The Land Of The Living Dead

The tree stood where it always had. Through the blistering heat of Summers gone by, through the frostbitten Winters and through the growths and recessions of Autumn and Spring. Throughout all the continual shifts the tree still stood.  
 
For miles and miles, endless plains of dried and crusted soil, unbroken with the exception of the occasional tusk of withered grass, sticking out like sores upon the cracked ground. The sun glared vehemently upon the land below, refusing to falter in its relentless mission to suck the moisture of what was once a lushes and vibrant landscape.  
 
Travellers knew to avoid this place, this place that was surrounded by the stench of death. The bones of those who had ignored their natural, primitive, warnings marked the ground likes so many snapped sticks " to dry to entice even the most hungry and desperate of beasts- adding to the barren and lifeless ambience of the surrounding area.  
 
In the very centre of this desolate landscape stood an anomaly, a feature that did not belong, but yet -somehow- it still fit. Its olive green leaves arching in elegant curves, offering the ground below a respite from the sweltering heat of the sun. This bright patch of green drew the eye, made those few who dared pass take a second look at the abnormality.     
 
Some brave folk would broach the forbidden landscape; the distance was deceptive and they would soon fall prey to the moisture and life sucking sun. The air would steal any water held within their bodies, like a thief in the night; dehydration would stealthily creep upon them. Those who braved the land, soon braved that greatest of journeys, that finale to their fleeting life upon earth.        
 
And still that centrepiece of a dead land stood, observing dispassionately as they fell. It was as if this beacon of life was insusceptible to the life extracting heat of the sun. The tree was part of this land, like the sun belongs to the brightness of day and the moon to the shadows and whispers of the night.  
 
Yet when the relentless sun finally passes behind the horizon something strange would appear just on the edges of any who passed by. A small spot on the horizon would suddenly be illuminated. This was just considered another anomaly; any travellers who passed often enough to notice the small light far off in the distance rarely even gave it a cursory glance.
 
For the isolated tree was not the most extraordinary in the land of the dead. For just where that light appeared sat a small oasis, tiny but representing a much more miraculous and astounding thing. Life. Life among the land of the dead. It was if some extra-terrestrial form had thought the land too bleak and remedied the problem by dropping a small, vibrant village. 
 
The dead, crusted ground melded into the soft sands of an oasis. The miniature town would come to life; the villagers who had been sheltering from the blinding light of the sun would emerge from their small stone huts.
 
The women would attend to the everyday duties; mending clothing and preparing meals for the men who had traversed into the small lake, where they were farming wild rice. As the men waded into the water together their voices would raise in a wordless celebration, welcoming night. The people felt a connectedness with the land, treating their oasis like the miracle it was.  
 
This joint association with the earth brought them together; forming an irrevocable bond with each other. After hours of tedious work they would all return to their homes for a midnight meal of soaked wild rice. The bland meal was plain and uncreative, eaten out of hollowed out sandstone, lovingly carved into bowls. 
 
The sun would soon replace the cool light of the moon; banishing the villagers to their abodes. Before the life was once again bleached out of the land the people would meet once more; gathering along the waterline in a nightly ritual.
 
Each individual would kneel beside the gently lapping water, submerging their lily white skin into the shallow depths. This was their life; this is what anchored them to the land of the living. This seemingly innocuous liquid was vital to them, more precious than jewels and gold in the western land.  
 
So as they silently gave thanks for the gift of life, an air of correlation filled the empty space. Than into the silence a single reedy voice rose into the night sky. One by one more voices would join in the continuous and harmonized refrain. It was a simple song, simple yet it spoke of their heavy affiliation with the land and their fellow people.  
 
For some reason this living oasis fit in with the surrounding land of barren, cracked earth. Somehow these people belonged. Than as the sun rose and the people disappeared. Once again the village became silent and the shadows faded.
 

Throughout this, the tree still stood watching the fleeting life that vibrated thorough the small innocuous village. The tree was more than an anomaly; it signified something amazing and miraculous. It represented that life could indeed belong in the land of the dead. 

Author's Note

Again, Please ignore the large amount of Grammar issues.

Reviews

[NoelHC]

Tash, I continue to admire your power of description, and your way with words. As you mention, a number of typos and a few grammar issues to clean up, but I liked this work a great deal.
Well done.