by D. Moonfire
the one who had to run errands in the cities, serve the rest of the travel groups, and do the valley chores that needed more than an unsteady teenager’s hand.
“No,” Faríhyo’s sharp tone stopped Rutejìmo. He looked up to see her staring at Hyonèku, one eyebrow raised. “We both knew Jìmo would miss. That isn’t fair to him.”
Rutejìmo pressed his lips into a thin line. No matter how hard he pushed or how fast he ran, he was always the weakest and slowest.
“Go on, Hyonèku.”
Fighting back the embarrassment, Rutejìmo looked back and forth between the two of them.
Suddenly, Hyonèku’s eyes widened and then he bowed. He turned, gave Rutejìmo a salute, and then disappeared in a rush of air and dust.
“Rutejìmo?”
He looked up.
“Change little Nigímo.” She gave him the same serious look that she had just focused on her husband. There was no chance of arguing with her.
He nodded and took the squealing baby. There was a small setup to the side of the path leading down. It included fresh cloth diapers and a covered bucket for the soiled ones. Even with the foul smells rising from her diaper, Rutejìmo cooed to Nigímo to calm her down before stripping her down. It was one of the many tasks that everyone in the clan did, regardless of age and rank.
“Sorry about that.” Faríhyo sat down on a rock near Rutejìmo. The smell of milk and perfume drifted along the breeze around them.
He shrugged, not taking his eyes off the little one. “It’s fair, I lost.”
“No,” she said in a soft, hesitant tone. “You’re good with children.”
Another shrug.
“Ever thought about having one of your own?”
Rutejìmo froze, his fingers holding the cloth to Nigímo who struggled to suck on her toes. He stared at the little one, trying to get his mind around the unexpected question. When his lungs began to ache, he realized he held his breath. He let it out and finished pinning the diaper in place. “Not really, Great Shimusogo Faríhyo.”
She clicked her tongue. “Don’t start the Great Shimusogo right now, Jìmo.”
“Sorry.”
Faríhyo slid to the ground and folded her legs underneath her. “Why not?”
Images of people rose up in his mind: Mikáryo, Chimípu, and Desòchu. And, he felt more alone than ever before.
The snake-tooth scraped against his hand. Realizing that he was clutching it, he yanked his hand back and peered over the baby to her.
Faríhyo watched him with her head tilted. “Jìmo?”
“I…” his throat ached but he forced the words. “I never found anyone.”
She reached over and tapped his chest. “You never looked. It helps, you know.”
A blush burning on his cheeks, he scooped Nigímo from the ground and slipped his hands to her tiny fingers. When she grabbed on, he held her up so she could take exaggerated steps that went nowhere.
“You don’t have to stay with Shimusògo, you know. You will always be one of us even if you live among another spirit’s clan.”
Rutejìmo nodded, not trusting his ability to speak. He thought of Mikáryo, the dreams of the horse woman welling up with his attention. With all his might, he closed his eyes and shook his head to clear the image of her naked thighs and tattoo-covered body.
“It’s about time—” Faríhyo stopped suddenly.
A scuff of bare feet alerted Rutejìmo that someone had come up the stairs.
Faríhyo smiled. “Oh, Great Shimusogo Kiríshi.”
Kiríshi stepped up to him, swept Nigímo from his hands, and then sat down next to Faríhyo. She was a larger woman than Faríhyo, but not by much. They were all muscular and scarred from years of running barefoot across the desert.
Kiríshi beamed at them and pulled her long hair over her shoulder. She twisted it twice before releasing it. “Good afternoon, Faríhyo and Rutejìmo. Talking about anything interesting?”
Rutejìmo’s cheeks burned. “N-No,” he stammered, “nothing important.”
“You two are very serious for only beating Nèku. You should be laughing your feet off at him, not just making him run across the sands.”
Faríhyo chuckled. “He needed the exercise.”
Kiríshi tossed Nigímo in the air and spun her around.
Nigímo flailed her short arms around and gurgled happily. She gave everyone a broad, toothless smile.
Kiríshi said, “Don’t think it was that much of a punishment. I saw Mapábyo coming.”
Rutejìmo looked up across the desert. A few miles out, he could see a cloud of dust that marked the runners of the Shimusògo. Another plume of dust marked a line from the valley to the others and it slowly dissipated in the lazy breeze that rippled across the desert.
When he looked back, both women were smirking.
“What?”
“Nothing, Great Shimusogo Rutejìmo,” said Faríhyo.
Suddenly uncomfortable, Rutejìmo stood up. “I should go.”
“Don’t forget,” said Kiríshi, “you have cooking duties tonight.”
He nodded.
“And you’re going out to Wamifuko City tomorrow morning.”
Rutejìmo stopped. “I am?”
“Yes,” Kiríshi said with a smile, “you are.”
“Not another treaty run.” He groaned and shook his head. “I’m tired of dodging arrows.”
“No, we’re sending Mapábyo back out for another round of mail runs, and you’re running for a negotiation.”
“An offer, actually,” said Faríhyo with a grin before taking her daughter back.
A Lending Hand
There are constant pressures to excel. The slowest and weakest are singled out to perform demeaning chores to encourage the strong and humiliate the weak.
—Funikogo Ganósho, The Wait in the Valleys
Six Shimusògo ran across the shifting sands of the desert. The ripples of power from the lead runners, Chimípu and Desòchu, spread out across the grains and solidified to give Hyonèku, Kiríshi, Mapábyo, and Rutejìmo a solid footing. It was exhausting to be the lead, but Rutejìmo always wished it were him in the front instead of being the one in the back.
Their speed created a plume of dust and rocks over a mile long. Flashes of golden feathers rolled in the cloud, bright as they streamed from the two warriors, but quickly fading as they passed Rutejìmo.
Chimípu and Desòchu could cross a hundred leagues in a day and then fight at the end. Rutejìmo, on the other hand, could barely run a tenth of that before falling over with exhaustion.
Even Mapábyo, who had found Shimusògo a year ago, raced a few yards in front of him. He strained to keep up, knowing they were running painfully slow simply to keep him near. A heartbeat of sprinting and they could have abandoned him. In ten years, they hadn’t, but that didn’t stop them from running ahead of him. The clan always ran at the speed of its slowest runner, Rutejìmo.
As much as he hated the constant back and forth between the Kidorīsi and Mafimára clans, it was a safe enough route that he could run it alone. While racing along the familiar route, there was no one else to remind him of his failures. He was just a courier there, faster than any mundane runner.
A set of Wind’s Teeth, large towering rocks sticking out of the sands, rose along the horizon. Rutejìmo recognized the jagged shapes and his stomach twisted at the sight of them. Ten years before, the clan had taken him and four others to the rocks and had abandoned them to the desert to see if the stress and terror would open the gateway to Shimusògo’s power. He survived, but he bore the scars.
Rutejìmo tripped on a hidden ridge and stumbled. With his speed, he pitched forward and slammed face-first into the sand. His impact left a long gouge across the ridge before he flipped over and bounced off the next dune to twist back onto his front. Small rocks cut at his face and hands until he landed hard on his stomach and face.
Humiliated, Rutejìmo remained on the ground and took a deep breath. The grains of sand tickled the
back of his throat and the heat rolled over him. The ache of a day’s run burned at his legs and back.
He exhaled, and the sand blew away from his face. He crawled to his knees. The searing heat burned his hands, and he brushed himself off to ease the discomfort.
Looking up from his landing, he saw that the rest of the clan members had reached the Wind’s Teeth. The fluttering feathers of their run faded, and the plume of dust rushed forward, swirling around their bodies and the rocks before cascading to the ground.
He knew they would be waiting for him. He forced himself to his feet and started walking toward the rocks. Wincing from the burning sand, he crawled up to the top of a dune and then followed the ridge as it swept toward the rocks.
Ahead, he saw two people race off in separate directions, neither of them toward him. A few steps in, a large translucent bird appeared over both of their forms and faded away. Both runners accelerated with a crack of air. An explosion of sand rocketed out in all directions, but was quickly sucked into the wind behind the runners. Less than a minute later, they were a league away.
It was Chimípu and Desòchu, the only ones who could run fast enough to crack the air. Rutejìmo’s speed wasn’t enough for them to sate the euphoria of running at top speed. Like the rest of the clan, they ran to relax and to mediate, which meant they sprinted around the camp while waiting for Rutejìmo to catch up.
The sour twisting in his stomach increased. If he had more speed, they could run further. But after so many years, he couldn’t get any faster even though he tried. No matter how hard he pushed and strained, he couldn’t speed any faster. With dark thoughts, he trudged along the sands,