Father would tell us stories running the gambit from the very macabre to the fantastical. I believe Cendrick never bought into them, lacking the imagination I possessed from a very young age. I ate up the stories like a sweet nectar. I could not get enough of them. They invigorated me like nothing else. The worlds he described were incredible. Even as a full grown man-and I am well past my third decade of life-father would never let me accompany him on his trips. Yet he continued to tell stories of distant lands, of things beyond my current imagination. These stories grew more rare as the years progressed. But one recent escapade drew my attention like none other had. He spoke of the Land of the Blasted Sun. A land of swirling sand. A land with an ancient history and a long perished people. They were a people so wise they had discovered the secret to immortality.

I know how you must feel. I felt the same giddy anticipation upon discovering the possibility of such a world and people. He also spoke of endless riches buried beneath the sands, a treasure so grand it defies the mind’s comprehension. Oh disastrous fate! I tell you now some things are better left buried.

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