by D. Moonfire
shoulder and rolled down the creases of her white top. “Great Shimusogo Rutejìmo, why aren’t you running?”
Rutejìmo shrugged and stepped to the side to walk around her.
Mapábyo shifted to block him. “Great Shimusogo Rutejìmo.”
“I’m not Great Shimusogo Rutejìmo anymore, remember?”
“But you w-will be.” Her voice cracked and she inched closer.
He scoffed and tried to get around her again. “Not for a year, if I make it that far.”
Mapábyo ran her hands through her black hair, shaking the strands to dislodge the last of the sand. “What are you going to do until then? Just wander the desert with almost no food or water? How long do you think you’ll survive until you die of thirst?”
Not soon enough, he thought. Instead, he said, “Where can I go? Wamifuko City is no longer a choice. Everywhere else is too small to hide in and eventually they’ll find out that I’m dead to the clan.”
Mapábyo gestured to the road behind her.
With a frown, Rutejìmo peered down the shimmering road. Mirages wavered along the hills and dunes as the road snaked its way to the southwest. “What’s there?”
“Monafuma Cliffs. It’s a good place.”
“Why there?”
She turned and pointed to her mailbag.
Rutejìmo shook his head. “No, no, I can’t go there. That’s a Shimusògo contract, and I’m not Shimusògo.”
“But,” Mapábyo said with a bright smile, “it will take us a week to get there and a week to get back. Then we can come back, and you can stay in Wamifuko City or,” she hesitated, “whatever you decide to do next.”
He didn’t know what to say. Anger and frustration warred inside him. He wanted her to go away and leave him alone. She needed to stay away from him. With a growl, he gestured across the sands away from any of the roads. “What I want to do is head that way, until I can’t walk anymore.”
A frown crossed her face. “If you want that so bad, why aren’t you?”
Rutejìmo gulped and glanced at the waves of sand. Only death waited for him out there, but it came in many forms: painful thirst, starvation, or exposure. If he managed to survive those, it would be wild animals, bandits, or a score of other horrors that would take his life.
“Great Shimusogo—”
“No,” snapped Rutejìmo, “I am not Shimusògo!”
Mapábyo stepped back at his outburst. She cocked her head. “Rutejìmo?” When he gave a disinterested shrug, she cleared her throat. “Then, Rutejìmo, why are you still on the road?”
Rutejìmo turned away to hide the tears gathering in his eyes. He wanted to go out in the sands, but the dread stopped him.
“Please, Rutejìmo?”
“I-I don’t have the courage. I don’t have the courage to walk out there. I want to. I want to make this all end. But I can’t.”
“Papa says that death is a hard thing to run to.”
He shivered at her soft words. She was right, but he didn’t want to admit it. The desire to kill himself had been tempered by the fear of pain and suffering.
“Come with me,” she said.
Rutejìmo dragged his feet along some rocks. “Do you know what will happen if the Shimusògo catch you with me? They’ll drive you from the clan. I… you can’t do that to yourself.” The tears began to burn his eyes again. “You aren’t even supposed to see or hear me.”
Mapábyo’s footsteps scraped along the ground. “Yes. I know.”
He frowned and looked up. She had moved closer than he expected, and the smell of a light perfume danced in the air between them. Inhaling, he started to back up, but then froze. “Y-Yes?”
She nodded. “Yes, but I see you.” She reached out and rested two fingers of her right hand on his chest, right above his heart. “You’re right here.”
Rutejìmo’s heart thumped and he wondered if she could feel it through his ribs.
“Come, Great… Rutejìmo.”
He struggled with his words. “W-What if Desòchu finds you?”
Mapábyo cocked her head and her lip curled up. “Then, I’ll just say you’ve been following me. Then you’ll have your death, but it will be a lot faster than dying out there.” She pointed to the sands he had been contemplating.
Rutejìmo rolled his eyes, but a small blossom of hope rose up. “Just for two weeks?”
“To the city and back. And then you can run away until you want to come back. But you have to run until then.” She stepped back and gestured.
“What if Shimusògo leaves me?”
“He won’t.”
“What if?”
Mapábyo pulled her fingers back, but it still felt like her fingertips burned his skin. “Then we walk. But until then, Shimusògo run.”
Rutejìmo’s stomach lurched.
A shadow of annoyance flickered across her face, but a smile quickly replaced it. “Fine, Rutejìmo and Mapábyo run.”
With a wink, she was gone in a rush of air, a cloud of dust, and a sparkle of translucent feathers.
He stood there and watched the plume behind her. She was running slowly enough that he could catch her, if he wanted.
Slowly, he looked over the unforgiving desert. Death waited for him if he had the courage to keep walking.
He turned his attention back to the runner receding in the distance. He needed a different courage to follow her, one that he wasn’t sure he had. But Mapábyo offered a lot less pain. At least until Desòchu caught him.
Clearing his throat, Rutejìmo chased after her, walking at first, then running. He pushed himself until he felt the power of Shimusògo flood his veins and the world became nothing but sand, feathers, and bliss.
Banyosiōu
Lying about one’s clan has only one consequence: death. Painful, screaming, agonizing death.
—Chizoki Miyóna, A Traveler’s Introduction to Kyōti
As evening came, Rutejìmo desperately wanted to stop running, but guilt refused to let him slow. Sweat soaked his shirt and pants. His breath came in ragged gasps. He strained to run through the pain of his injuries and maintain enough speed to keep Shimusògo racing ahead of him. Every time he licked his lips, he could taste blood along his split lip.
The reason he couldn’t stop ran a few feet in front of him and to the right. Mapábyo ran exactly his pace, unwavering from her position even though she didn’t look back at him. She had maintained her distance from him ever since a brief water break at lunch. Her dark skin flashed through the howling wind and the translucent feathers that streamed around her and pulled him into her wake.
Past the shifting sands and howling winds, he saw colorful smoke rising high into the air, advertising an oasis ahead. He took a deep breath and began to slow, preparing to walk the last mile as he normally did.
To his surprise, Mapábyo continued to match his pace, slowing down. The swirling winds began to die down and the golden feathers faded away.
Guilt slashed through him. No one had ever slowed down when he dropped back. Startled, he forced himself to speed up again and maintain her pace.
Mapábyo accelerated with a smile. The guilt rose along with humiliation. He forced his attention to the camp to temper the boil of emotions rising in his throat.
He didn’t know the oasis ahead of him, but the plume of colored smoke that rose into the air had marked it long before he could see the few trees and buildings around a spring. He had used similar camps most of his life, though the clans that protected each oasis differed as greatly as the ground underneath his feet or the wind across his face.
Mapábyo circled around to the west side of the camp before angling steeply toward a small wooden structure.
He followed and slowed down when she did. He stumbled when the power seeped away from him, but he managed to keep running under his own abilities.
She came to a halt next to two clan warriors and a less-armored individual, all of them female. Panting softly, she looked at him with a silent question. It was the task o
f the group elder to introduce the members of an approaching clan.
Rutejìmo almost spoke the familiar words, but they froze in his throat. He couldn’t speak for Shimusògo, not with what happened. He shook his head and stepped back, blushing hotly. “G-Go ahead,” he said in a whispered croak.
Her eyes widened for a moment. She leaned toward him, as if asking for confirmation.
He nodded sharply and stepped back again.
Mapábyo straightened before turning around. She bowed deeply. “Good evening. I am Mapábyo, and I speak for Shimusògo.”
Rutejìmo fought a surge of despair that rose in his throat. The others were looking at him. The eldest in a traveling group usually spoke the formal words of greeting. He obviously wore the Shimusògo colors and carried years over her but his reluctance brought frowns of confusion.
All three of them looked at Rutejìmo briefly before they turned to Mapábyo.
The unarmed one spoke while bowing, “Good evening, I am Tijikóse, and I speak for Naryòshi. Just the two of you?”
Mapábyo’s shoulders tightened but she nodded.
“We have three other clans already camped here.” She listed the groups, Rutejìmo had heard of all of them. “Do you have issues with any of them?”
“No, Great Naryoshi Tijikóse. The Shimusògo will never war with anyone.”
Tijikóse glanced at Rutejìmo again, a frown on her face.
Rutejìmo gulped and looked away. He felt sick to his stomach, and the sweat drying along his skin itched.
Tijikóse said, “Along the southern side, Great Shimusogo Mapábyo. One plot marked with one green and two blue flags.”
Mapábyo bowed. “Thank you, Great Naryoshi Tijikóse.”
Rutejìmo and the