Day Three Hundred Thirty Seven #DiaryoftheEndoftheWorld

On deck the air radiated hot and oppressive, despite the fact of our swift forward motion. At the bow it was more akin to a blast furnace.

Elijah stayed in the sanctuary cabin over night and was missing from the vigil we were keeping on the bridge in the early dawn hours.  So I assumed he was still there.

Out of the grayness a wide expanse of ocean came into focus beyond the closing pincers of the enveloping morass.

The Captain despaired. In his judgment the welcome sight was still too far away.

But then it were as if we crossed a line into a polar region and a fierce wind blew from behind us forward, forcing the pincers apart.

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Day Two Hundred Twenty One Late Morning #DiaryoftheEndoftheWorld

Lyle writes:
I reached the pool in time to see the fountain bubble to life. It must be a natural phenomenon. Its mist hung in the air. Its effect refreshing and invigorating.
Should I make this my daily habit?
Spring up, o well!

Day Two Hundred One #DiaryoftheEndoftheWorld

Lyle and I left immediately. We took nothing with us, save the clothes on our backs. Not a morsel of food, for each knew that days of fasting awaited us.

We reached the vineyard easy enough, helped by the path’s familiarity and the penetrating light of a full moon before it set.

And there we stayed. And rested. Neither of us wanted to stumble around in the dark attempting to find the narrow track down from the plateau to the desert.

With the first glimmer of dawn we were on our feet and on our way.

We had just emerged from the narrow track when the trumpet blew. The very air shook and the ground trembled.

No time to waste.