by D. Moonfire
his lost year would be kept safe. Setting it down, he took a deep breath and started on his son’s ashes.
It took a depressingly short time before the second vase was filled. After mouthing the prayers of the dead over his son, he headed back.
Morning was approaching by the time he climbed the last of the trail to the shrine. The two heavy vases bore down on him, but it was an honor to carry them to their resting place. The torches in the shrine burned painfully bright after the darkness outside the valley. Inside, he saw almost everyone in the clan sitting there silently and staring forward. There were tears on their faces, and many of them struggled to keep their shoulders still.
The emptiness in his heart grew when he stopped at the threshold. He wasn’t allowed inside, not while he was dead, but he could finish what he started. Setting down the two vases, he let the edge scrape against the rock so someone knew he was there.
Turning around, he walked back into the darkness toward his home. The feeling of despair continued to fill him, choking off the tears and sorrow. Every footstep felt like the last of a run, heavy and plodding. He didn’t know what he would find when he came home, but he prayed Mapábyo would be there. He needed her as much as she would need him.
As he came up the final curve, he saw piles heaped at the entrance of his cave. He stopped in front of them with a scuff on the ground. There were two, one on each side of the entrance. On the left, he spotted little glass flowers, figurines from Wamifuko City, and wooden carvings from beyond the desert. They were little gifts of sympathy and grief for a family who lost a child.
He frowned in confusion. A second pile didn’t make sense. If he was alive, they would have just added more gifts to the same pile. The other, much smaller pile didn’t have gifts of grieving. Instead, the items were white and gold, the colors of death and life. On top was one of Pidòhu’s books of poetry.
“Do you know why there are two piles?” Chimípu whispered. She pushed aside the blanket and came out of the cave. She wore a simple dress and, for once, she wasn’t armed. Her green eyes caught his own without flinching or looking away.
Rutejìmo shook his head. He wanted to look away from her, but something kept their eyes locked.
“You are the tender of our dead, our kojinōmi, and you saved two lives today,” she whispered, “Even the dead deserve thanks when they speak that loudly.”
Rutejìmo’s throat squeezed painfully. He looked at her, fighting the sorrow that threatened to rip him apart.
She was looking at him with tears in her own eyes. “You spent so many years giving gifts like these to me, you know.”
He thought about the little things he gave to Chimípu and the others for saving his life or running with him. The little things that made his life a joy. He never got one himself. He was never that important before.
Chimípu stepped forward and rested her hand on his elbow. “You deserve it, little brother,” she whispered before kissing him on the cheek. “Go on, your love is waiting for you, and Shimusògo is calling me. She is safe for now, but hurt both in the body and the heart. No one will hear you tonight.”
He listened to her walk away before entering the cave. Padding to the bedroom, he steeled himself before entering.
Mapábyo sat on the bed, her eyes red and her hand resting on her belly. She wasn’t looking at him, but staring down at her stomach. Her shoulders shook and the soft pants filled the chamber. Underneath her hand, red-stained bandages crossed her belly above the hips. Her hand quivered as if she was struggling not to press down but at the same time, she was afraid of lifting her hand away.
Ignoring the grime and ashes that clung to his body, Rutejìmo crawled into the bed with her. He settled next to her and reached out for her hand. Afraid of hurting her, he held his hand over hers.
She looked up at him with tears rolling down her cheeks. “I-I see you.” She took his hand and pressed it against the warmth of her belly. The bandages around his palm and the ones covering her tugged on each other, the friction of their injuries holding them together.
The dead feeling inside him shattered, and a cry ripped out of his throat.
Mapábyo grabbed him tightly with her other arm and drew her body against his. “I see you, Jìmo, and I will never stop seeing you.”
He leaned into her and spoke for the first time since Gemènyo died. “I see you too, my love. And I will never stop seeing you either.”
His First Words
When being reborn into the clan, the first words are typically the most precious.
—Kyōti proverb
Rutejìmo walked along the ridge of a dune, the burning wind buffeting his skin. His bare feet left a ragged trail behind him, his footsteps marking the long winding trail stretching miles behind him.
He didn’t look back. It didn’t matter where he came from or the path he took. He started that morning by walking toward the sun, pacing in silence. He had no direction other than to follow the burning orb across the sky. When Tachìra reached his apex, Rutejìmo stopped and held his face and arms to the sun spirit until he felt the heat moving away from his upturned gaze. Now, hours later, he returned to where he started.
Rutejìmo walked naked. He knew it was part of the purification ritual, but there was a stark difference between knowing he would trek with nothing to protect him and the actual struggle to keep walking when there was nothing to shield him from the heat of Tachìra or the grit of the desert. He trembled with his effort, his body struggling without water or food for an entire day. He tried to lick his lips, but they were as dry as the rock that seared his bare feet.
He reached a large rock and leaned against it. His hand trembled violently, and he slipped on the sweat that soaked his palm. He lost his balance and thudded painfully against a sharp edge. The burn on his dark skin sent sparks of pain along his nerves.
Panting, he remained in place for a few seconds and wished he had landed in shade. Walking naked in the sun was agony and every inch of his skin felt raw and seared. The only place that wasn’t burned was a black tattoo of a dépa on his left shoulder.
He found his second wind and pushed himself away. Waiting in the sun would only prolong his agony.
To his surprise, the burn hurt—but not as much as he thought it would after almost twelve solid hours with only a tattoo to protect him. Something, a sense of peace or just the realization that he was about to rejoin his clan, pushed back the agony.
Barely standing, he kept his eyes focused on the cliff entrance of Shimusogo Valley. He could almost count the steps remaining until he was once again alive.
No one would meet him outside; he knew where to go. They would be waiting at the shrine to welcome him back. It would be the first time in a year that he would be allowed to speak again.
He wasn’t sure he had the courage to speak again.
For a year now, he had worked in near silence. The cloak of being there and not there had grown comfortable around him. It was a hard life, filled with helpless pain. Both he and Mapábyo struggled with their loss and with Gemènyo’s death. Still, the months had trudged by and the sharp edge of grief had faded.
Rutejìmo smiled to himself and wiped the sand from his face. There was no sweat left to prickle his skin. He wasn’t even sure if he could make a noise with his dry throat, he didn’t dare try. The purification ritual was made in silence.
Lifting his gaze up, he watched the red crescent of the sun burn along the cliffs of the valley. It was the last thin line before he rejoined the living. With a sad smile, he held his breath and watched it slip out of sight with the briefest of green flashes.
The power of Tachìra faded and he let out his shuddering breath. The darkness brought the full weight of his mortality and weakness to bear. At the same time, he could be seen again. He wanted to cry and scream and sob. The urge to drop to his knees and stop moving rose up, but he had a quarter mile left to walk before he reached home.
Looking back up, he caught movement. On either side of the valley,
two flames circled around the back areas and came around. Despite being on opposite sides of the cliffs that lined the valley, they ran in almost perfect unison. Plumes of sand rose behind the two translucent dépa. They were running in opposite directions, but he knew they would come back toward him. It was Desòchu and Chimípu and they were finally coming for him.
A twisting in his stomach caused him to falter. He watched the two warriors circle around the valley, glowing with an aura of flame and sunlight. A year ago, both had beat him nearly into unconsciousness and left him to die. But they were also the ones that stealthily gave a helping hand when he needed it, or fed him when Mapábyo couldn’t help him. He couldn’t touch or talk to them, but they were there, guarding and protecting him as one of the clan. And being present when the grief took him.
Rutejìmo forced himself forward. The urge to turn and run rose up, almost choking him with the desperation of flight. This close to the valley, the home of Shimusògo, he could use his powers. He wouldn’t, knowing it would be less than a minute before they caught up to him. Not to mention, his powers would wane once he reached a league from the shrine, but the two warriors could retain their speed all night long.
He felt the power from their approach, a tickling along his senses and a fluttering in his heart. It was comforting and terrifying at the same time.
With a blast of air,