The Fall of a Sparrow (FanFiction): Michael Engberg
Posted: Tue Jun 16, 2009 3:11 am
Michael Engberg was twelve when he fell in love with the desert. His uncle was getting married in Tucson, and the family decided to make a summer vacation of it. Heading out of Los Angeles on the San Bernadino Freeway, Engberg recalls skirting Palm Desert, the only "desert" he had ever known. "I thought the desert was where my parents had a summer home, and where they played golf while we were at the pool," he told me. The broader reaches of the Sonoran Desert – the real desert – lay further east, as Engberg discovered on that trip. The hours on Highway 10 to Tucson were spent staring out the car window, as he slowly gained an abiding interest in this desolate landscape. He wonders now if his wife and daughter would still be alive if the family had flown to Tucson instead.
Engberg ponders this question aloud as we look out over a lake from a landing halfway up a massive set of stairs. The stairs are hewn from rock as are various nearby buildings and rooms. Directly across from us is a stone arch, some TK feet high, its reflection shimmering in the lake water’s murky glow. Beyond the arch, the opposite side of the lake is barely visible, a few lights marking the steep, rocky slope. Engberg has brought me to a strange, unearthly place called D’ni, deep under the New Mexico desert. This is where he spent most of the past ten years. With a few other scholars, collectively known as the D’ni Restoration Council, he struggled to breathe life back into this ruin.
**********
Even now, fresh flowers arrive daily, laid down in bouquets just outside what is called the Kahlo Pub. The wreaths of petunias and daisies give the air a sweet smell, not the musty scent that permeates the rest of this cavernous space. People who come by stand in silent respect. They read the names off the memorial to the explorers who have died here. Most suffered what would be called a natural death, but two stand out: Rosette Taylor and Willow “Wheely” Engberg. Their deaths were not natural.
Engberg hasn’t seen the memorial, hasn’t seen the flowers.
**********
Nothing lasts forever, I hear him say. Nothing.
Engberg ponders this question aloud as we look out over a lake from a landing halfway up a massive set of stairs. The stairs are hewn from rock as are various nearby buildings and rooms. Directly across from us is a stone arch, some TK feet high, its reflection shimmering in the lake water’s murky glow. Beyond the arch, the opposite side of the lake is barely visible, a few lights marking the steep, rocky slope. Engberg has brought me to a strange, unearthly place called D’ni, deep under the New Mexico desert. This is where he spent most of the past ten years. With a few other scholars, collectively known as the D’ni Restoration Council, he struggled to breathe life back into this ruin.
**********
Even now, fresh flowers arrive daily, laid down in bouquets just outside what is called the Kahlo Pub. The wreaths of petunias and daisies give the air a sweet smell, not the musty scent that permeates the rest of this cavernous space. People who come by stand in silent respect. They read the names off the memorial to the explorers who have died here. Most suffered what would be called a natural death, but two stand out: Rosette Taylor and Willow “Wheely” Engberg. Their deaths were not natural.
Engberg hasn’t seen the memorial, hasn’t seen the flowers.
**********
Nothing lasts forever, I hear him say. Nothing.