by D. Moonfire
touched is corrupted!”
“Maybe,” said Hyonèku, “that is just our way now?”
“How can you say that? It’s your daughter!”
Hyonèku stepped forward, his bare feet crunching on the piled sand. “Yes, she,” he said the word sharply, “is my daughter and the most precious thing in my world. That tooth is now her stone, as you requested. The tattoo? Well,” he shrugged, “I don’t like it, but it means something to her.”
Kiríshi joined her husband, sliding her hand around his waist. “Tejíko didn’t seem to mind it when she found out.”
“It isn’t the Shimusogo Way!”
“Maybe the way is changing?” asked Kiríshi. “Nothing stays the same.”
Chimípu’s footsteps filled in the space. She didn’t run or even jog, but walked down the path.
The others stepped aside.
She came to a stop in front of Desòchu.
Desòchu glared at the other warrior and his flames flared higher. “And you are the worst of them. You and Pidòhu started all of this.”
Chimípu’s eyes glittered in the flames. “Started what, Great Shimusogo Desòchu?”
“He’s dead.”
“Yes, he is. And there isn’t a day that passes that I don’t think about it.”
“Of course not, nothing changed for you. You treat him as if he’s alive and still part of this clan. He isn’t anymore.”
“He’s been dead to you for many years now, Desòchu. That didn’t just start because of a mistake.”
Desòchu’s teeth ground together before he spoke. “He’s a fool.”
“He’s our clan.”
“He is weak.”
“And we still love him. He may be dead, but there will always be a place here for him. He tried to be your brother for so many years but you stopped being his a long time ago.”
“And you took my place, just like that?”
“Yes,” Chimípu said with a smile and a cock of her head. “It may not be the smartest thing to do, but I believe in him. Ever since that day when he stood up and asked for an end to the violence. When he came back and bared his throat to me. When he told me to leave him to chase after Pidòhu, knowing that he risked his own life to remain in the dark. This,” she finally moved with a single step forward, “is the man your brother became. He wasn’t given our gifts, and he will never be the fastest or strongest. He isn’t even the smartest or most observant. But when you pay attention, he has done something remarkable: he never gave up, and he never stopped trying. We have never struggled as much as him, but he has never, ever given up.”
Desòchu’s flames flickered before he frowned. He started to say something but Chimípu continued.
“Even in death, he works hard and without question. He stands up, because it is the only thing he can do. He runs forward because it is what we do. We run. We run even when we hurt and bleed. We run through the tears and agony and sorrow. Desòchu, this is the Shimusogo Way. This is what we’ve become. It isn’t corruption or wrong, it is just the way it is. He is dead, but we won’t stop loving him.”
Desòchu glared at the others. “Do the rest of you feel that way?”
Kiríshi, Faríhyo, Mapábyo, and Gemènyo nodded.
Hyonèku cleared his throat. “Actually, I’m kind of pissed at him.”
Rutejìmo jerked, for a brief moment he had forgotten he was there, and looked at Hyonèku.
A frown furrowed across Chimípu’s brow. She turned to look at him.
Hyonèku shrugged. “I kind of wish he wasn’t dead.”
“Why?” snarled Desòchu.
A smile crossed Hyonèku’s face. “Because I’d probably kill him for getting my daughter pregnant.”
Rutejìmo blanched and a shiver of icy liquid ran down his spine. Both he and Mapábyo were afraid of her father’s response to her being pregnant. Rutejìmo spent his days imagining all the horrors that Hyonèku could do when Rutejìmo couldn’t call out for help.
Mapábyo blushed hotly and ducked her head. She stepped back and slid her hand away from her belly.
Kiríshi rolled her eyes and smacked Hyonèku. The blow staggered him backwards. When he stepped back, she beat him with her palm until he backpedaled out of reach.
“Well,” Hyonèku said while defending himself from her, “it’s true.” He backed away from his wife and up toward his cave. “Sand-cursed ghost giving my girl a child. He deserves to be dead right now.” He was almost flippant, but the tone didn’t stop Rutejìmo’s sudden struggle to breathe.
“I think enough has been said,” said Tejíko. She came out of the darkness, her bare feet scuffing on the ground. She wore a ground-length sleeping gown with her bare feet barely visible underneath the white fabric. Her voice was low and cracked with age, yet brimming with power.
Everyone jumped at her words and presence. Hyonèku froze in mid-step and turned around, his cheeks red.
“Your yelling is waking up the valley. Some of us are old and like to sleep through the night.”
Everyone, including Rutejìmo, bowed.
“Yes, Great Shimusogo Tejíko.” Rutejìmo did not join into the chorus of responses.
The elder stood up straight. With a groan, she held her palm against her back. “Now, go back to your homes. Finish your dinner, but let the dead sleep tonight. We don’t need to bring up their memories when we should be celebrating.”
Desòchu turned away, taking a step toward Rutejìmo. He stared over Rutejìmo’s shoulder and whispered loudly. “If you make a single noise, I will make sure your corpse bleaches in the sun.”
It was a grievous offense, to acknowledge his presence. Rutejìmo looked around at the uncomfortable faces and then to his brother’s furious expression. He nodded, because it was the only thing he could do.
Wind blew away from Rutejìmo, the streak of Desòchu’s flames disappearing through the entrance of the valley and, no doubt, out into the sands. The others returned to their homes.
For a moment, he thought he was alone.
“Even in death, you continue to walk your own path, don’t you, boy?” Tejíko stood looking up at the sky. There were tears in her eyes, and she looked far older than her years.
Then she walked back to her home, leaving Rutejìmo in darkness.
An Unexpected Role
The clans of the desert not of sun and moon speak so little that most forget they exist.
—Paromachīmu
Rutejìmo sat on the edge of a burnt-down funeral pyre keeping his back to the pile of ash and stone. The dying heat rolled against his back as it quickly cooled in the last remains of night. It was early morning, and Tachìra had not risen above the horizon. He felt the anticipation of morning light in his body, a quickening of his pulse that made the heat licking his skin even more intense.
His attention was on an old woman who never spoke to him. He didn’t know her name or even her clan, only that she was waiting for him when he arrived to prepare the bodies of the six merchants who died in a caravan attack. She wasn’t a banyosiōu, she just dressed like one. Despite the lack of colors between them, something told Rutejìmo that she was more than dead. She felt like she still had a foot in the world of the living; it was a gut feeling rather than something he could easily identify. There was a sense of power in her, a warrior’s power, more pure than any other warrior he had ever met. It almost felt like she followed Tachìra directly. There were no signs of her clan on her clothes, so Rutejìmo was left with a sense of awe.
She stripped naked in front of him. She moved efficiently with no attempt at attraction or even concern for his opinion. The only sounds she made were the soft grunts of age and the whisper of pale fabric scraping off her body. Her hair, an unruly mane of white, stuck out in all directions except for a single braid over the left side of her face.
Rutejìmo watched curiously. He knew she was about to show him something, but she wouldn’t speak to him or see him. He wasn’t sure how he knew, just that after so many months body language and
gestures were enough to tell him when his attention was required.
The old woman finished stripping and stood up. Turning her head to the brightening horizon, she raised her hands above her head and mouthed a wordless prayer. There was no noise beyond her gasping breath and the shifting rocks underneath her feet, but he could see the words passing soundlessly over her lips. It was a prayer to Tachìra. He caught sight of the words “life” and “living” more than a few times.
A tingle ran along his skin. The words were important, and she was teaching him. He focused on her mouth, trying to memorize as much of the unfamiliar prayer as he could. It was hard, reading in silence—though he could puzzle out where it was similar to the rituals he had been taught.
Almost an hour later, she was shaking with the effort to keep her arms raised. Sweat prickled her dark skin, following the lines of wrinkles and pooling in the dust and ash that clung to her.
Tachìra breached the horizon, and Rutejìmo felt the rush of power coursing through his veins.
She responded at the same time he did. Without a word, she lowered her hands and walked toward the rising sun, her bare feet leaving shallow imprints in the gravel.
He turned to watch her walk around the shimmering ash and then head in a straight line across the desert, walking with a confidence that he could only admire. She had nothing, no water, no food. If it were him, it would have been a death sentence.
Rutejìmo stood up to call for her, but was distracted by the sound of paper flapping in the wind. Turning around, he stared at the clothes she had abandoned. Curious, he padded over to