Sand and Ash

by D. Moonfire

him as the warrior raced around the valley.

  Choosing not to respond, Rutejìmo turned and watched his brother sprint toward the far end of the valley. When he saw Gemènyo and Faríhyo only a few feet away, he turned to them.

  “I see Desòchu is struggling with his inner demons,” said Gemènyo while turning to watch Desòchu rocketing around the valley cliffs. “He’s been running for over an hour now, hasn’t he?”

  It had been almost two hours, but Rutejìmo didn’t say anything. He could still feel the passing wind from every lap Desòchu made.

  Faríhyo murmured in agreement.

  Gemènyo exhaled around his pipe, leaving a cloud of smoke. His bare feet crunched on the gravel. Both of them parted around Opōgyo and Rutejìmo, neither of them looking at the banyosiōu between them.

  On the far side, Faríhyo said, “Mènyo, look.”

  Rutejìmo turned to where she pointed. In the distance, Hyonèku and Kiríshi were chasing each other much like Rutejìmo chased Mapábyo in Wamifuko City. The winding paths and cloud of dust looked like a storm as they came together and parted with blasts of air. With each impact, all movement stopped for the briefest moments before they rocketed apart. The explosion of sand burst into the air as a monument of their touch.

  There were other puffs of dust and sand surrounding the valley; other couples spent a few hours enjoying each other’s company. Even the young were out, running after Desòchu in a pack that would never catch him.

  “Just like a pair of kids who just fell in love,” grumbled Gemènyo. “Giving my wife ideas.”

  “Their daughter is happy and very pregnant. A birth is always a time of celebration, more so when the father is dead.”

  “I don’t see how they can be that happy, Mapábyo is sitting all alone in her cave.” Gemènyo inhaled on his pipe before letting smoke rush out from the corner of his mouth. The scent rolled over Rutejìmo who fought the urge to cough. “Poor girl, all alone with everyone out here running like fools. It’s going to be hours before anyone returns to the valley.”

  Faríhyo made another agreeing noise and came back to Gemènyo. She slipped her arm around his waist. Together, they walked away. “At least we get some time alone,” she said to no one.

  Another rumble of a fired bola passed them.

  She looked over her shoulder, “Though, I wish those boys wouldn’t do that while watching Nigímo. She’s only two years old and still teetering.”

  Following her gaze, Rutejìmo turned to see another shot rocketing from the lookout. It was a fast shot that exploded into two pieces before sailing to the ground a mile short of the birds.

  Rutejìmo shook his head and smiled. Better than his own attempts to hit the birds.

  “Don’t worry, Ríhyo, they’ll be responsible. They know better.”

  Faríhyo stopped to pull Gemènyo’s pipe from his mouth and kissed him. “Run with me.” She grinned, twisted the pipe out of his grip, and then exploded into movement.

  Gemènyo chuckled and exhaled from his nose. It looked like a bull exhaling on a cold morning. “Yes, love.” And then he disappeared with a rush of sand and translucent feathers.

  Rutejìmo jogged to catch up to Opōgyo who continued to move with a steady, shuddering walk. He noticed sand in one of the inlet vents and brushed it out, stinging his fingers against the heated metal. It was the last mechanical dog, and Rutejìmo had two months left before he could live again; he didn’t relish spending those two months hauling heavy weights on his own.

  Another shot burst from the lookout, this one high and flat. It left ripples along the sky as it sailed above Rutejìmo. Rutejìmo turned to watch it and was impressed when it almost hit one of the birds.

  Gemènyo’s and Faríhyo’s suggestion was a good one. A little time with Mapábyo would brighten his day. He rarely got a chance to enjoy her with the sun up. He tapped Opōgyo, though the dog couldn’t move any faster.

  To distract himself, he focused on the lookout where another vortex indicated a shot about to be fired. He smiled, silently betting himself a pyābi that it would hit.

  And then he saw movement. It was faint and barely visible from his position, too short to be an adult. He squinted, peering along the upper edge of the lookout. It was Nigímo, Gemènyo and Faríhyo’s daughter. Growing up in the valley, she was precocious and fearless. If Rutejìmo could see her, she had to be standing on the edge of the lookout and waving to her parents.

  Rutejìmo lifted his gaze to a vortex rising behind her. Translucent feathers swirled in the column of dust, and he could see the wind spiraling around them.

  Ice water ran through his veins. Nigímo had moved too close to the edge. He remembered how hard an adult could be pushed by the wind when someone threw a bola. Unable to call out, he threw himself into running. Two steps later, Shimusògo appeared before him and streaked past. He accelerated rapidly after it, kicking up a plume with his racing.

  The bola shot from the lookout in a blast of air. Sand and dust exploded around her, and Nigímo stumbled forward. Her right foot caught the edge. For a moment, she looked like she would remain standing, then she fell over the edge.

  She plummeted.

  Rutejìmo’s heart skipped a beat.

  When she landed in the safety net a few feet below, he let out his breath in a gasp. He didn’t know if the people on the lookout noticed, but Rutejìmo knew the gaps were large enough that a toddler wouldn’t remain caught for long. And there was nothing but a sixty foot fall below.

  He wouldn’t make it back; he wasn’t fast enough. Skidding to a halt, he stared up at her and tried to think of something. He couldn’t say anything—no one would listen to him. Desòchu’s threat loomed in his head, warring with the sight of Nigímo thrashing in the net; it was quickly crushed by his need to serve.

  Silence no longer mattered.

  Spinning around, he looked back. Gemènyo and Faríhyo were dancing around only a few chains away. He dug his feet into the sand and sprinted toward them, putting everything he could into reaching them.

  Seconds later, he slammed to a halt. “Gemènyo!” His throat tore from yelling after almost a year of whispering, he inhaled and screamed at the top of his lungs. “Faríhyo!”

  The couple stumbled to a halt, their bare feet digging into rocks. They jumped out of the cloud that billowed around them and stared at Rutejìmo with dumbfounded looks on their face. Neither would have expected him to break the silence.

  Rutejìmo gestured frantically at the cliffs. “Nigímo!” He couldn’t think of anything to say.

  As one, Gemènyo and Faríhyo lifted their gazes to the cliff. Two translucent dépas raced past them and around each side of Rutejìmo. Before he could blink, Gemènyo and Faríhyo both disappeared as they sprinted toward the clan valley. The wind caught Rutejìmo on both sides, and he was thrown back as Nigímo’s parents raced for the cliffs.

  He hit the ground hard and saw stars flowing before him. Surging to his feet, he started after them helplessly. Despite his desire to chase after them, helplessness prevented him from running. He would never catch up with them. Even if he did, there was nothing he could do to save Nigímo.

  Rutejìmo stumbled to a stop and looked around for Hyonèku and Kiríshi. He could get their attention at least, and both of them were capable of catching up. As he turned, he spotted Desòchu coming out from around the far end of the valley. Rutejìmo’s brother was only a speck of light, rapidly growing larger despite his route along a wide loop.

  He knew Desòchu could save the toddler if the warrior knew of the danger. Rutejìmo dug his feet into the sand and started to run toward Desòchu.

  He only made it a few steps before he realized he could never catch up to his brother; the warrior was running too fast to see Rutejìmo. Even if his brother did glimpse his way, Desòchu would look away: Rutejìmo was dead.

  Rutejìmo came to a halt, silently cursing. The only way to force Desòchu to look at him was to be a threat, or at least draw enough attention that Desòch
u would be forced to respond. Spinning around, he peered along the ground for something to throw.

  A few rods away, he spotted the edge of a large rock sticking out of the sand. The dark ridge hinted that it was much larger than he could see. He exhaled hard and raced over to it. Kneeling hard on the ground, he ripped his shirt off and fashioned it into a crude sling.

  He knotted his shirt, dropped it, and dug into the sand. His heart pounded as he fought the urge to look for Desòchu. Every second would count until his brother got close enough. His hand slipped and a sharp pain slashed across his palm. He pulled it up to see a deep cut across his hand. Blood started to well up, flowing around the sand clinging to his skin.

  He fought back a whimper by biting his lower lip. He forced his hand into the sand and pried the rock out. It was a heavy hunk of sandstone, far heavier than he normally threw.

  Rutejìmo was just staggering to his feet when Desòchu blasted past him. He fell back. “No,” he cried out. Hitting the ground, he scrambled to his feet. “Desòchu! Desòchu!”

  By the time he could turn around, Desòchu was nothing but a plume of sand and glowing feathers.

  Rutejìmo took a step toward him, but despair prevented him from taking another step. He would never catch up to his brother.

  With a sigh, he stepped back and dropped the rock into the sling. He didn’t know what to do, but he needed to do something. As he moved, he traced his brother’s route across the sand