In all the world, there was a singular island larger than any other. Ringed round the shores of this enormous island was fertile soil and abundant life, but at its center was a vast desert. If the world were an eye, the shores of this island would be the iris, and the desert a pupil. Those native people who had lived on the island for as long as mankind had existed respected both the ocean and the desert. They would write the language of the desert on their bodies and carry it to the ocean. From the ocean they would carry the bones of its abundant life to the desert.

But men sailed from shores far away, and they drove those people who were born on the great island from the shores, into the desert. These men from distant lands built their cities on the shores, and left only the vast space of the desert for the natives of the great island. Many years passed, though nothing more than a blinking of the desert’s eye, and the cities of men on the shore grew larger and greater, while the island natives went further and further into the desert.

In one of the great cities on the coast a man named Schalis photographed the ocean every day. He did not know it was her portrait he was painting, for like all those descended from the men who crossed the ocean so long ago, he did not know how to speak with the ocean. The ocean was understanding, but she loved him still, and she was as much a part of those great cities as the glass, steel, and concrete of which they were made. Her presence was visible in every window, on every street, and in the homes of every person who lived on her shores. And so Schalis, taking his photos of the city, captured a turn of the ocean’s neck here, a strand of her hair there, and a glimpse of her eyes every so often. In this way he assembled her portrait.

Schalis took the ocean’s picture for many years, never knowing her face, until at last she felt he had completed his work. That night she came to him in a dream and, because he had taken so many pictures of all of her aspects, he recognized her immediately. “Schalis,” she said, “It has been too long since I have seen my brother. I have let you see my face and capture my portrait. Now you must take my bones into the desert. Let the desert have them, and when you are done carry my brother’s message back to me.” In the dream, she reached out to take his hand, and when his eyes opened, he found himself holding an oyster’s shell.

Because he was not a native of the great island, Schalis did not know that dreams could speak to him. And so for seven days and seven nights he took pictures of the city and the ocean came to him in his dreams and left him a beautiful sea shell. Every day he took pictures of the city, something seemed to be missing. He tried to find it everywhere, but however he searched, it remained hidden. He searched through all the pictures he had taken, and on the eighth day he saw the ocean’s eyes. It was then that he understood what he was missing, so when she came to him on the eighth night he said, “I will carry your bones into the desert, and return with your brother’s message.” He clasped her hand in his, and when his eyes opened he held a great pearl.

Having agreed to the task, Schalis gathered together all his photos of the ocean, and all his film, and every camera with which he had captured her features. He placed the shells she had given him on a string, and set the pearl in a ring. At last he was ready to carry the ocean to the desert, and so he left the great city of the coast to begin his journey. For each gift the ocean had given him he traveled a week, and for every image he captured he traveled a day. The city was soon lost behind him, and the desert stretched out on all sides. The sun rose high and the heat beat down, and as he walked through the sand, he found himself dropping pictures as he went.

First it was only a picture here and there, but soon there was a long trail of the ocean’s visage, marking the sands where his footsteps vanished. When the photographs were gone, he found himself dropping negatives, the thick and glossy cellulose slipping out of his fingers to the sand. But even sooner than the photos, the negatives too were gone, and so he left his cameras to the desert, one by one, walking ever onward. Soon Schalis had nothing left but the pearl the ocean had given to him. Only then did the desert speak.

“I thank you for bringing me my sister’s bones. It has been too long since last we spoke, and my people can no longer go to her with my words, nor bring her to me. Your cities have grown large and beautiful from the ocean, but they are incomplete without the desert. Take my words to the ocean. Take the desert to the city.”

When Schalis’ eyes opened again, the sun had set and Night’s eye the moon looked down on the desert sands. He still held the pearl, and upon his body was writ all the words of the desert that were to be carried to the ocean. He could still feel the rough, dry palm of the desert in his hand, and he knew the task to which he had agreed was only half complete. So he began to walk back the way he had come. He walked as many days and as many nights as it had taken him to journey to the desert, but with the words of the desert on his body the heat could not bear him down. Schalis felt no thirst or hunger, he did not tire, and the very air of the desert was the stuff of life to him.

Schalis returned to the coast city, and walked into the ocean where her waves and currents read what the desert had written. He gave the ocean the pearl she had entrusted to his care, and in return the ocean gave him a kiss. The coast city would not be the same, thenceforth, and ever after the desert was as much a part of it as the ocean. For Schalis, he lived as long as the ocean loved him, and was as ageless as the desert. He was the messenger of the desert and the ocean, and if he has not died, then he is still alive today.