Sand and Ash

by D. Moonfire

them and picked up the plain fabric. A small paper book thudded to the ground, shaken loose from one pocket.

  He picked it up. The pages were rough and stained, and the edges were ripped. On the front of the book, in the lower right, was the title: “Ash.”

  When he stared at the plain cover, the world spun around him and it hurt to breathe. It was used and torn and burnt. Streaks of dirt and dried blood marked the edges. There were smears of ash-covered fingers on the pages from where she had opened it frequently. He held his breath and flipped it open. Inside there were dense, hand-written words that covered every inch of the page.

  A faint breeze rippled across the pages and fluttered the edges.

  He flipped through the pages, seeing the rites for the dead that he learned from guesswork and instinct. He found prayers for the spirits, not only Tachìra and Chobìre; and other clans, some with names he knew and others that were unknown. There were special rituals for children who died, for plague, for war. Special words for specific clans were written on the rough pages in ash, blood, and ink. Not all of the handwriting was by the same person or even from the same time. It was poetry, much like Pidòhu’s, though terrifying in what it represented. Nestled among the words and actions was something else, a record of those who had died. A history of the desert and its dead.

  He paged through the book, glancing over the names of the dead. The lines were ragged and different, written at the point of death with little more than a clan, a date, and the cause.

  When he reached the end, he came on two rituals. They were the last of the pages but also the oldest, faded and worn as the cover. He scanned over it, stopped halfway through to start again, this time reading in detail.

  The first was familiar: it involved stripping naked and walking toward the sun. He glanced up at the old woman’s silhouette slowly growing smaller in the distance. He turned back and kept reading, going through the words. By the time he reached the end, he understood its purpose: to bring the living dead back to life. A way of bringing a banyosiōu back to the living.

  He smiled at the sudden tears and sank to his knees. The ritual was what he would need when he finally could return.

  Through bleary eyes, he read the second. It was simple, a process for shedding the cloak of the living and willing to become one of the dead once again. It was needed for those who took care of the dead and dying, for the living could not touch death. The ritual ended with a single word, kojinōmi. He had never seen the word before, but kōji meant death and dying.

  He stared at the two rituals: one to live and one to die. They were two parts of a whole for those who willingly stepped between the two worlds. A breeze ruffled the pages, casting grains of sand and rocks across the pages. He brushed them aside and continued to read. He could easily picture himself in the old woman’s place and continuing the words in the book.

  Tears splashed down on the page, rolling across the stained page and adding the faintest of marks. He chuckled and let the sobs come. No noise came out, he had to remain silent, but he could feel it tearing at his dry throat. With the tears came a sensation of coming home, an epiphany that he had finally found his path.

  He could become a kojinōmi, a tender of the dead.

  The thought and decision settled across his mind, sinking in with the rush of power not unlike when he chased Shimusògo. It filled his body from the inside, spreading out from his bones until it tingled along his skin.

  Quick as it filled him, the euphoria faded. He clung to the fading rush but it slipped from his mind and left behind only a vague memory of touching some power far greater than himself. His breath came in fast, short pants.

  He looked up to call out to the old woman.

  She was only a dark spot on the horizon where her footsteps left a trail directly toward Tachìra. He already knew what she would do; she would live when the sun sank below the horizon. At least until she needed to die once again.

  Rutejìmo reached out for her clothes, intending to put them in a safe place, when his hands scraped against only rock. Startled, he looked down. They were gone. Confused, he looked around him, not finding any sign of the white fabric the old woman had stripped off. If it wasn’t for his memories, there was no sign the plain white fabric had ever existed.

  He knew it could be a trick of his eye, like the others looking away from him when he approached, but it was something else. He closed his fingers through the sand and let the grains slip through the gaps. She didn’t need them anymore, not where she was going.

  Rutejìmo smiled and stood up. He would follow soon enough, once he could return to the living himself. He pressed the book to his chest. First, he had to learn the path.

  Forbidden Words

  Silence is the hallmark of banyosiōu. They do not speak nor are they spoken to. To do otherwise breaks the illusion and demands an immediate response.

  —Roman Tomsin, Observations of the Desert

  It was a beautiful day in the desert, and Rutejìmo wanted to sing. Everything was finally right: the breeze that licked his skin, the wavers of heat from the sun bearing down, even Opōgyo’s thudding footsteps complemented the beat in Rutejìmo’s heart. He made his way back home with a smile.

  Mapábyo had come home late the previous night to a celebration. Her efforts with the other clans had earned the Shimusògo a decade-long agreement at almost twice the original contract price. It was also her last run before giving birth. Her bulging belly was already hampering her ability to race across the sands though it was still two months before the child would be born.

  There was only two months left before Rutejìmo could rejoin the clan.

  While missing her had taken its toll on Rutejìmo’s hopes, Chimípu and Pidòhu were always there just when he thought he couldn’t handle it anymore: they read poetry and told stories, brought warm food when he couldn’t cook, and talked about how they missed him. For his birthday, which passed in silence, they brought fermented drinks and just sat near him. None of them said anything and neither of them made note when Rutejìmo couldn’t stop crying.

  Tearing himself away from his memories, he spun around and gave a little dance. Life had reached a peak and everything felt right. His despair over being a banyosiōu had faded. He cleaned and hauled and did the chores no one else wanted. Even the more horrific of duties, cremating the dead, had become a task of honor and something he cherished instead of dreaded. He spent his nights reading from the Book of Ash and learned how to be a kojinōmi. Sadly, he also added at least three more entries into the list of the dead near the back.

  In his spiritual death, he had somehow found a place. And his role wasn’t just among the Shimusògo. As if the other clans somehow knew that the old woman had given him the book, requests had begun to show up for him to tend to the surrounding valleys. Even traveling groups somehow knew about his decision. He had cremated a Ryayusúki warrior only a week ago, and a couple who died at night a few weeks before that.

  No one besides Mapábyo talked to him, but the requests were just as clear as a shovel by the cave entrance. Instead of tools, he would find a small token of white or gold—the colors of death—and a strip of paper with the name of the dead. The book told him how to respond, both in approaching the other clan and the rituals that needed to be performed. It was poetic but concise, a beginner’s guide to tending the dead.

  It took him a day to bring up becoming a kojinōmi to Mapábyo. In their whispered conversations in their bed, she agreed. He thought about telling Tejíko when he could speak again, but then realized no words were needed. He would just do it, silent as the dead. The rest would understand and help just as they had since he returned.

  A rumble drew his attention.

  Rutejìmo looked up curiously.

  A glowing shot burst from the lookout and streaked across the sky. He turned to watch it sail toward a flock of birds, but the burning bola sank too fast, and it slammed into the ground a quarter-mile away. It was almost a year ago when he had tried firing rocks
off the cliff, and he smiled at the memory.

  Light flashed in the corner of his eye. Rutejìmo frowned and turned toward it, already knowing it was Desòchu running around the valley. From the distance, Rutejìmo could see nothing but flashes of light ahead of a rapidly increasing plume of dust that rippled out in waves and rose into the air. There were very few who could summon enough of Shimusògo to burn so brightly, and Chimípu was a hundred miles away escorting some couriers.

  Desòchu circled around and then came toward Rutejìmo. The translucent image of Shimusògo grew with every heartbeat, and Rutejìmo felt the rolling power despite the distance.

  Bracing himself, Rutejìmo took a deep breath and waited for his brother to pass. Desòchu would cover the distance in just a few seconds, and there was nowhere Rutejìmo could hide.

  The air sucked him toward Desòchu, and then held still as the warrior passed in a blur. Even though there was at least a chain between them, the air reversed and slammed into Rutejìmo. Sand and rock peppered his face from the passing wind.

  Rutejìmo considered throwing something at him, but Desòchu was running too fast for either man to see the other clearly. By the time he managed to get a rock in his hand, Desòchu would be on the opposite side of the valley. Despite Rutejìmo’s inability to do anything, Desòchu continued to rush past