then you may sit beside me, Zuhair. For I have much to sing, and much to tell.”

Before Omar can interrupt, I seat myself upon the fireside blanket, alongside her. Omar himself frowns, and squats down on the sand.

I feel the warmth of the fire upon my face. I feel too the presence of the woman at my side. Perhaps by the time this night is over, I shall have her in my arms indeed.

“I shall start the weaving of the tales,” she says.

And so she begins. In a high, clear voice, she tells of the desert in ancient times. For such as us, the story rings with comforting familiarity. It is the song of shifting seas of sand, and of those who traverse its vast and lonely expanse, making land-voyages upon foot or else upon the back of the camel. The desert ever-changes and ever-remains, for it consumes and flows, hides and devours, and even as it buries rocks and temples, the long passage of years grants it memory beyond that of man. The sun and stars wheel overhead, and the land is baked and frozen, caught in the endless cycle of light and dark. Within the desert, all must survive the harsh conditions of this life, finding sustenance as best they might.

I see Omar’s eyelids are drooping, and his head nodding.

The woman must have noticed it too, for she pauses her tale.

“You grow weary, my friend.”

Omar shakes himself awake. 

“No, no. I am fine.”

A strange look comes into the woman’s eyes. A red gleam, as if they reflect the very flames of the fire.

“Zuhair,” she says. “I request a favour.”

“Anything.”

“I wish for more heat. Fetch us sticks for firewood.”

“But where might I find these?”

She points. “Beyond the second sand dune, you shall find brown and withered shrubs. A mere armful shall suffice.”

I leap to my feet. 

“As you wish.”

As I ready to leave, I swear I see her lick her lips.

***

The shrubs are where she says. Had I found this place earlier, Omar and I might have had warmth from the start of the night. And yet, would we have ventured away from our own fire, to seek the mysterious light in the desert? Would I have even met this woman? I do not know.

I take my time, and gather as many sticks and snapped branches as I can carry. Thus I shall impress her all the more with my devotion to duty.

But as I am ready to return, my arms weighed down with firewood, I hear a sound that chills my blood.

A man’s scream, ringing through the night.

Omar.

I drop the heavy burden, and run.

***

What I see shall haunt my memories until the end of days.

Omar lies sprawled upon his back. His belly has been slit open length-wise, as with the most savage of sword-cuts. The entrails are exposed from ribs to groin, and his blood bubbles all about him, in dark and hideous pools. But he is still alive. Helplessly, he squirms upon the sand. Gurgling comes from his throat.

Over him bends the woman. 

She thrusts her face again and again into the terrible wound, tearing at the intestines with her teeth and chittering with glee. Blood stains her slender form. Blood drenches the folds of her black dress, and glistens upon the backs of her hands. Hands with talons long and sharp, cruel as knives. She claws at her hapless victim. Eagerly, she devours.

In the light of the fire, red and fell, she feasts upon flesh.

But Omar knows I am here. He turns his head, and with one last despairing effort he croaks.

“Ghoul!”

In the same moment, the woman lifts her own head. Her eyes meet mine.

What a fool I was. How could I have ever dreamed this monster was a woman?

Her face is a bloodied mask, and her eyes burn with the brightness of molten gold. I see now not only the terrible talons, but her feet are hooved as if she were a donkey. 

She rises to her feet.

The hunger, the raw hunger, it is writ upon her face. With those savage talons, she will slit me open, and thence devour me as she has devoured Omar. I have no weapons. I cannot fight her with mere fists.

All I can do is run.

I turn heels and flee.

***

I run through the night. Heart pounding, chest heaving, I run on and on, across the mighty moonlit dunes. I dare not look back, or stop. Any moment, I know, the cruel claws will catch me. Cold dread rules me indeed.

And yet I hear no pursuit.

All I hear is the soft tread of my own shoes, the hiss of the sand as it shifts and gives way. And the call of the desert winds, luring me ever-onwards through the darkness.

My mouth is dry. Then I remember Omar had the water-bottle.

Newfound terror grips me.

I am alone, in the desert. Without water, and a ghoul upon my trail.

***

I awake to sun in my eyes.

I lie sprawled upon the sand. An outcrop of rock stands nearby. I do not remember falling asleep. I must have run on, until finally collapsing from exhaustion. My head aches, and my throat runs dry as dust. 

If I cannot find an oasis, I shall die this day.

Wearily, I sit up.

Then I see her. She stands apart, still clad in that black dress. The blood has vanished, as have the talons. Were it not for one thing, a traveller might think her an ordinary woman lost in the desert – but that is one thing the ghoul does not hide. A set of hoof-prints leads back across the dunes.

“Do not flee,” she says. 

Once more, her words have the sweetness of honey. But I can only shudder.

“You have come to devour me.”

“I have dined well upon your companion, and you have given me a pleasant chase. For such generosity, let me offer a small token in return.”

With each hand, she holds out a water-bottle and a bag of dates.

I blink.

“What trick is this?”

“No trick.”

This ghoul has eaten Omar before my very eyes, has pursued me across the sands, and yet now offers me life? Strange indeed. But were I to refuse, I would face certain death beneath the cruel desert sun.

If the ghoul deceives me, I shall die swiftly and terribly another way. Is that truly worse than death by thirst? I do not know.

I sigh. 

I clamber to my feet, and move over to her. I expect the tear of the talons any moment, but it never comes. I first take the water-bottle, and then the bag of dates. Then slowly, so slowly, I back away.

The ghoul only smiles.

***

The heat of the day passes, baking the sands with furnace-fury. I shelter in the shadow of the rocky outcrop, resting as best I might, and awaiting the coolness of evening. The water and dates refresh me, and grant me renewed vigour. Certainly, neither are poisoned.

But the feeling of dread never leaves. The ghoul still lurks nearby. It is out of sight but I know she is there. Waiting.

Waiting for what? She might have sliced me open, and devoured me, even as I devour this bag of dates. My life is forfeit, and I lie beyond all hope of escape.

Unless… she toys with me. Well-fed from her last victim, she sees me as a mere source of amusement. Hence the gift of food and water. She prolongs the game. And when the amusement ends, when hunger finally gets the better of her…

Despite the heat, I can only shiver.

***

I emerge at last from my shelter. The air is cooler and night beckons.

Time for another race across the sands.

I resume my run. Not the desperate rush of previously, but a steady lope both careful and cautious. At intervals, I stop and look behind. By the time the moon has risen, I am far from my shelter. I see now only the silvered heights of the dunes and the shadows of the valleys. Above, the stars are blazing. There is no sign of the ghoul.

And so it continues. I am weary, of course. Unimaginably weary. But I will not lie down and offer my throat to the monster. If it wishes for a game, a game I shall give it. Perhaps I shall find Omar’s oasis before the ghoul finds me. It is a pleasant thought, and one I cling to throughout the long and lonely night.

But it has been three days since the bandit attack, and even in the prime of youth, I cannot keep running forever. Soon, I must take to walking. Slower, ever slower. Footstep by footstep, through the shivering sand. But I urge myself onwards, driven by raw force of will. The desert winds, they call to me too. Haunting and beautiful. If I die with that music ringing in my ears, perhaps I shall at least die without fear. 

The sun has not yet risen by the time I stumble to a halt. I squat upon the side of a sand-dune, and pour the last of the water down my throat. I lick my cracked lips. If this is my last night, so be it.

“I had hoped you would get further.”

I leap to my feet.

She is standing atop the previous dune, a black and terrible shape outlined against the stars.

“You wish to devour me?” I call out. “I shall die fighting.”

My words are hollow, and she knows it. She does not even deign to reply. Step by hoofed step, the ghoul descends towards me. 

“Come no closer!” I bark.

The talons extend from her hands, sharp and cruel. There is movement, lightning-quick through the chill air. I leap back – just in time, as I feel dagger-cuts rake across my right cheek.

I reach for my face. It burns with pain, and I pull my hand away. Blood glistens darkly on my fingers.

The ghoul licks her claws clean of blood.

“You taste sweet,” she purrs. “I can eat you where you stand. Or you might run yet further. I like it when you run.”

Somehow, I muster the strength to flee once more.

***

I do not know how it happened, but no sooner than the sun has cast its first light over the horizon, than I see an encampment before me.

An entire caravan of merchants, no less. It is no mirage, but the real thing. My heart near bursts with joy. I am saved!

I run past the resting camels, and up to the Caravan Guards.

“A ghoul,” I shout. “A ghoul!”

The Guards frown in evident confusion. I am clearly no bandit, and yet I have run out of the desert, utterly unannounced.

And then all goes dark, and I collapse to the ground.

***

I awake in a tent, beneath a pile of blankets. I feel rested, more rested than I have been in days, and yet I am also ravenously hungry.

“He’s awake!” calls a voice.

“About time,” says another. “I thought he would never stir.”

Before long, I am sitting in the midst of curious merchants. A bowl of food is pressed into my hands. I must restrain myself from scoffing it whole – I have never tasted anything so delicious. All the while, I am pestered with questions.

The Caravan Guards have searched the surrounding land, and found no sign of the ghoul. Neither blood nor hoof-prints might be found.

I tell them every detail of my adventure, of the bandit attack and of Omar’s grisly fate. Most of all, I dwell upon my desperate race across the desert, pursued by the terrible monster.

“Had I not run across your camp,” I say, “it would now be feasting upon my flesh.”

I point to my right cheek as evidence.

And yet, despite everything, I am not sure they believe me. I think they murmur behind my back that I have gone mad with desert sun, and that my story is merely the ravings of an overly-wild imagination. And so I come back to live among people.

I am older now, and a skilled storyteller. You may believe what you will. But you can still see the dark scars upon my cheek, and if you venture out into the sands of the desert, you shall still hear the wind calling upon the dunes, playing the same ensnaring music. And should you go too far, why, you might even see the strange red glow of a fire in the distance. 

Flee it. For I know the ghoul stalks the desert still. And she is hungry.   

[Daniel Stride has a lifelong love of literature in general and speculative fiction in particular. He writes both short stories and poetry; his first novel, steampunk-flavoured dark fantasy Wise Phuul, was published in November 2016 by small UK press Inspired Quill, and a sequel, Old Phuul is due out in 2024. His short fiction has appeared in Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, Bards and Sages Quarterly, and SpecFicNZ anthology Te Korero Ahi Ka. He has enormous fondness for chocolate, cats, and the works of J.R.R. Tolkien, and can be found blogging at https://phuulishfellow.wordpress.com/. Daniel lives, in Dunedin, New Zealand.]