Anne watched the grains of sand slip through the pinched waist of the hourglass, as the daylight hours edged toward evening. It was still light out, but night was coming on, and crickets were tuning up their bodies in anticipation of an evening concert. Anne was fascinated with the tumbling particles of sand as they landed silently atop the growing cone below, while the surface above dimpled and slow-moving grains eased down the sides of glass, then through the upper opening like so much shifting desert sand.

It was truly an “hour” hourglass – she had asked Grandfather to time it one lazy Sunday afternoon, and together they lay on the foot of her bed with the glass and Grandfather’s pocket watch with a sweep-second hand. They talked about a lot of things as they absently watched the falling particles, and Anne remembers it mainly as one of those special times with Grandfather. When the sand had completely fallen through the opening into the space below, he said it had taken just an hour, give-or-take three seconds. He was like that – precise. She was six then.

Grandfather died a year later following a brief illness, leaving a tremendous hole in her heart. That was four years ago, and Anne still ached from it. She treasured the ancient hourglass, a gift from Grandmother after Grandfather’s death, and brought it out whenever she felt a need to think. The falling sand brought back wonderful memories, and in a soothing way helped her sort things out. This was another of those times. She didn’t know exactly what was bothering her, but something just wasn’t right.

Anne’s mother was on another of her book signing tours, and would be gone for some four weeks, and Dad was in Washington, D.C., talking to some people in the government about saving the headwaters of someplace – Anne wasn’t quite sure where. Dad had said the “headwaters” was the place where a river began, and that in itself was intriguing to her. For now, she was with Grandmother at the ranch until Dad returned on the weekend.

Grandmother was just the opposite from Grandfather – she was always talking, and had a lot to say about people and what they were like and how things were going for everyone, it seemed. She wasn’t a gossip, at least not in a mean way – she just seemed to know what was going on with people all over, and Anne was always amazed at how much she knew about everyone.

Grandmother shared all this information with a gleam in her eyes and music in her voice, and when she wasn’t talking about something, she was humming – she did love her music, and did that a lot. Grandfather was more the strong silent type, and he couldn’t hold a candle to Grandmother when it came to talking. In his own way, though, he would get his word in even if edgewise. He spoke softly when he spoke, and this always surprised Anne, as he was such a large man. This didn’t mean he wasn’t strong, which he was, or didn’t have strong ideas or opinions, which he did, but he was more likely to walk softly and hold things in rather than speak his mind. He had a gleam in his eyes, too, and he whistled absently whenever Grandmother hummed, and they made such a neat pair, Anne thought. They loved each other very much – that was obvious to Anne. She loved when Grandfather puttered in his garage and tool shed and let her putter with him. She missed that very much now that he was gone. Even though Grandmother had given her permission to putter any time she wanted, it just wouldn’t be the same.

Grandmother was in the kitchen and the aroma of her special chocolate rum cake filled the house. Anne brought out her hourglass and set it on the table at the end of the couch in the family room. She lay prone on the couch, her chin resting on the well worn leather arm, her arms plopped over the arms of the couch, her left hand caressing the wood supports of the glass, her eyes glued to the trickle of sand falling into space. Soon she was aware only of the falling sand, and the world and its cares were lost in that nether world of thoughts and dreams unspoken. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she could still hear Grandmother humming, but it became one with the sound of rushing sand as it edged its way down the sides of the upper glass, poised momentarily at the orifice, and leaped into space, tumbling in slow motion through the rarefied air in the expanse of space in the lower glass.

Anne opened her eyes, and stared up into the dark face of a large man bending over her. She squinted, and holding her hand up, shielded her eyes from the blazing sun. It was very hot, and she felt uncomfortable with her clothes sticking to her. The man was wearing a long and loose-fitting robe tied at the waist with a heavy gold cord, with a kind of cloth wrapped around his head. It hung down behind him — it too was tied with a golden cord. He was wearing sandals. He had remarkable steel-grey eyes, and Anne relaxed as he fixed his gaze on her.

“Who are you?” she asked. “And where am I?” She registered how shaky her voice sounded, and then she anticipated the answer – she was no longer in Kansas. “I am one named Pellinym,” replied the Bedouin, “and you are near the Oasis of Kalakoum, one day’s journey by camel to the south of Cairo.” Anne sat up, and looked around her. As far as the eye could see, there was sand – vast reaches of sand, and very hot.

“Where is Grandmother?” she asked the figure next to her, “Your Grandmother bid you come,” came the reply. Anne’s eyes closed slightly, and her brow creased in disbelief tinged with curiosity. “She sent me here?” she queried. “Yes, little one,” said the Bedouin softly, “You were summoned, and your Grandmother consented.” “Cairo, you said?” asked Anne, still in disbelief. The older man smiled and nodded. “Summoned by whom, and for what?” asked Anne. The Bedouin laughed out loud – “You are full of questions, little one. But, come — come.” He stood up and pointed to a large tent nearby, and putting his finger to his lips, motioned for her not to speak but to follow him. Anne rose and with some difficulty followed him, her feet sinking enough in the sand to make it an effort for her. He, on the other hand, strode with ease, the result of years of experience on shifting sands, and waited for her at the entrance to the tent. He lifted the tent flap, and held it for her as she ducked her head and stepped out of the boiling sun into pitch darkness.

The stark contrast of moving from desert brightness into the darkness of the tent was dramatic. For a moment, Anne couldn’t see – she stopped and stood still for fear of bumping into something in the darkness. “Welcome, Little Florence,” said a high pitched voice. Anne hesitated, but only a moment, as her eyes now grew accustomed to the dark – “My name is Anne,” she countered, looking to the figure across the tent. “Hmmm,” said the voice; “You are known to us here as Florence,” came his squeaky reply, “Florence of Arabia…” Silence. Anne shifted her weight from one foot to the other, then back again. “No, my name is Anne,” she insisted, “from Wyoming.” She heard her voice growing stronger. The one with the high pitched voice moved closer to Anne, lifted her chin, and looked into her light hazel eyes. “You have come for some purpose which troubles me,” said the one with the high pitched voice. Anne looked up into his face, and saw a wizened old man, his skin sallow and wrinkled, a crooked nose, and one eye clouded over with a blue film. She shuddered, and stepped back.

Just then, the Bedouin, who had been listening at the tent’s entrance, stepped forward. “Mind your manners, Sheik Thelleson,” his voice just above a whisper but with the force of a thousand winds, his steel-grey eyes glowing fiercely in the semi-darkness. “The little one has come on my summons and at the release of her Grandmother, and you show her little courtesy as her host. How uncivilized and ungracious of you,” he chided. His eyes held those of the little man. “I brought her to pay her respects to you, and this is how you treat her!” He moved a step closer, and Sheik Nhumb Thelleson retreated to the other side of the tent.

“Who are you to speak to me in this manner?” shrieked the Sheik, and he stamped his foot and whined an oath under his breath. “I am Keeper of Courtesies,” said the Bedouin, “an appointment made by your Mother.”

“Ahh, be you the historian of record as well?” sneered a deep voice from the shadows to the left.

“Bhumble Jhurton, you old camel, you! What brings you out in the light of day?” asked the Bedouin, a twinkle in his voice. “Aren’t you afraid being out from under the shadows of your rock?” and the Bedouin laughed a deep hearty laugh. “This is not a laughing matter, Pellinym,” sneered the anemic figure in the shadows.

“Ah, but how can laughter be contained when there is just cause?” returned Pellinym smiling. “But, enough – we have paid our respects, as is your due,” he said, and he turned to Anne, and taking her gently by the arm, guided her toward the tent flap, and out into the bright sun.

Anne ran headlong into a little man rushing into the tent as she was exiting, and the two tumbled to the ground in a jumble of arms and legs. Anne picked herself up, and spit out sand as she brushed herself off. The little man picked himself up, and swore at her and raised his fist, but was stopped by the imposing figure of the Bedouin standing between them.

“So, are you losing your eyesight, Jherqellord?” asked the Bedouin, his voice light and cheerful. “And, would you say it is in character for you to strike a young girl, my friend?” The little man spun around, and glared at the Bedouin. “You mind to your business, camel driver!” sneered the little man, the muscles of his jaw twitching, his eyes dark with rage.

“Come, come, Jherqellord, my friend. Where are your manners? You have not yet welcomed our guest – this is Anne Sinclair, sent as an emissary by her Grandmother, your contact in the other world.” For the first time, Anne heard a certain quality in the way “Grandmother” was being spoken. Ghuy Jherqellord gasped, and moved back a step. “So you are the one sent from the other side!” whispered the little man. Then, his eyes grew wide, and he clapped his hand to his forehead, and mumbling under his breath, turned and ducked into the tent. Anne looked to the tall Bedouin, her eyes puzzled. The man laughed a hearty laugh, and putting his hand on her shoulder, the two walked away from the tent and a short distance to the area where the camels were stabled.

Anne walked swiftly, trying to keep pace with the tall Bedouin. She could hear loud shouting coming from the tent they had just left – angry words, and Anne distinctly had the feeling the cursing and strong language were somehow the result of something she had done or for which she was responsible. Pellinym looked down into her curious eyes, and shook his head – “No, little one, you did nothing that was cause for the anger in the midst – no, that is not of your doing. The anger springs from something in their pasts, and of what I do not know – nor do I hold it of much importance, for surely a man of principle, character, and breeding would not treat you so. Your business will be completed in spite of it.” Anne still looked puzzled. The Bedouin stopped in front of another tent, and held the flap aside and nodded for Anne to enter. “Now, what?” thought Anne, as she ducked and stepped out of the brightness and once again into the darkness inside.

“Welcome, Anne,” came a voice out of the darkness. As Anne’s eyes became accustomed to the dim light, a figure stepped toward her and threw her arms around her. Anne tried to catch her breath, and turned to see who had grabbed her so affectionately. “Do I know you?” asked Anne cautiously.

She was greeted by a striking young woman, dressed in flowing lavender silks, draped with a thin gold chain around her neck, a simple elegant pearl dangling from a fine gold and silver clasp. Anne stepped back, her mind racing. An image in black and white filled her mind’s eye, of a young woman standing beside an old Pontiac with her Grandfather – they were very young and just married. The woman’s eyes were deep and penetrating, set in a lean face framed in dark hair pulled back loosely, thinly defined eyebrows, the skin of fine alabaster, a slight figure in a summer dress.

“You’ve guessed rightly, Anne,” said Grandmother. Anne grasped for words, “But, you’re so young!” she stammered aloud. Grandmother smiled. “We are in a place not bound by time,” said Grandmother. “This is Grandfather’s home, here in the sands of Kalakoum. He was born here, and it is here he returned when he left us.” Anne closed her eyes slightly, her brow furrowed. “Grandfather is here?” she asked, excitement just beneath the surface. “Yes, he has been your guide,” the woman said softly, a twinkle in her eyes. Anne turned to face the Bedouin. As she thought about it, the voice was younger and stronger, but with its gentleness, was right, the cut of the jaw familiar. Then, the eyes settled the matter. Anne ran and leaped into the arms of the huge Bedouin, who hugged her for dear life, and the two laughed and cried.

“Why am I here?” asked Anne of her Grandparents. “You’ve been summoned to help with a slight problem,” said Grandmother softly. She smiled, with that twinkle in her eyes that always comforted Anne when things got a bit too weird around home. “But, who summoned me, and for what?” pressed Anne.

“Your question of why is more to the point than who or what,” said Grandfather.

“Then, why?” asked Anne again as she looked into Grandfather’s eyes.

“You have the hour glass I gave you when Grandfather left us,” said Grandmother. Anne nodded, her eyes holding those of the young woman. “You did something rare amongst people – you put yourself into the mind of a grain of sand,” she said. “You allowed yourself to glide down the hourglass’ side, and at the primordial edge, flung yourself into space, and in that moment light and dark became one.”

Anne closed her eyes ever so slightly, her mind taking in the words of her beautiful Grandmother.

Grandfather added, “The people of the desert know many things, but these three know not the secret of a grain of sand as you do.” Grandfather beamed, his pearly teeth gleaming in the subdued light within the tent.

“What secret are you talking about?” queried Anne, puzzled.

Grandfather put his hand on Anne’s shoulder: “It is the simple truth that everything in the universe is connected to every other thing. By the way you have been treated since your arrival, it is clear that these men do not comprehend this simple truth,” said Grandmother. “If they did, they would treat you much differently,” she concluded.

“What am I supposed to do with that?” Anne asked.

“Your presence is all that is needed, little one,” whispered the huge Bedouin. “That power already has offset the dark influences of discourtesy and uncivilized tongues,” said Grandfather. “You have done well, indeed.”

Anne took Grandmother’s and Grandfather’s hands in hers. As they exited the tent into the brightness outside, Anne closed her eyes slightly, and her eyes fixed on a stream of sand falling through space in slow motion. Light was darkness, and shadows and brightness were one and the same. She heard Grandmother’s humming mixed with the background rushing of sand sliding down glass, and then that leap into space – now, tumbling, floating down softly, coming to rest on a growing cone of sand…