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The Thimble of Bartholomew appeared in my dreams, just like every other night. I could see it glimmer in the sunlight like the rarest diamond, I could see its geometrically perfect curves, its indentations and protrusions. “Oh yes,” I would muse in the Sandman’s embrace. “One day little thimble, you will be mine.”
I woke in my tent, just like every other morning. “Awaken,” said Joseph, my younger brother. “We must begin our day’s journey! Awaken!”
I crawled out of the tent and into the burning desert sun. “Must we wake so early?” I groaned. But I knew the answer was yes, for otherwise we would forfeit the thimble.
“Are you a man or a sloth?” Joseph mused. He handed me my daily bread, and after a a brief prayer we started our meal and our journey. The camels, lacking respect for our Maker, devoured some spiny cacti while we were still thanking the heavens.
But while we were under a perfect sky, the heat alone would qualify this desert as hell.
We travelled upon our beasts across the rocks and dunes, for days, and weeks. As our packs got lighter, our throats got drier. As we got closer to the Thimble, we got further from our very wits. But I had to have the thimble. It was too wonderful, too rare. It haunted my dreams, it spun through my thoughts, it even appeared in mirages.
Until one day, my brother fell off his camel.