Chapter 51: Ishmar: The Boy Who Dreamed of Paradise
Year 0003, I-III Month: The Imperium
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Enough is Enough
Ishmar the boy dreamer endured daily ridicule from his peers. Even the children who had survived alongside him—those who should have understood his struggles intimately—participated in his torment.
What had once been mere verbal abuse had evolved into something far more sinister: systematic persecution of the highest degree.
The half-moon fields that Ishmar had tirelessly cultivated—his desperate attempt to save the very people who despised him—were regularly trampled beneath uncaring feet. His body bore the marks of countless beatings; bruises in various stages of healing covered his thin frame. The situation had deteriorated to such an extent that whispers now circulated through the village about killing him and consuming his flesh—at least then, they reasoned, his body might provide some nourishment in these desperate times.
The boy had finally reached his breaking point. Under the protective veil of darkness, he resolved to escape this hellhole and seek refuge somewhere beyond the reach of these desperate, deranged souls.
During daylight hours, he had methodically gathered and packed everything necessary for survival. As night fell, he slipped away, moving swiftly in a direction chosen at random, carefully avoiding the watchful, hungry eyes of villagers who prowled the perimeter. He would continue his soil cultivation experiments elsewhere—somewhere untouched by human presence, somewhere he could work in peace.
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Knowledge and Hope
After hours of arduous travel, Ishmar discovered a secluded sanctuary: a cave embedded in a mountain cliff. This would become his haven, his base of operations, he decided. With trembling hands, he unpacked his meager possessions and collapsed onto the hard ground, exhaustion claiming him instantly. His final consciousness was a single thought, it was a prayer that no predators had claimed this space before him.
When dawn painted the sky with its first tentative rays, Ishmar awoke immediately. His body, conditioned by years of vigilance, no longer required the luxury of gradual awakening. He ventured out to explore his new surroundings, his primary objective is being able to locate a stable source of food and water, although he did not get his hopes up considering the overall state of the land.
The landscape surrounding the cave appeared less devastated than the terrain around his former village. Nature although slow, had already begun the slow process of healing here, undisturbed by desperate human interference. Encouraged by this observation, he turned his attention to exploring the depths of his new home.
A short distance from the entrance, he noticed an intriguing sight: patches of moss clinging to the cave walls. His heart quickened. He recalled ancient texts describing moss as a reliable indicator of water's presence. Could it be possible? He hesitated, unwilling to nurture futther hope only to have it crushed, but curiosity propelled him deeper into the darkness.
Armed only with a small torchlight—a precious artifact salvaged from the palace treasury after its fall—Ishmar ventured further into the mountain's embrace. The passage continued much deeper than he had anticipated, winding through the earth like a stone serpent.
Then he heard it:
*plocka! plocka! plocka!*
The distinctive sound of water droplets striking a surface—a sound he had heard throughout his childhood when rain would fall from the sky, long after the great devastation had transformed their island region. His pace quickened, following the melodic rhythm until he discovered its source: a small pool of crystalline water, fed by droplets from the cave ceiling.
Ishmar froze, overwhelmed by disbelief. After moments of stunned silence, a critical decision presented itself: to drink or not to drink.
He paced anxiously beside the pool, debating the risk. Was this water pure, or would it be his demise? Finally, his parched body made the decision for him. Cupping his hands, he collected the cool liquid and brought it to his cracked lips.
The water was startlingly refreshing, carrying a subtle sweetness he had never experienced in the recycled, stagnant water that sustained the village. He savored each drop until his improvised vessel was empty.
"Ahh, what a refreshing and sweet taste. So this is what actual water tastes like," he murmured to himself.
Seconds passed, then minutes. Gradually, the realization dawned on him: he remained alive. The water hadn't poisoned him. A wild, incredulous laugh escaped his lips, followed by tears that carved clean paths down his dirt-stained cheeks.
A miracle indeed! If only he had discovered this place earlier—perhaps his parents might still be alive, rather than having sacrificed themselves so that he might survive alone. They could have lived here together, sheltered from the madness that had consumed their world.
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A Glimpse of Hope
After quenching his thirst, Ishmar returned to the cave entrance to retrieve his tools and the precious manuscripts he had brought—inheritance from a civilization that once understood how to nurture the earth rather than deplete it.
When he approached the entrance, brilliant sunlight flooded the space, the merciless sun already scorching the ground. He had lost track of time within the cave's cool embrace, but remarkably, he felt neither hunger nor thirst. Revitalized by water and hope, he decided to begin tilling the soil outside his mountain sanctuary immediately.
Squinting against the harsh light, he observed the cloudless sky. The temperature was nearly unbearable, yet he had endured worse. Perhaps, he thought, in days or weeks to come, the sky would bless the earth with rain once more. With this hope kindling within him, he set to work on the hard ground.
Ishmar had brought a small collection of seeds—hardy varieties that his family had experimented on and had preserved, plants specifically adapted to survive in harsh environments. When the great drought had first withered their crops, the villagers had tried their absolute best to recover what was lost but after generations of failure they had abandoned farming altogether, surrendering to despair. Why expend more precious energy on futile endeavors? But now, with access to water and undisturbed land, Ishmar believed his vision might finally materialize. An oasis, a Paradise in the dessert, a rebirth of what was once beautiful.
With methodical precision, he constructed a series of half-moon fields, terraced down the slope. Each concave basin was designed to capture and retain water, and heal the dried-hard earth, allowing the seeds to grow and pierce its roots and sip on the nutrients of the earth. With sloped steps cascading to the inner floor to create a small basin. He positioned the excavated soil and stones to form retaining walls along the outer edges and he added additional small pockets of hole on the ground to better capture additional rainfall and channel it toward the parched earth. It was an ancient technique, described in fragile scrolls that most had dismissed as fanciful nonsense by those villagers and elders who had long lost hope.
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The Rain has Come
Days passed—how many, Ishmar couldn't precisely say. Time blurred as he alternated between working his fields and retreating to the cave's cooler depths during the most punishing hours of the day. During one such afternoon, exhaustion claimed him as he rested deep within the mountain.
He slept soundly, unaware that the sky had finally darkened with clouds, that life-giving rain had begun to soak the world above. The distant rumble of thunder eventually roused him from slumber. Disoriented at first, recognition dawned as the sound registered. He scrambled toward the entrance, heart pounding with anticipation.
The world outside glistened with moisture. His carefully constructed fields had filled with water, each basin capturing the precious resource exactly as intended.
"It worked!" he exulted, leaping with unrestrained joy. "It actually worked!"
Now he would wait for the rain to subside. He momentarily regretted not having a wooden bucket to collect and store water, but such vessels were impossible to craft in a world where trees had become mere memories. He consoled himself with the knowledge that his plan was proceeding as envisioned.
Standing in the downpour, he allowed the rain to cleanse months of accumulated grime from his body—his first bath in longer than he could remember. Experimentally, he tasted the rainwater, finding it strangely unfamiliar. His palate had already acclimated to the mineral-rich cave water.
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After the Rain Comes Life
The following morning, after the rain had finally ceased, Ishmar awoke from deep slumber. He had fallen asleep late, lulled by the rhythmic patter of raindrops and the profound sense of accomplishment that warmed him despite his damp clothes.
Upon waking, he stretched his emaciated body, muscles protesting after days of unaccustomed labor. Yawning, he turned his gaze outside—and froze.
His carefully tilled fields displayed a distinctive green coloration.
He rubbed his eyes in disbelief. Was he hallucinating? Had he died in his sleep? But no—the first tender shoots of life had indeed emerged from the three fields he had so painstakingly prepared.
"It worked!" he exclaimed, rushing to touch the delicate green sprouts. They were real—tangible proof of his vision. "Ahh! Ahhhhhhhg!" he shouted, joy overwhelming him. He wasn't mad! His methods had been vindicated!
"See, I told all of you it would work!" he proclaimed to the empty air, laughing with the wild abandon of vindication.
The seeds he had planted had merely awaited proper conditions—soil prepared according to ancient methods and water to awaken their dormant potential. Now they had emerged, breaking through the soil's crust as if eager to greet the sun that had once been their enemy.
Ishmar's secret weapon had been the cave water. Each day, he had meticulously carried handfuls of the mineral-rich liquid to each planted seed, allowing them to absorb its nourishment. The underground water, filtered through layers of mountain stone, contained precisely the elements the depleted soil lacked. When the rain finally came, the seeds—already strengthened by their preliminary nourishment—had responded with explosive growth.
As he knelt beside the fragile seedlings, Ishmar felt a profound connection to the earth that had been missing from the desperate scavenging existence he had known. For the first time since losing his parents, he felt purposeful. This small patch of green represented more than mere sustenance—it symbolized hope for a world that had forgotten how to dream.
In the days that followed, Ishmar would expand his fields, carefully documenting each step of the process in the margins of the ancient manuscripts. What began as one boy's desperate experiment would, in time, become the foundation for restoring life to a dying world. The boy who dreamed would become the man who taught others to dream again—to envision a world where the relationship between humans and earth was one of mutual nourishment rather than depletion.
But for now, he simply watched his plants grow, marveling at the miracle of green life emerging from barren soil, proof that even in the most desperate circumstances, persistence and knowledge could coax renewal from apparent death.