Sand and Ash

by D. Moonfire

didn’t spot any, but that didn’t stop him from turning around frantically and brandishing his weapon.

  After a few rotations, he was sure he was alone. The anticipation of danger continued to itch and he spun around again to make sure.

  Groaning, he came to a stop and used one hand to shake the sand free from his black hair. It bounced off his bare chest before cascading to the ground.

  His injuries still ached along his body, but the scratches had managed to scab over and a few of the bruises didn’t hurt as much as they did before he slept. Sleep, he decided, had done some good, though he berated himself for closing his eyes.

  He didn’t need to look to know the sun rested right below the horizon. In a few seconds, he would feel it breach the horizon and the familiar rush of excitement would course through him. He felt sick, though, as if he questioned if he still deserved the powers that Tachìra and Shimusògo granted him. Another part of his mind wondered if he would lose his powers with the new day. Or would it take longer before the sun punished him for his transgression?

  Memories of his mistakes slammed into him and he fought the urge to crawl back into the sand and cry. Clamping his mouth tight to avoid whimpering, he knelt down and brushed off the two packs before hoisting them over his shoulder.

  He grabbed his water skin and shook it. The light weight and faint sloshing brought a fresh surge of despair. He had precious little left. He could survive for a few hours by running fast enough to lose himself to magic, but he only had enough for a single stop.

  Frowning, he tried to picture the map of the area. Like most of the couriers, he knew the areas he ran intimately, not only to avoid dehydration in the sand but also to find alternative routes when storm or bandits threatened his run. But Rutejìmo didn’t know Mapábyo’s mail run any better than Hyonèku’s or Gemènyo’s routes. It took six days, that much he knew, which meant there were still four more days of running before he reached the destination.

  He turned back the way he had come. He couldn’t see Wamifuko City, but he knew how to trace his steps back. He shook his head and turned his back on the city, he couldn’t return there for days. Even if he did, there would be no shelter waiting for him.

  Turning around, he scanned the horizon until he spotted the southwest road that would eventually take him to Monafuma Cliffs. The cliffs were on a river, but they were four days from here, enough time to die of thirst before reaching water.

  His other choices weren’t any better. Shimmering waves of sand and rocks surrounded him. To the north, he spotted a dark line that could be cliffs, mountains, or a sand storm. To the southeast, nothing but gravel and rock until the horizon.

  As he pondered his choices, he gathered up the ring of travel lights he used to push back the darkness and stuffed each one in his pack. The pale light wouldn’t keep larger predators at bay, but he didn’t dare spend the night in darkness. He growled to himself, he didn’t plan on sleeping either, but exhaustion had taken him when he wasn’t expecting it.

  Standing up, he looked around in hope of a path before him. There was none, only faith and hope; he didn’t enjoy a large share of either.

  Rutejìmo took a swig of his water and held it against his tongue before swallowing. Closing his eyes, he faced the sun and whispered prayers to Tachìra; the whispered words felt more precious than ever before. He knew he was begging for his life and a second, or third, chance. Not that Tachìra had any reason to ever give Rutejìmo anything.

  He ended with a whispered plea. “Please, don’t let me die out here, Tachìra. I beg you.”

  The sun peeked over the horizon. When the light struck his body, he felt a shiver of power and the rush of heat. The sun felt good again his skin, and for a brief moment, he no longer felt ashamed.

  With a tear in his eye, he gave the sun a deep bow before turning to the southwest and the Monafuma Cliffs.

  Silence

  They are the rotting rats scurrying along the shadows of society.

  —Chyobizo Nichikōse, The Lost

  Rutejìmo ran because it was the only thing he could do. His pains had intensified over the hours of running in the sun. The sharp edge of dehydration turned the discomfort of his injuries into piercing agony.

  He tried to get water from two separate oases, but the guards at each one rebuked him. After the second attempt, he toyed with the idea of using the Shimusògo name for just one stop, but the words wouldn’t come. He wasn’t sure if it was pride or honor, but he couldn’t muster the courage to the claim the clan, even in his mind.

  He focused on the road ahead of him, trying to cling to the faltering euphoria of running. His head ached, and his body screamed in agony with every strike of his foot against the hardened ground, but he couldn’t stop running. Every time he considered it, the image of Mapábyo rose up in his mind. The look of hurt, betrayal, and anger kept playing over in his thoughts, reminding him that he had missed the most important thing in his life. She could be halfway to the cliffs by now, and he would be running for no other reason than to speed his death, but his memories drove him forward as much as the spirit bird running before him.

  Ahead, a thin wisp of colored smoke rose from the side of the road to mark the presence of a guarded oasis. He hoped they would give him water, but doubted it would end differently than the last three attempts. His guts were already twisted in knots, and the ache burned along his limbs. If the world needed to remind him of his failure, it had been proven beyond a doubt that the desert hated those without a clan.

  He needed water. Needed it more than anything else in his life. Any amount would be salvation at this point, even if he had to suck it off the rocks or through sand. The oasis could be his last chance. Though he already knew they would chase him away, he angled toward it in bitter hope.

  What felt like a day later, he came to a skidding halt in front of the oasis. Being mid-day, the dirty camping plots around the stone-covered well were empty. A few teenagers swept them clean while some women were repairing a sheltering wall on the outer edge. On the far side, he spotted a wagon filled with wood and a group of a dozen men emptying it into a stack near the central fire pit.

  Scattered among the clan were more of the stocky dogs he had seen a few days ago. They were sleeping in the shade or watching the work around them. He recognized the name on the banners that hung off the walls: Tifukòmi.

  The clan, human and canine, looked up at him where he stood. Rutejìmo stepped toward the nearest of them, but his arms and legs didn’t seem to work. A wave of dizziness slammed into him, and he fell, flailing around before landing heavily on one knee. He pitched forward. The ground rushed up. He groaned from the bolt of agony that shot up from his knees.

  Stars burned across his vision. He clawed at the ground until he found purchase, but when he went to lever himself, his strength failed him, and he slumped forward.

  Hands grabbed him and pulled him up.

  Rutejìmo gasped for breath, each breath a dry wheeze. His lips were cracked, and blood dribbled down the side of his mouth.

  Someone offered him a mug, but when his fingers refused to grip it, they held it to his mouth. He gulped down the cool liquid.

  “Slowly now, don’t choke.” An old man knelt on the ground next to him. He held the mug up to Rutejìmo. His green eyes bore into Rutejìmo, and he did not smile.

  Rutejìmo struggled to drink and breathe at the same time. What should have been an easy thing took most of his concentration. After a few seconds of drinking, he gasped and pulled back.

  The old man set aside the mug. He cleared his throat until Rutejìmo looked at him. “I am Kamanìo and I speak for Tifukòmi.”

  “I-I am Rutejìmo and I can’t speak for anyone.”

  The hands holding him up tightened and he saw the old man’s face twist into a scowl.

  Desperate, Rutejìmo pawed at the mug. “Please? All I ask is for some water and I’ll go.”

  Kamanìo’s eyes softened and he shook his head. “You just lost your clan, d
idn’t you?”

  Rutejìmo gasped. “H-How did you know?”

  “You’re running alone in the desert, and you speak for no spirit. You don’t know the way of the banyosiōu, yet you obviously are dressed as one. Only one who recently died would even consider the desert. It would be suicide. No one will help you out here, not if you have no clan.”

  “I’m learning that. In fact, your clan helped with that lesson.”

  “You come from the northeast, that means Tifukomi Tijìko?” At Rutejìmo’s nod, Kamanìo sighed. “I can’t speak for my son, but he was right. If you were on your feet, I would turn you away just as he did.”

  Rutejìmo’s eyes burned. “I’m sorry. There… aren’t a lot of lessons for what to do and I,” he inhaled roughly, “wasn’t really planning on traveling alone.”

  Kamanìo’s eyes narrowed for a moment. “Who were you meeting?” He held up the mug to Rutejìmo.

  Taking the cup, Rutejìmo sipped from it and felt his stomach beginning to unknot.

  “I ran with….” The words died in his throat. He couldn’t let anyone know that Mapábyo traveled with him willingly, that would risk her own life among the clan. Gasping again, he bowed his head. “I run with no one.”

  “And your former clan?”

  Rutejìmo couldn’t name his clan either, in fear that it would reveal Mapábyo. The Shimusògo were well-known along this route. He shook his head.

  Kamanìo gestured to