by Tim O'Dell

Created on: June 10, 2009

Excerpt from The Patriarch:

The wandering nomads were almost a relief to Joseph. The days spent in the pit had been long, hot, dry. Days when his tongue had swelled from lack of moisture. Days when he had been blinded by the desert sun. Days when death would have been a blessing. He cursed his brothers; they could go to hell for all he cared. He would still see them bow before him; one day. One day. His father had told him so.

Tied behind the trailing stallion, Joseph stumbled in the sand. Each time he did so his captor's would beat him and make him walk faster. The course rope chafed his wrists, burnt his flesh, heightened his agony. In the merciless desert the water sources were few and far between. The nomads would give him small sips from their wineskin's; just enough to keep him on his feet, but that was all. He had lost touch with the days. He felt as if he had been in the desert all his life. All he knew was the all encompassing sun, the heated sand, the dry yellow seas. Burnt ochre seared his vision. Exhausted, weak, dehydrated he went wherever he was led. He cared not where the road took him; or where it ended. He just held onto his father's promises. He knew them to be fact. One day he would be a mighty leader, a man revered by nations, adviser of the powerful.

Stopping at an oasis, the nomads dropped him in the sun while they went to the pond to fill their bellies and their wineskin's. They treated their horses better than they treated Joseph; the horses got to drink at the waterhole. Joseph couldn't even lift his head from the sand. One of the nomads, smiling, giggling, taunting, walked over and poured his full wineskin over Joseph's face. Most poured down his cheeks, wetting the desiccated sand. But some, a few precious drops, entered his mouth, energising him a little. It was just enough for him to pull himself onto his haunches and crawl, slowly, painfully, longingly, towards the water and drop his head in, slaking his thirst. The nomads ignored him.

They spent that night by the oasis. The nomads slept under the trees. Joseph found an indentation in the cold, hard, dead sand and shivered through the night. Stars, stars, stars. He lay on his back and visually roamed the night sky. There was the bright river of stars that ran from north to south, surrounded by shapes, clusters, images created by shimmering dots of light. The night sky always comforted him. He could look at the clear heavens and

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