The Queen of the Sands - by Mark Ivan Cole

The faint, broken trail was marked by scattered bones, sun-bleached to a brilliant white. Few who ventured into the desert ever stood before the throne.

The Queen of the Sands had ruled this land for time immemorial. Those who preceded her were immortalized in stone, great statues that stood silently on their pedestals in the courtyard outside the palace gate. Day after day, she sat upon her throne, gazing out over her domain. Only the wind breathed on the barren landscape. All was peaceful and still.

The sentinel stood at his high post by the gate, waiting, watching, his eyes scanning the valley that led to the great white palace. He had guarded this place since before the Queen of the Sands came to power. Though visitors were rare, some did come to ask a boon of the Queen. No one escaped his sharp eye. No threat escaped his spear.

Today, he saw someone in the distance, staggering under the unrelenting sun.

“A man approaches, your majesty,” said the sentinel.

“If he means no harm, let him in,” said the Queen of the Sands.

“Yes, your majesty.”

The man wended his way unsteadily between the statues of the ancients. When he finally reached the palace steps, he quailed under the gaze of the sentinel. But he was determined.

“I…I have a request…of the Queen of the Sands,” he croaked, his tongue so dry it could hardly form words.

The sentinel looked him over. “Proceed,” he said.

The man nodded and struggled up the steps. When he passed between the gates, he did as all the others had done before him: he fell to his knees before the throne of the Queen of the Sands. He could hardly look at her for she was as fierce as she was beautiful.

“What is your request?” asked the Queen of the Sands.

The man’s throat worked but there was naught to swallow. “Rain,” he whispered. Indeed, this was the only request ever heard in the throne room of the Queen of Sands: rain.

The Queen answered with another question: “Why?”

The man fought for control of his tongue. “My lake,” he gasped.

“Why?” she asked again. He could not answer.

The Queen of the Sands reached into his mind where she saw a lake, sparkling and blue, and beside it a great city filled with people. Here and there along the waterfront stood glistening palaces, all of which belonged to this wealthy man. The rich clamored to spend even a day in one of his opulent estates. But now the lake was dry and no one wished to stay there.

“Denied,” said the Queen of the Sands. “Go back the way you came.”

The man trembled before the throne. His eyes pleaded with her, but she would not be moved.

“Go,” said the sentinel. “Go, before I throw your body to the winds with the others.”

The man crawled away from the throne, out the gate and down the steps. The sentinel watched him struggle to his feet and stagger back down the valley. This one may last the night, he thought; maybe not.

Decades passed, each day just like the others, interrupted only by the rare appearance of another supplicant. Each wanted the same thing: rain. Each was driven by a burning desire. One wanted a river on which to sail great ships laden with goods. Another wanted vast farmlands for his crops. Another wanted an orchard; another, a mighty forest.

“Denied,” said the Queen of the Sands. “Go back the way you came.”

Those too weak to obey were thrown lifeless to the winds. Years passed, each day the same as the last.

Then one day, the sentinel spied a small figure trudging slowly across the dried red rocks and onto the white clay that led to the palace. When the Queen inquired “How does the desert look today, my sentinel?” he answered: “We have a visitor, your majesty. But he moves slowly. We shall see if he arrives at all.”

“Indeed,” said the Queen of the Sands.

The day passed, and still the figure moved ever so slowly across the parched ground. After the sun set and the moon rose, the sentinel watched as the figure lay curled in a ball on the hard earth. Maybe he is dead, thought the sentinel.

But the next morning, the small figure stood up and proceeded once more toward the palace. The sentinel was intrigued. This one did not stumble or strut; it appeared to be looking around, admiring the view.

As the figure drew nearer, the Queen asked “Will our visitor arrive today?”

“I believe so, your majesty,” answered the sentinel. “The traveler has persevered and will approach the gates today.”

“If he means no harm, let him enter,” said the Queen.

“Yes, your majesty,” said the sentinel, his eyes fixed on the slowly moving figure.

By mid-afternoon, the traveler had reached the statues of the ancients. He looked up at each one as he passed by, neither intimidated nor afraid, only curious.

The sentinel watched him closely. This visitor was nothing like the others. Most of the supplicants were heroes or warriors, men of strength and power. Some were women of great endurance. All were ambitious and determined. This frail old man seemed hardly capable of making such an arduous journey, much less of offering a compelling request of the dreaded Queen of the Sands. His back was hunched and his withered hand gripped an equally withered walking stick. Despite his shriveled appearance, he was still moving.

The frail old man reached the gates and smiled. Turning to the sentinel, he asked quietly: “May I enter to see the Queen of the Sands?”

The sentinel looked him over once more. Certain that the bent old man could do no harm, he bade him enter.

The frail old man passed between the gates, putting one gentle hand on a great carved pillar to help him cross the threshold. Instead of falling to his knees as had all the others, the old man merely bowed and smiled up at the Queen of the Sands.

Never had the Queen beheld such a kind face! She could not help but smile back.

“What is your request?” she asked him, her voice soft like sifting sand across a dry dune.

“I wish for rain,” said the frail old man.

The Queen of the Sands’ smile faded a little. She had hoped for a different answer. Still, she would ask him the same question she asked all the others.

“Why?” she asked, her voice now more like stone sliding against stone.

The wrinkled old man simply smiled back at her. “There is only ever one reason for rain,” he said; “to support life.”

The Queen of Sands sat back in her throne and regarded him quizzically. “Go on,” she said, her voice softening again, a breeze among the rocks.

“There is another question, even more important, that you should ask,” said the frail old man. “Only by asking this second question does the first answer make sense.”

“And what is that?” asked the Queen.

“The question is ‘how much?’” said the old man.

The Queen smiled again. Today was different. This was more enjoyable than the other days.

“Then I will ask the second question,” she said. “So tell me, old man: how much rain do you wish for?”

At this, the old man’s cracked and wrinkled smile grew even more broad. He shut his eyes and turned his head this way and that, as if looking across a landscape seen only in his mind.

“Only a little,” he replied; “and very rarely. Only enough for the wildflowers which will wait patiently, and then bloom in profusion at the slightest kiss of moisture. Only enough for the beetle, the spider and the scorpion; they don’t need much. Only enough for the yucca which will stretch forth its long neck and offer rich blossoms while defending the ground with spear-tipped leaves. This is all I ask,” he said. “Only a little.”

The Queen of the Sands reached inside his mind and there she saw her domain radiant with life! She could feel the old man’s joy as he imagined this rich land.

“But why do you request this?” she asked him. “You are old. Even if I granted your request today, it would be years before this vision came to pass. You gain nothing.”

“Ah,” said the frail old man. “But I need nothing. I am already blessed. I have seen many seasons of beauty over many miles, many lands. But this is the first in which I have found no creatures with whom to share it. By the time this desert is a garden, I will be long dead, but perhaps in some way, my request will have made this world a better place for life that can thrive only here, Queen of the Sands. For that, I would be grateful. Besides,” he said, opening his eyes; “I have already seen it in my mind; so for me, the reward is already in my grasp.”

The sentinel became alarmed. “Your majesty!” he called out from his station. “Do not listen to this old babbler! If you bring the rain, your palace, your throne and your very life are in mortal danger! I have failed you, my Queen. I have allowed admittance to the very one who could harm you the most!” Then, with all his might, he flung his heavy spear at the old man.

The Queen waved her hand, instantly shifting the old man out of the way. The spear tip caught just the trailing edge of his tattered robe and tore it off, nailing a piece of it to the floor.

The Queen of the Sands stood to her feet and bade the sentinel stop. “No, my dear servant,” she said. “You have admitted the only one who has offered me the key to immortality.”

The sentinel looked up, anguish on his honest face. “I do not understand, my Queen.”

The Queen of the Sands held her arms out wide. “Let it rain,” she said. “Let it rain only a little, and very rarely. Let this palace wash away. Let the waters carve channels between the rocks. Give life to the seeds blown on the winds, but let only those who love this place survive.”

She looked down at the wrinkled old man. “Old master,” she said; “may you live in this garden forever. May you find shelter in the rocks and grasses. May you be quick, agile and fearless. And should anyone seize you, may you always escape.” With a wave of her hand, the old man became the lizard who leaves his tail behind in the grasp of his bewildered attacker.

The Queen of the Sands held out her arms to her faithful sentinel. “Your work here is not over,” she said. “May you serve me still when this palace no longer stands. May you always remind those who come to this land that they are to tread carefully and disturb nothing.” And with a wave of her hand, the sentinel became the snake who rattles his warning to the unwary, and bites those who trample incautiously.

“But what about you, my Queen?” asked the snake. “What shall become of you when all this is gone away?”

At this, the Queen grew radiant. “I shall love the rains most of all,” she said. “For I shall be the glory of the desert every year. I shall store the precious rain carefully, never wasting it, and every Spring I shall revel again in the richness of my choice.”

Then the Queen of the Sands called the rains, and they swept the land, though only a little, and only very rarely.

Slowly, over eons, the palace began to melt away. The statues in the valley were reduced to broken rocks perched on pedestals that grew thinner and weaker as the years went by. The great hall and its gates wore down, bit by bit.

But if you know where to look, you can still find the wash where the rains first fell, and you can follow it to the red rocks that lead to the great white palace of the Queen of the Sands. And if you persist, you can find the courtyard where remnants of the statues of the ancients still tower over your head. And if you wish, you may freely walk through the ruined gates and stand before what is left of the Queen’s mighty throne. Off to the side, you will see where the sentinel kept watch. You may even see a lizard scurry past, for he still lives here, just as the Queen decreed.

And if you come in springtime and you’re very lucky, like we were, the Queen herself may appear to you as a cactus with a bloom so rich it will take your breath away. But tread softly and gently as you go, for the sentinel still watches, and he will not abide carelessness

Paria Rimrocks Toadstools, UT - Where we found the palace of the Queen of the Sands

Ping standing on the remains of the Queen's throne

The view from the sentinel's watch

The Queen of the Sands keeps her promise