Augh, ok so it's been nearly a month since I last wrote one of these. I'll shoot for a lofty goal of one a day from now on. Aim for the moon and all that. I'll try and leave the document open all day so I've no excuse when inspiration strikes. Yeah, that'll work.
Our group marched an unsteady line over the ash-grey dunes. Carmichael was behind me, his jacket draped over his head like a shawl, to shield him from the wind at our backs. Ahead of me was Mrs. Greenhead, long pencil-skirt flapping in the wind, strands of her kinky orange hair waving off her normally impenetrable updo, like a few seeds clinging to a dandelion. She and the rest of the procession spread out before me, silhouetted against this place's sun. This place's weird, huge, blurry, pale grey sun, a sight I suppose few humans have ever seen. The little kiddies walked in a big mass in front of Mrs. Greenhead, while us older kids sort of scattered around the perimeter. To protect them, though none of us knew from what. My younger brother was up there, windbreaker tied around his waist, white tee, neat black hair. With him were LaRange, that girl from my history class, and someone I didn't recognize. I figured I should be up there with him, but it was a pointless gesture. Everyone by now was lost in their own world, everyone but me watching the figure at the front of the procession, just in front of Dr. Tongs. Our guide.
His robes and long cape rippled about him with an energy that belied their unadorned, solid blackness. His cane, which looked like iron the one time I saw it up close, somehow supported him over the thin, fine sand as he marched, energetic yet monumental. All of his clothes were black and all encompassing, save for the white leather mask with the two tinted goggles buckled over his head wrap, just below the wide-brimmed hat. The thick clouds kept this place from being as hot as it could have been, yet it was still uncanny how he was able to stand erect and keep such a pace in all of those heavy, black clothes. Something about him wasn't natural, we all knew. Yet somehow, he'd walked right into that one small, long caved-in depression in all of our hearts, the place for a person who knew unequivocally what was going on, whose will was buttressed by obvious experience , and who was possessed of a modest, self-evident benevolence. A person who held the legendary chalice of simple competence and the crown of common responsibility. A person who, most important of all, was someone else, and thus could be followed and blamed with wholehearted fervor. Yes, we'd have followed him through hell, as the old saying goes. I guess, in a sense, that's exactly what happened.
I remember how we met him...
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