Zephyr

By Arnav Timsina

The ranger had not always known thirst. For years, he lived beneath the canopy of a tree that seemed to breathe life into the barren land around her. Her roots dug deep, her branches wide, her shade a sanctuary in a world of fire and sand. Beneath her he found rest, drinking from the cool pool that gathered at her roots, eating from the fruit that hung low in summer.

She was not just shelter – she was home. When the winds carried heat, her shade wrapped around him like an embrace. When the nights turned bitter, her branches shielded him from the howling cold. He would lie on the earth and watch her leaves tremble in the zephyr, whispering songs only he seemed to understand.

He spoke to her often, and in his own way, she answered. Not in words, but in the rustle of her leaves, in the fragrance of blossoms, in the stillness that made him forget the weight of the world. He had grown under her care, season after season, until the tree was no longer just a tree, she was his companion, his anchor, his quietest friend.

So when her leaves began to fall, when her shade grew thin, when even the roots that once fed him seemed brittle and dry, the ranger realised then, the world was changing. A dry spell had come, a drought whispered to arrive only once in centuries. Beyond the reach of her shadow, the land cracked into barrenness. 

The ranger could not simply watch. He knew that the ground beneath must have dried, and so she could no longer drink. She needed water carried to her, water from the oasis that traveling birds had sung about in their passing. If he could find it, he could save her. But to find it, he would have to leave her behind.

Before he set out, the tree gave him a gift: a vessel woven from her own leaves and vines, filled with her own water. It was meant to sustain him through his journey. But in giving, she grew thinner, drier, her branches less dense with leaves. He accepted the gift hesitantly, promising he would return with a larger vessel brimming with water. Then he left, and the tree waited.

The desert was merciless. Days scorched him, nights froze him, winds cut his skin. His feet blistered, his throat grew raw. And still he walked, carrying the leaf-bowl close. The water he has been carrying slowly depleted.

One day he found a half-dead scorpion twitching on the sand. Pity stirred him. Without knowing whether the creature was friend or foe, he tilted the bowl and let a drop of water fall into its mouth. Then another. But it wasn’t enough. The sun-scorched body craved more. The ranger weighed his chances, he could search for water tomorrow, or even the day after, but if the scorpion died now, every drop given would be wasted. So he made his choice. He poured out the rest, offering all he had to save it.

The scorpion revived, its strength returning. Relief flickered in the ranger, until the creature, sensing danger, lashed out. Its sting pierced him, and it fled into the sands. Fire spread through his veins. He collapsed, writhing, the leaf-bowl empty beside him. With sheer will he dragged himself upright. He could not afford to faint. Not without water. Not when the tree waited. In his burning eyes she appeared again – green, dense, alive, calling to him. But it was only the poison, draining him, dehydrating him, twisting visions through his mind. He had to find water. Somewhere.

As he staggered forward, the visions began to fade. The green form that had haunted his eyes resolved into truth. It wasn’t the tree at all, but a cactus. Thorned, forbidding, yet within, the rumor of water. Fevered and delirious, he pressed it until drops bled out. They cooled his throat, soothed the sting, but the cost was his own blood – dripping from the puncture wounds left by the cactus thorns. He wondered how he could bleed enough to fill a vessel for his tree. A few drops of water for so much pain, it seemed hopeless.

Just as despair began to close around him, a glimmer shone on the horizon.

An oasis. 

The oasis.

The one whispered by birds and winds. His heart surged. He staggered forward, then broke into a run. Each step churned up sand, each gasp tore through his chest, but the water shimmered just ahead, waiting. He pushed harder. But the closer he thought he came, the farther it slipped away. The glittering pool receded, cruel, vanishing like smoke.

After miles of a relentless and an unforgiving chase it struck him. This was no oasis. It was a mirage. A trick of light and heat, luring him deeper into the desert, farther from the tree. His knees buckled. He collapsed face-first into the burning sand. Darkness swelled.

He dreamed. The tree appeared before him – leafless, skeletal, surrounded by wasteland. Its branches reached skyward like a plea. He wanted to run to her, but his legs would not move.

He jolted awake, heart pounding. The image of her withered frame clung to him. He couldn’t let it be true. He must bring her water.

But his throat was raw, his body empty. He clawed at the memory of the cactus – thorns, pain, but life within. If he could find more, he might yet survive. He dragged himself forward, scanning desperately. 

There… another cactus, spined and stubborn in the sand. With trembling hands he pressed and squeezed, ignoring the barbs tearing his skin. A trickle, then drops, enough to wet his lips, enough to keep his heart beating.

A few steps ahead, he saw more. Two, three, clustered on the slope of a dune. Hope sparked. He climbed, slipping on loose sand, bleeding afresh with every prick. And at the crest his breath caught.

Before him stretched a vast garden of cactus, green spears rising defiantly from the desert floor.

Joy broke through his exhaustion. He stumbled down the hill, laughing weakly, and fell upon the first plant. Thorn after thorn pierced him, but he did not stop. He pressed, squeezed, collected, bled. Water filled the leaf-bowl drop by drop, and with it, his hope.

His arms trembled, his legs wavered, but the container grew heavier in his hands. At last, for the first time in days, he allowed himself to believe: he might bring her back to life.

He bled and pressed, bled and pressed, filling the vessel little by little until it brimmed. But when he rose, he saw what he had done. The garden now lay in ruin, every stem broken, every thorn-studded body left to wither. And as if summoned by their loss, the beasts of the desert came: birds, rodents, all furious at the thief who had drained their lifeblood.

The ranger fled, clutching the vessel. They chased him over dunes, claws and teeth snapping. Scared for him and for the water he collected he ran. The vengeance stricken animals ran behind him, thirsty for water that the human ranger carried.

He kept running for hours, with the beasts on his tail, until he saw the sight of his nightmare. 

The tree… his tree, now a skeleton against the horizon. He paused at the appalling sight in front of him trying to digest. But he couldn’t give up yet. He was as close to redemption as he ever was. He still had hope. He started again, ran harder, even as grief hollowed him.

But from above, a hawk struck. The ranger tried to save himself, but he was too late to realise that he was not the target of the hawk, but the water filled leafy container.

Its talons shredded the leaf-bowl like old parchment. The precious water spilled, flashing silver in the sun before vanishing into the sand. As the last drop of water trickled down the container and went back to the ground, drying up by the heat instantaneously, the ranger kept looking at it in horror. All the hopes he had, flew away with the hawk. The ranger fell on his knees – shattered and defeated. Seeing him broken on the sand, and the withered tree standing in the distant horizon, the desert beasts finally understood what the man had been struggling for. But it was too late. Their fury had already played its part, another cruelty born of the dry spell. One by one, they withdrew, vanishing into the shimmering haze of the dunes.

Shattered, the ranger turned his face to the tree. Her dry arms reached skyward as if calling to him. Guilt stabbed deeper than the scorpion’s sting. He wanted to weep, but he clenched his jaw. He would not lose the last of his body’s water to despair. Not until he reached her.

And so, broken, he crawled. Inch by inch across the sand, bloodied hands dragging forward. Hours passed; day surrendered to twilight. Finally, he reached her roots. He pressed his palm against her bark: familiar, beloved. His blood smeared the dry wood. And in that touch he felt not the tree, but her.

Then the strength left him. He could hold it in no longer. He screamed, a sound that tore across the desert, and at last his tears fell. They carved lines through the dust and blood on his face, dropped onto the roots, and disappeared into the thirsty ground.

A silence followed. 

Then… a touch. 

A leaf brushed his cheek, tender as the hand of a long-lost friend. He held it in disbelief, and in that moment he felt it: the breeze, the zephyr, returning.

The ground darkened. The air cooled. Above him, branches unfolded like green wings, sheltering him once more. She had come back. She was alive.

The ranger lay beneath her, tears still flowing, knowing the truth at last: the water he had searched for had always been within him. All he had needed was to let it flow.

And the zephyr blew again.

By Arnav Timsina