"It has been low before," said Elder Ibrahim, his voice raspy, "but never like this. Not so fast."
"The rains were sparse last season," offered another, Elder Hamid, "but the spring… the spring is fed from deeper wells."
"The desert demands something," Elder Yusuf sighed, his gaze drifting towards the towering dunes that rimmed the oasis like a golden wall. "The balance is disturbed. But what does it ask?"
Al-Zahra sat on her usual stone, listening. The water barely reached her ankles now, and the familiar bubbling sound was a weak murmur. The worry she saw on the elders' faces, the fear she heard in the villagers' whispers, settled heavily in her own young heart. The spring, her friend, the heart of her home, was fading. And nobody knew why. She looked from the shrinking pool to the vast, silent desert beyond the palms, a place usually kept at the edge of her thoughts, and a shiver, despite the heat, traced its way down her spine.
Chapter 2: The Desert's Dream
Days turned into weeks, and the heart of Ain Al-Hayat beat ever weaker. The ring of cracked earth around the spring widened like a hungry mouth. Dust settled more thickly on the palm fronds, their usual glossy green turning dull. In the souk, conversations were hushed, and the vibrant colours of dyed wool and woven baskets seemed faded under a cloud of worry. Even the usually boisterous goats seemed subdued, their bleating less insistent.
Al-Zahra spent more time than ever by the dwindling water. She watched the elders pace and debate, their discussions circling back to the same worried point: they didn't know what to do. Offerings had been made, prayers recited, old water-finding techniques discussed and dismissed as futile – the source itself was failing. She saw the strain on her mother’s face as she carefully measured water for cooking, saw the sadness in her neighbours’ eyes as they looked at their thirsty gardens. The joy was leaching out of Ain Al-Hayat, leaving behind a residue of fear.
One evening, returning home as the sky bled into shades of purple and rose above the dunes, Al-Zahra felt a heavier silence than usual settle over the oasis. Her mother, Fatima, sat weaving a mat, but her hands moved slowly, her gaze distant.
"Mama," Al-Zahra began, sitting beside her, "the spring… it's so low today."