At least now the dying man looked better.
When I found him, the desert had shown him the worst it had to offer. Bleeding and cracked lips, hair thick with sand, his face chafed, dark from dust and sweat, I had stumbled over him in the gathering shadows on my way to the spring. He became conscious enough to aid me in getting him to his feet, whereupon I was able to help him mount the camel I was leading. Slowly, we arrived at the small wadi before the dusk deepened into evening.
Pulling him carefully down, I let him lie on a rug spread comfortably in a sandy hollow. I took a moment to gather a few sticks and light a quick fire by which to see. The man seemed to have slipped into a restless sleep, so as he dozed, I drew water from the well, and bathed his face and chapped hands, letting the water trickle through his hair and washing away some of the sand. His face no longer looked as dark and burnt as it had, and though his lips were still badly scarred, the blood had stopped flowing. Noticing his ragged clothing, I pulled a robe from my saddlebag. Knowing how cold the desert could get at night, it was a wonder he hadn’t already frozen to death with the bare threads he was wearing. Wrapping him up as well as I could while he was still unconscious, he was much more friendlier on the eye. However I knew it wasn’t his outward appearance that needed revitalising, it was the inside.
Pulling a cup from my stash, I tipped the bucket I had drawn from the well to one side, letting the cold, clear water trickle into the smaller vessel. With one hand, I tenderly lifted the man’s head and with the other, held the cup to his lips. As the liquid entered his partially opened mouth, his eyes flew open and his gaze rested upon me instantly. With a choking spasm, his arm flew out and knocked the cup away from him and sent it spinning out of my hand; the precious water wasted upon the sand.
“Let me alone!” He rasped. “I need no one’s help.”
My anger flamed. “You were dying out there!” I spat. “When was the last time you had a drink?”
“I’ll drink when I choose to!” The man shot back, ignoring the question. “I didn’t ask you for water!”
With that, he clumsily attempted to rise to his feet. I held him back. “You are in no shape to go anywhere,” I said firmly. “Can’t you see you need help?”
“I don’t want your help!” I ducked his flailing arm, and pinned it to the rug he had lain quite peacefully upon just moments before.
“You need to drink.” My tone brooked no argument. With his one arm pinned under my hand, I reached for the cup and dunked it in the bucket, bringing it full again to his lips. I was surprised by his strength for someone so clearly weakened. As I held the cup to his mouth, water spilling down his chest, he clenched his teeth tightly, lips sealed against the life-giving liquid I was desperate to administer. He began to thrash beneath me.
“Drink, you fool!” I gasped, struggling. “Drink, or you will surely die!”
Still he refused. In fact, he held his lips so tight that the cracks reopened, and blood was coursing from the wounds, mingling with the water as it was shaken from my unsteady hand. With great effort, he managed to roll over and pull himself from my grip, and I fell against the ground in the place he had been, cup slamming into the sand next to me; shattering into pieces. My stunned gaze lingered on it for a while, until I realise the man had left my small camp, stumbling off into the darkness; away from the campfire light, and the well.
“Wait!” I cried, a note of desperation creeping into my voice. I could not have this man’s life on my conscience. Not when I had the means to keep him alive. “You won’t survive out there!”
Quickly coming to my feet, I ran after him. In my fervent haste, I would’ve all but bodily picked him up as I approached, but a glint in the darkness made my feet falter a moment. A knife had appeared in his hand. I'd had no idea that it'd been hidden on his person anywhere.
“Come near me,” his voice rasped in anger, “and I will kill you.”
“Why?” I cried. “I mean only to save your life!”
“I will save my own life, for it is mine. Not yours!” He growled and swiped at me with the dagger, and I stepped back hastily.
“This is the only well for miles. I know, for I too, was a seeker like yourself once.” My focus flicked briefly to the distant horizon fading into the deep black and purple of twilight; a horizon broken by hundreds of undulating sand dunes.
“So you say, but I will find my own. If I don’t, I’d rather die than let it be known I owed my life to someone other than myself.”
It was then he turned, and disappeared suddenly into the black oblivion of the desert, the sound of his shuffling footsteps fading into the night.
I stood there watchfully a good while, listening to the silence long after his ragged breathing and the shifting sand beneath him ceased to be audible. My heart broke within me, and grief overflowed; in tears for this soul I did not even know. Words fail as to why it affected me so, but I will never forget the anguish I felt standing there in the desert, alone, weeping for the fact that someone in their pride could choose to keep searching the expanse of the desert for water after discovering its only well.
~
"Jesus stood and cried out, saying, 'If anyone thirsts, let him come to Me and drink. He who believes in Me, as the Scripture has said, out of his heart will flow rivers of living water'."
(John 7:37-38)
(John 7:37-38)
"The Sovereign Lord, the Holy One of Israel, says to the people, 'Come back and quietly trust in me. Then you will be strong and secure.' But you refuse to do it."
(Isaiah 30:15)
(Isaiah 30:15)
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