by D. Moonfire
the others with his chin. Hands pushed Rutejìmo firmly into a sitting position before the clan members withdrew and returned to their duties in the camp. In a few seconds, only two gray dogs and the old man remained near Rutejìmo.
With a grunt, Kamanìo got off his knees and sat down.
Rutejìmo watched, his stomach beginning to clench in fear.
“She isn’t supposed to be running with you, is she?”
Searching the older man’s face, Rutejìmo tried to figure out what he was pushing for. The green eyes, one hazy and one bright, watched him sharply.
“No,” Rutejìmo said finally, “she isn’t.” Guilt bore down on him and he bowed his head.
“You put both of your lives at risk by doing this, you know. If someone determines you are chasing after her, they might suspect she knew about it.”
Rutejìmo nodded mutely.
“But,” the old man said, “you are both young and foolish. Which is probably why she went back for you.”
Rutejìmo lifted his gaze, his breath quickening. “She did?”
Kamanìo nodded slowly.
“Sands,” groaned Rutejìmo. He tried to push himself to his feet, but the two dogs growled sharply and he froze.
“No, young man, you need to stay here.”
“I-I have to go back.”
“If you leave then you will surely die.”
Rutejìmo whimpered and looked across the shimmering sands. Heat waves rose up from the road, wavering at the edge of his focus. The idea of running in the heat, even with a little water in his belly, sickened him and all he wanted to do was curl up and cry.
Kamanìo patted him on the leg. “It never gets better, you know.”
“But I have to apologize to her.”
The hand on his leg froze.
“I screwed up so many things, and she… she didn’t deserve what I did. What I’m doing to her either.”
Pulling back his hand, Kamanìo stood up with a guttural groan. Both of the dogs came up to him, one on each side, and pressed their bodies against his knees. He reached down to rest his hands on the large hounds’ heads. “How badly do you want this?”
Rutejìmo looked up, his eyes burning but no tears coming. “More than anything, Great Tifukomi Kamanìo.”
Kamanìo held out his hand, and Rutejìmo flinched. Instead of hitting him, Kamanìo held his hand out to help Rutejìmo to his feet.
Trembling, Rutejìmo took it and stood up.
The old man pulled Rutejìmo close enough that Rutejìmo could feel his breath and then turned him around. With a firm hand, he pushed Rutejìmo toward one of the shelters. “First, you need water, food, and sleep.”
“I-I—”
“This is how things work, young man. You remain silent and do what you’re told. For now, you need to recover because, in four hours, the first of the clans will be arriving for the night, and you cannot be seen.”
Rutejìmo nodded. He struggled to understand the sudden change in the old man’s attitude.
“While our guests are here and then until about an hour after midnight, you will gather up the refuse around that way,” Kamanìo gestured to a hill, “and take it to a dump about a mile to the south to burn. You will not be seen and you will make no noise. You will remain hidden from the mind and senses.”
“How—” Rutejìmo stopped when Kamanìo’s hand tightened on his shoulder.
“You will remain silent. I will detail a guard to guide you, but she will not touch either the garbage or the body. Those are not her duties.”
Rutejìmo inhaled sharply. He knew that banyosiōu were the ones who dealt with the unclean things in life, but he wasn’t expecting it to happen to him.
“The corpse was my daughter’s first hound. She died two nights ago from age. She is to be burned to ash, separately from the garbage.” His voice grew tight.
Rutejìmo nodded and remained silent.
“Do you know the way?”
He shook his head.
“Can you read?”
At Rutejìmo’s nod, Kamanìo grunted. “I have a book of rituals to perform and a vase for her ashes. There are rites for her body, follow them exactly if you value your life. There are directions for which spices to use and when. Requirements for how much ash must remain behind. When you come back, I will have a blanket and food by the garbage pile. You will remain behind the garbage until the last of the visiting clans have arrived. I will send for you.”
Kamanìo pushed Rutejìmo into the shade of a shelter.
One of the dogs came up with a basket filled with food and two waterskins. Rutejìmo’s stomach rumbled at the sight of it.
“Now, remain silent, eat, and sleep. You will be woken.”
Rutejìmo sank down on the ground, struggling to wrap his mind around the sudden change in his life. It was hard to concentrate through his pounding headache. “Great…” he paused and looked into Kamanìo’s eyes, wondering if he could ask one question.
The old man sighed and looked away. “Why?” he asked into thin air.
Rutejìmo nodded.
“I may be a fool, but Great Shimusogo Mapábyo has been a joy in the last year.” Kamanìo held up his hands before he continued, “She has brought smiles and laughter to my clan and those we protect around the oasis. And last night, I saw all the laughter gone from her eyes as she regretted leaving you. I may be cursing her to join your path, but I am driven to see her smile once again.”
Kamanìo stepped away. “I am also bound by other obligations not to do this again. Rutejìmo, this is the one and only time you will have solace in this camp without a clan. You have one day exactly—twenty hours—and you are no longer permitted to remain. If you return, I will not see you again and it would be in your best interest that Great Shimusogo Mapábyo speaks for herself with you nothing more than a shadow of the dead barely visible in the corner of my eye.”
Rutejìmo watched the old man stride away. He struggled not only with the desire to say something but also the sadness that welled up. It squeezed his lungs and burned his eyes, but he had no more tears left for his own mistakes.
With a heavy heart, he reached for the food and drink. He had a lot of work to do.
The Ghost
How do you deal with the unseen? Treat them as if they weren’t there and let them see your answer.
—Chyobizo Nichikōse, The Lost
Sweat pouring down his back, Rutejìmo swung the pickax over his head. He swung it and drove it into the ground. A small chunk of earth flew up, bouncing twice before rolling away. He grunted and swung the ax up and over again. He couldn’t stop, despite the protest of his muscles and the ache in his back. As soon as it hit, he yanked it back and swung again.
He had been working hard since early morning. Even before the other clans had left for their travels, he spent the time cleaning out the garbage pits and scraping out the cleaning pots behind a dune. When it was safe to be seen again, he hammered, lugged, and dragged whatever was placed in front of him. He ate when he could, stealing scraps off plates while scraping them into the garbage or grabbing a gulp of water from the bottom of a bucket.
No one spoke to him or even looked at him. Instead, they pointedly set down whatever tool he needed when he walked nearby. He worked numbly, bound by the generosity they were giving him but also by the realization that he couldn’t return to his old life.
He continued to dig while watching the shadows grow shorter. With every swing of the pick ax, he planned his route: back along the road and circle around the oases that threatened him. If the Tijikóse allowed it, he would grab two more water skins, but he wasn’t sure if that would be enough. It was a long run back to Wamifuko City and he might never meet up with Mapábyo again.
Along the outer edge of the oasis, he spotted two teenagers carrying his pack. They said nothing to each other or even looked in his direction. Instead, they left the pack for him and continued along their way. One of the clan dogs dragged a large water skin over, dropped it on the pile,
and then trotted away.
The stack of supplies pointedly reminded him that he was running out of time. Tearing his attention away from it, he bore down on the pick and continued to dig out the hole. If he had to leave, he would thank them properly with silent labor. He dug faster, feeling the seconds sliding away by the shortening shadows. Blisters broke along his palms but the pain only drove him to move faster.
He finished just as the sun reached its apex. Panting for breath, he wiped the sweat from his brow and peered around for whatever would go into the hole. Seeing nothing, he dragged the pick ax over to a shed that they used to store tools and set it down.
He slipped around the shed and trudged along the outer perimeter of the campground. His breath came in ragged gasps. He felt like a ghost flitting from shadow to shadow, unheard and unseen.
The Tifukòmi were generous: three skins of water, enough food for two days, fresh supplies, bandages, twisted knots of rofōshi roots for pain, and another change of plain clothes. He secured everything into the two packs before swinging the straps over his shoulders. It weighed more than usual, but he had a long run ahead of him.
Rutejìmo resisted the urge to take one last look at the camp. They had given him enough: shelter for the night, water, and lessons on what his new life would be like.
Taking a deep breath, he walked away from the camp. The muscles of his arms and legs ached with every step, but most of the discomfort came from his work around the campsite instead of his injuries. He pushed himself to jog, working out his body until his movements grew smoother and more familiar. He could barely