The Sleeping Man

THE waves seemed to shimmer with a silver light as the crescent moon shone upon the shore. White sand drifted in the gentle wind that wafted from the south with the scent of lilacs. The washing of the surf along the rough edge of the land was lent a lonely counterpoint by the even breathing of a single sleeping man. The moonlight illumined his sand-dusted pale-gold hair, which curled about his ears and rested like a bed of overgrown moss upon his brow. One hand lay still upon the worn leather of the jacket that was wrapped tightly about his body, while the other seemed to clench ever tighter something that he dreamed was in his grasp.
    Not all things can be seen as well under the moon as they can under the sun, and thus it was that Louis nearly stumbled upon the slumbering form before he saw that he was not alone on the beach. The quietness of the tread of Louis’ feet did not prevent the raising of small storms of sand with every step, and some of that sand sprayed on the face of the sleeper. He stirred and sighed. The hand on his chest dropped to the ground, while the other maintained both its position and its desperate grip. His head turned slightly to one side, allowing several grains of sand to drop from his smooth cheeks like the dry tears of one who is used to sorrow.

    Louis caught his breath, and with the breathing of the sleeper briefly interrupted, there was for a single moment no sound but the flowing water glacially devouring the shore away, grain by grain. He wondered if he should wake the man. He was a few feet farther up the shore than the tide would rise, so there was no danger of his drowning, but one could occasionally find a thief bold enough to sift through the sand-filled pockets of any who made the beach their bed, even in these remote parts.

    Although the man’s furrowed countenance and clenched fist led Louis to believe his dreams could not be pleasant ones, he decided that to wake him would be an act unloving and erroneous. Instead he steeled himself to spend the remainder of the night sitting by his side, making any thief think twice about the wisdom of engaging in pick-pocketry. He set his satchel down and put his foot inside its strap. Then, lowering himself onto the cool, rough sand, he sat still and waited for the rising of the sleeper or the sun.

    At first he often glanced about to watch for any sign of thief or vagabond, but soon his eyes fell more and more upon the slumbering form before him. His head was filled with questions, and his thought lingered upon them. Who was this man, and where did he come from? Why did he choose to rest here, on the beach at night alone? What would he do when he awoke? Of course, this last thought led to the realization that Louis would know all these answers, or as many as the man would tell, when he awoke.

    Comforted by the postponement of curiosity, and lulled by the lapping waves, Louis left behind him thoughts of danger or of day. He watched the waxing moon sink lower, and even as the crescent was swallowed by the crest of the last moonlit wave, he closed his eyes and slept.

*

A glare of brazen sun slapped his eyes and he awoke. With the light of day came back to him all the thoughts of night—the danger, and the curiosity. Setting his squinting eyes before him, he saw white sand that stung with the brightness of the sun’s reflection. He let his gaze rest awhile in his own shadow, to give his eyes time to become strong enough for the morning light. At last he could look at the place his eyes had looked so often the night before.

The sand was slightly pressed downwards, but no form of man, sleeping or awake, was there to be seen. Before the dawn, Louis supposed, the man must have woken from his slumber, seen that he was not alone, and gone on his way, knowing as little about Louis as Louis did about him. Disappointed that his curiosity would not be satisfied, he checked his satchel to assure himself that the danger had not visited him. Everything was as it should be—the silvery canister of fresh water, the soft bread and hard cheese, and the small pouch of money—but there was something new within the leather confines of the satchel.

Louis plucked the small object from its shadowed resting place and held it up to the light. It sparkled and shimmered in the glory of the sunrise, seeming to change its hue with every movement. Smiling, but unsure, he nestled it among the clinking coins in his money pouch. He stood up, slung the satchel over his shoulder, and brushed the sand off his jacket. The way the white grains fell to join the countless others below his feet reminded him of the sleeping man, shifting his head and one hand, but keeping the other clenched tight. Louis wondered now if the souvenir that he held in his pouch was what the sleeping man had grasped so tightly, and which he had believed was a fantasy woven from his dreams.

    Turning away from the washing surf, Louis pointed his quiet sandstorm steps toward the edge of the rough beach. As he stepped onto the firm land, a blooming lilac greeted his senses. Plucking a white and purple blossom, he let the scent waft over him as he walked on into the warm wind. The mounting sun shone with a golden light upon his path, and in the shadowy closeness of his satchel an answering light still seemed to shimmer.

T. G. 03/03/21