A Letter from the Desert

My dear Veri,

       The air is so dry here that I can hardly stand it. It seems a vacuum of moisture, the desert contains so little that it eagerly steals whatever it can find, tearing the water from within your own skin. You were quite right, darling, to remain in Rome despite Azal's gracious invitation, as your skin among all of ours grows parched and scaled so quickly. The baths here are exquisite, but I should think that taken as a whole, the place would do you more harm than good. You must, of course, protect your wellness, and not travel to a place that should damage you so.
       Aza insisted today upon showing us the wonders brought by the latest caravan, which meant leaving the delicate draperies of the palace and the lush air of the gardens, and going out into the sea of sand. Though it was only some slight distance, I can yet feel the grit of the dust and the instant dryness it brought to my skin, though I have rested in the baths since returning some hours ago. It is quite forbidding out there, the light physically oppressive in its heat and strength, and it feels as though it should drive the moisture from the very depths of your body all in a moment. Fortunately the slaves arrived soon (their tardiness was of course amply rebuked), carrying great leaves and canopies of thick canvas to shade us - I assure you I should not have remained out there at all otherwise. I find it quite stupid of anyone to have settled in such a remote place and such an atrocious climate. But I suppose it does have advantages - the caravan certainly did bring delightful goods: rare spices, the most delicate of fabrics, plants I had never seen, and jewelry exquisitely wrought. There are gold and fine diamonds within reach of the more daring caravaneers, and where there is great wealth, there are dedicated craftsmen and artists, for once you possess simple wealth, the raw materials and crude funds, the only way in which to gain prestige is in refinement, in beauty and artistry and skill. So once one has entered the city walls, and survived the desert's arid grasp, there are true wonders of creation, strewn as liberally as forests in the more temperate places. The sparseness of the landscape drives all to the delights of man made artistry. The most beautiful products of each land pass at some point along the caravan paths, silk and spice and strangely carved trinkets from the Far East, the gold and diamonds from beyond the southern deserts, fragments from the tombs of pharaohs and statues of Rome, and the modernities of the West, clothing and tools, books and tallow and things with microscopic gears. The endless markets in the streets are thus a wonder to themselves, and worth the time spent amid the dust and heat.
       The voices of this place are guttural yet melodic, their song filled with half-tones and quarter-tones, notes bent far beyond the usual spectrum. The language itself feels very old, it reminds one of... of a language we knew long ago. But the traders speak many languages, so that even their children know a few phrases in nearly every tongue spoken in the world. It is only the strongest, of power and will, who reside in such a severe climate, and it is exhilarating company to be in. There is no timidity here. Even the shrouded women on the streets, their lithe dark bodies hidden by the finest of shimmering fabrics, are not shy, for though they assume the appearance of cautious modesty, their piercing eyes are full of daring, and their voices are nectar saturated with forbidden knowledge.
       But do not assume that by this I mean all is open boldness, for it is not so. There is subtlety and intrigue enough here to teach even us new devices. It is quite as stimulating intellectually as it is physically. The inhabitants speak with such effusive floridity, it truly sounds as though they speak in nothing but poetry. Yet the finest of compliments (of which they pay many) may be laced with exquisite poisons, whose delicate scent may well slip silently past in flawless evasion. Oh what a delight it is to see threats and deceptions so artfully conveyed! It is a beautiful contrast to the blunt angers of those in London and our usual haunts, and I do wish you were here to see that, at least. I had grown so tired of the obvious machinations of society, though I had not realised it until I came here. To think on it now, all of that graceless maneuvering feels as a poorly-acted play, the actors untrained and not yet fluid in their motions, distracted and unsure, hiding behind their masks and placing all their confidence in the complexity of their costumes. Here, I am in the presence of true artists, and it is a rapture to behold.
       The musicians of this city seemed at first to be in endless mourning, with their music so full of strange chords and disjointed wails in minor keys. Yet I soon realised the haunting beauty of it, its naked simplicity lending a private, almost voyeuristic sense to the listener. There is a rawness, the gritty voice sounding almost animal at times, a panther crying out as it searches for its mate in a raging primal desire. The flutes are breathy, the strings harsh, as the desert winds over grating sands, sparkling keenly in the overexposure of sunlight.
       I wish also that you could see the gardens - ah, such gardens! I do not recall ever having seen such elaborate creations, not since the time of Babylon, and how long has that wonderful city been gone from us? There are such rare and vivid things here, that I simply must find a way to return with some for my own gardens. For though the air is dry, within the palace walls there is life enough to fill the empty dunes, if only it could find its way beyond the tall expanses of stone. Everything grows with such extraordinary vigor, to such impossible heights and fantastic color. You have seen the palms in Rome and other places of course, but these are far taller, with such vast fronds atop them. Even some of the ground plants have leaves so large, that a single one is enough to shade a man from the sun's fierce gaze. Yet it is at nightfall that the loveliest things are to be found. For though the daylight brings flowers of the strangest shapes (hardly to be recognized as blossoms, they seem far more akin to the bold tropical birds) and most brilliant colors, it is in the evening that the fragrances are at their fullest. Oh that I could keep this captivating scent about me always! I feel as though it has permeated every pore of my body, and saturated my blood with its wild refinement. Never have I known fragrances so exquisite and yet so full of life. No man has tampered with them, and yet they are beyond perfection. I fear the artificial concoctions to which we are so used shall never again satisfy me, I simply must have someone cultivate such as these in every place I reside. There are no words for a fine scent, as you must know, but this holds such an impossible sensuousness, full of honey and spice, lit by moonlight and shimmering as all the countless bits of glass covering the desert ground. If only you could smell what I do now (will any of it remain with that on which I write, I wonder?), you should know all the mysterious beauty of this place.
       The design of the gardens tends toward the formal, but there are so many elements to invoke amazement that there is hardly time for a thought to consider the rather geometric shapes of the layout. One may well forget the arid sands without, for the stone walls are quite high, and the space inside them is full of delight in water's beauty, and the lush greenery it makes possible. (Water is, of course, a great show of status, and to use it in such extravagance! There are few gardens as this to be found, and from what I am told, this is by far the loveliest - but also, one of the most lavish ever known, giving its owner incredible prestige.)
       To my eyes, of course, the water itself holds little interest, though its channels and pools are laid with lovely mosaics of precious stones. In the very center of the garden, along the main canal, there is a large, elaborate fountain - but beside it stands a far greater wonder: a tree wrought purely of gold, and hung with gemstones, as fruit from its shining boughs. The cascades of water throw droplets to cling to the coruscating branches, throwing rainbows as gauze scarves through the thick air. The endless sunlight reflects so sharply from its delicate leaves that it is difficult to see the tree at all clearly, past the dazzle of gold and a thousand fragmented colors, but by night the moon recasts it into muted silvers, and the intricacy of its creation is made clear. It is the height of a fruit tree, and its branches reach in a broad circle, molded vines twirling gracefully around its trunk and boughs, the gems cut with utmost care to set off their striking clarity. It is breathtakingly beautiful, and several of our company have already laid plans to have similar ones created for them. Privately, though, I feel as though such a tree is best suited to the arid climate. Oh of course it needs no particular care! But the sunlight here is of such a torrid, burnished quality, as fired gold itself, and so the tree dazzles more brilliantly here than I think it should do anywhere else. (Azal knows this, I am certain, for there was a secret smile hovering in his dark eyes as he gave lighthearted blessing to their imitative plans.)
       Yet the golden tree is hardly the only one to draw attention. There are countless fruit-bearing trees, many of which have been cultivated, in some strange horticultural art, to bear several types of fruit upon a single tree. The trees are raised in such a way, I am told, that no matter the season there is always fruit to be readily found. The impossibly tall, graceful silhouettes of palms are, of course, to be seen everywhere. In this garden, however, their ragged trunks are surrounded by elaborately wrought pewter and silver, and delicately carved filigrees of teakwood. Every surface is covered in intricate engraving or carving, the details so tiny they seem not to have been made by human hands, yet forming such perfect geometric patterns at a distance that clearly great intelligence lies behind their creation.
       There is no element of the garden which has not been carefully crafted with the utmost of aesthetic attention. All is artifice artfully construed. Even the many bright birds have been so trained to remain within the walls all their lives, and the wildest of beasts are tamed to eat from a man's hand - two tigers, an elephant (which is kept in a less delicate side garden), and grazing beasts, with horns that grow in long, graceful curves, which I have yet to learn the name of.
       I suppose it is worth the aridity of the endless sands, to have come here after all.
       But truly, the luxuries Azal has shown us here had already made the trip worthwhile. We have been residing in the grandest of palaces, the walls of warm gold stone, full of intricate carving and inlays, all softened by shimmering silks and flirtatious gauzes hung in lavish folds. All is gold and ivory, ebony and precious stones. The mingled scents of incense and exotic blossoms fill every room, and the warmth of the air and the light makes all feel as a sensual dream. The very air feels as a lover's touch, so temperate and fragrant and full is it; it is scarcely a wonder that such pleasure should be found here. The mere act of breathing, of moving in this air, is an erotic delight. There is a rich sense of hedonism here, which is eagerly cultivated by all. The fabrics feel as a mere exhalation upon one's skin, the ever-present fragrances heightening the body's senses, to say nothing of the more powerful spices inhaled, and thick wines imbibed, the potent oils which permeate the skin. And as I have told you, there is none of the coy coquettishness which one finds in so many places - across the hazy room, your eyes fall upon a pleasant form, and meet eyes of deep seductive promise, and no more need be said in words before that promise begins its fulfillment. The spices of the air awaken every nerve, and the pleasures seem to stretch beyond all constraints of time and gravity, into eternity and out among the stars, the stars which shine so brightly here where there is little to obstruct them from view...
       You will rebuke me, I know, dear Veri, for providing so little detail of my many tête-à-têtes, but I truly haven't the capacity just now to do so. The atmosphere is so like that of a dream, that I am unable to focus my words into a climatic dialogue. Perhaps I may do so upon my return, or perhaps I shall instead bring you the fragrance of this place, and the things I have learned, and the spices I will acquire, and you shall feel an echo of it for yourself.
       I do look forward to seeing you again, my darling, and I hope that all is well with you. Has Mephisto ended his ridiculous affair with that singer, I wonder? Do tell me all the gossip, for despite the myriad pleasures here I do find that I miss being the first in the know. Of course there is plenty of talk to be had here, but our hosts too often shroud the best details in florid metaphor, when we should like to hear it in all its sordid glory. Give my best to all, and tell them of what exotic delights we shall return with.

                                                        Yours,
                                                               Meres