In the dunes, Andrew shone his flashlight around until it lit up the outline of the sand sifter’s home. Then he switched the light off. It was very dark. Except for the stars and a sliver of a moon there was no light at all. And from the sand sifter’s home not even the flicker of a candle.
“Funny there isn’t any light in there,” said Andrew.
“Maybe he’s asleep,” whispered Jessica. “We better not wake him up.”
“He can’t be asleep yet, it’s not that late. C’mon, we’ll go and see.”
Silently they slipped across the sand to his home. The door was open, as always.
“Hello!” Andrew called softly.
No answer.
Silently they slipped inside.
Not a sign of him anywhere, except for his pails and piles of sand.
“I think a couple of his pails are gone,” said Andrew. “I know he had a shiny one, and it’s gone.”
“He’s probably out collecting sand somewhere,” said Jessica.
“Not in the dark!”
Andrew shone his flashlight around the room. “It’s strange, isn’t it?”
“What?” asked Jessica.
“Well, you never see him anywhere in the village, or on the beach. And nobody else has seen him. Never anywhere except here.”
“So? Maybe he likes to keep to himself.” Especially now that there’s always a crowd, she added to herself. “Andrew, I think we better go. I don’t like being here when he’s out.”
The mountains of sand glittered eerily when caught by the flashlight’s beam. They appeared huge and watchful, like sentinels guarding the old man’s home. The sands of time, guarding the past. Jessica shivered. “C’mon, Andrew.” She walked outside. There were no footprints in the sand, except for their own.
“And you know what else?” Andrew asked as they were walking home. “You never see him eating or drinking. There’s never a sign of any food. Or any water. Have you ever noticed that?”
“No, not really,” Jessica admitted.
“So what does he eat?” Andrew wondered. “He’s got to eat.”
“I don’t know. Sandwiches?” Jessica laughed.
“Very funny, Jess.”
“I know!” she giggled happily. It had been a great adventure, sneaking out to the dunes at night. And she had made a good joke. She didn’t care what the sand sifter ate, as long as he kept telling stories.
Every night it was the same. His home silent and still and empty, except for the sentinels of sand. And not a sign of the old man.
But every afternoon, there he’d be, sifting sand and telling stories. And the pails that had been missing in the night would be there the next day, in their proper place, as always. And always the piles of sand, sometimes larger, some-times smaller.
“He’ll never ever sift it all,” said Andrew. “Doesn’t he ever get tired? Doesn’t he ever sleep?”
“I don’t know,” said Jessica.
“It’s funny, isn’t it? How nobody ever asks him questions. Just ordinary questions, I mean. We don’t really know anything about him.”
“No, we don’t.” Jessica agreed. “And it doesn’t even matter, does it?”