Sand and Ash

by D. Moonfire

Desòchu and Chimípu came to a stop on either side of him. Both of their bodies burned with golden flames, and feathers danced along their skin.

  Rutejìmo hesitated, unsure of what to do.

  Chimípu smiled at him and turned around so she was walking next to him.

  On his left, his older brother did the same. His bola thumped against his thigh from the movement.

  Rutejìmo trembled between the two of them. He was naked and vulnerable. His trek across the desert left him shaking and barely able to stand. Somehow, he knew they would catch him if he fell, but he was determined to finish the walk on his own.

  Together, they entered the valley. It was quiet, almost painfully so. The caves were dark, and the communal fires were banked. He looked up at the caves hoping to see someone—there was no one to see. For the first time in his life, the valley was dark.

  The only light came from the far end of the valley. The shrine glowed with a hundred candles. Someone had set up torches on both sides of the path leading to the shrine. At the sight of it, he sobbed and stumbled.

  Chimípu reached out for him but didn’t grab him.

  He glanced up to see concern in her eyes and a silent question. With a nod, he forced his aching feet down the path. The hard-packed ground and rock scraped along his abused soles, but he would make the final steps.

  A day walking naked in the sand was easy compared to the simple, smooth path leading up to the shrine. He could handle it, yet as he approached he felt the pressure of attention crushing him. It was a weight that he wasn’t sure he could bear. Through the opening, he spotted every adult in the clan waiting for him with their backs to him. At the far end, sitting underneath the grand statue of Shimusògo, his grandmother stared at the ground. In front of her were the two bowls that would determine his fate.

  He stopped at the threshold, a moment of indecision and fear. While no one looked at him, he could feel them straining to listening. He didn’t know what to expect anymore.

  He scanned the backs of friends and family. They supported him in the last year: meals set outside of the cave, impromptu poetry and stories just when he lost all faith, and even sitting out in the dark to talk to the night when he happened to be nearby.

  For years, he never realized how much everyone cared for him. The year of being ostracized had drawn him closer to the clan than ten years of running as a courier.

  He focused on Mapábyo. Her body shifted to the side and he could see that she wanted to turn around. Flashes of her profile came into his view when she started but then forced herself to look toward the front. Her black skin shimmered in the light, reflecting light from her white dress trimmed with orange. It was her special outfit, one that she modeled for him just the night before.

  Taking a deep breath, Rutejìmo stepped over the threshold of the shrine. Crossing that simple stone step felt like one world had just peeled away from him and he was entering a new one.

  A shiver coursed through the room. Ahead of him, Tejíko lifted her head and focused on him for the first time in a year. “I see you, Great Shimusogo Rutejìmo.” Mapábyo’s private words had become the words to greet the dead among the Shimusògo.

  He trembled, fixed to the doorframe.

  The rest of the clan finally turned and looked at him.

  He fought the sob that rose in his throat when he saw the smiling faces.

  Tears ran down Mapábyo’s face as she smiled. She wrung her hands together for a long moment before lifting her gaze to him. His heart almost stopped at the sight of the shimmering in her eyes.

  Rutejìmo knew he needed to say something. It wasn’t part of the ritual—still he felt in his gut it was right. It was the nature of being born once again into the clan. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward and down the narrow gap between people. He thought about his words, playing them endlessly in his head. He wanted to speak right away even though he knew he couldn’t. He found solace by staring at the statue of Shimusogo. It gave him strength imagining the clan spirit stood next to him.

  As he passed Mapábyo, he reached out and took her hand.

  Mapábyo inhaled sharply and tried to pull away.

  He caught her wrist.

  Next to her, Hyonèku snorted with a smirk.

  Kiríshi looked at him with confusion.

  Mapábyo leaned over. “Jìmo,” she whispered, “you’re supposed to say something to everyone.”

  He smiled and tugged her with him, nodding his head toward the front of the shrine.

  She followed, her bare feet scuffing on the rock. He stood in front of Tejíko and turned so Mapábyo and he were facing together, with Tejíko on one side and the clan on the other.

  Taking a deep breath, Rutejìmo opened his mouth, but his throat froze.

  Mapábyo squeezed his hands, the tears streaming down her face.

  “Ma… Mapábyo. Great Shimusogo Mapábyo….” Every word, spoken as loud as he could, came out hoarse and broken. “Will you m-marry me?”

  From the right, he heard a burst of noise, but Kiríshi’s and Desòchu’s expletive carried over everyone else. “Damn the sands!”

  Hyonèku laughed and clapped. “Finally!”

  Rutejìmo stared at Mapábyo, struggling with the words. He had spent months practicing them in the desert, but when it came to saying them, he could barely force the words out. He managed to get out only a few syllables before panic set in and he choked.

  Mapábyo blinked through her tears and then stepped closer. As she did, she pulled her hands from his and rested them on his hips. “Y-Yes,” she whispered.

  He smiled and placed his own, scarred palms on her hips.

  Tejíko stood up with a groan. “Boy,” she said in a sharp tone. Her long braid swung free and the heavy ring at the end thudded against the ground. “You always have to do things your own way, don’t you?”

  Rutejìmo blushed and ducked his head. “Sorry, Great Shimusogo Tejíko. B-But,” he found it easier to speak, “I will only get to say my first words twice, once when I was a babe and now. She’s the most important… she is my life now.”

  Tejíko’s scowl sent a shiver of fear coursing down his spine.

  Rutejìmo gulped and stared at his grandmother. “Did I… do—”

  She interrupted him by raising her hands. “Silence!”

  The whispers that had started when he first spoke ended in a flash.

  “Since my grandson can’t be properly humble with his first words, we’ll deal with the second order of business. Shall we let these two marry?”

  When he heard a bowl scraping on the floor, he glanced down. Tejíko pushed the black bowl between Mapábyo and himself, centering it right at their feet. If someone agreed, they would throw one or more of their voting stones into the bowl.

  He glanced at the red one, the one someone would throw a stone into if they disagreed.

  Tejíko chuckled and stepped on the edge of the bowl. It flipped over. The sound of it hitting the ground sent a bolt of surprise through Rutejìmo. He had never seen anyone flip it over.

  The first stone rang out at his feet.

  Rutejìmo jumped at the sound and looked at Desòchu who held up his hands. Behind him, Hyonèku, Kiríshi, and Chimípu were all lining up with their hands over their stones.

  Tension twisting his back, he glanced down. Instead of seeing Chimípu’s normal voting stone, it was one of his black rocks with the white ridges. He threw them off the cliff months ago and assumed they were lost.

  A second stone landed in the bowl, also his.

  In a slow rhythm, more of his rocks were tossed into the bowl until there were nine rolling at the bottom. No one else voted, no one else spoke about his request.

  “Rutejìmo?” whispered Mapábyo. She pulled her hands free and dug into her pocket. With a grin of her own, she held up her hand and spread open her fingers. With a sigh, she let it slip from her fingers and it plummeted down into the bowl.

  He had one stone for every year since he became a man in his cl
an. A year ago, he pulled out the tenth rock from underneath his bed and added it to his bag. A year later, he still had ten, but it felt like a lifetime had passed for him.

  He gave up a year of his life, but somehow, he was happier than he had ever been.

  When the final stone struck the bowl, he leaned over and kissed Mapábyo.

  Running Together

  The run heals many injuries, but the scars remain forever.

  —Shimusògo proverb

  Shimusogo Rutejìmo chased after a bird he would never catch. He didn’t feel the heat of the sun or the roughness of the desert road against his bare feet. He only felt the pulse of magic and the beat of his heart.

  Next to him, Mapábyo ran in step with him. She raced neither faster or slower, but exactly the same speed. She chased the same bird across the desert, her eyes focused on the road with the euphoric smile all Shimusògo shared while running.

  The world blurred past them as they ran, following the rise and fall of the road leading to Wamifuko City from Monafuma Cliffs. Their colors, orange and red, added to the boiling cloud of dust left in their wake and the flicker of translucent feathers that streamed around their bodies.

  Neither said anything; they didn’t have to. They ran hand-in-hand, and it was enough for a man who now spoke little and the woman who loved him. In his pack, he still kept the trappings of banyosiōu, the white outfits and the Book of Ash. Now everyone called him a kojinōmi except when he wore the outfit. When he wore the white fabrics, their eyes slid away and they refused to speak to him. He was the tender of the dead and a courier of Shimusògo.

  He was happy.

  They came to a halt at the northwest entrance of Wamifuko City, decelerating from speeds faster than human to merely running and then jogging. Their destination brought them to the gate where a familiar horse-helmed warrior waited.

  “Well met. I am Gichyòbi, and I speak for Wamifūko.” Gichyòbi bowed deeply when they stopped.

  Rutejìmo bowed deeply.

  Next to him, Mapábyo did the same.

  Rutejìmo straightened and said, “I am Rutejìmo, and I speak for Shimusògo.”

  “You know the rules of our city?”

  “Very much, good friend.”

  “I’m going to tell you anyway,” said Gichyòbi with a wink. He continued with the rules, giving graphic detail of how anyone who used magic within the city limits would be killed. The smile on his lips belied his words, and Rutejìmo and Mapábyo joined in.

  As he finished his speech, he continued, “… and I would be honored if the Great Shimusògo would join my family for dinner. I will miss our dinners together now that you’ll be returning home for some time.”

  Mapábyo giggled softly and rested her hand on the swell of her belly. She was due in three months, and it was time to stop running until the child was born.

  In a few days, Chimípu and Desòchu would be coming up to guard them for the trip back to Shimusogo Valley. Until then, they would be discreetly guarded by Gichyòbi and the Wamifūko. It wasn’t a favor, but a gift from one of the many people in Rutejìmo’s life.

  “We would be honored,” said Rutejìmo.

  A thud shook the ground. He glanced to the north where four large mechanical scorpions stepped over the crowds gathering near the entrance. Their brass bodies gleamed in the setting sun but he could still see the red glow of the inhuman eyes. As they walked with their tails curled over their backs, liquid flames dripped from their stingers.

  Rutejìmo turned to get a better look, his eyes dropping to the feet of the massive machines. It was impossible to see anything other than the flash of black manes and the haunches of the dark herd, but he could imagine that there were two Pabinkúe riding among the horses.

  A small part of him wanted to dive into the crowd to search for Mikáryo, to see the warrior one more time. He knew he wouldn’t ever find her again. She was lost to him, living her life as he lived his own. He accepted it with a pang of sadness and turned around.

  Mapábyo leaned against him. “Was that her?”

  Rutejìmo shook his head and looked away. “Was that who?”

  “Your shikāfu?” Her green eyes searched his own.

  “Of course,” he said with a kiss, “she’s standing right in front of me.”

  About D. Moonfire

  D. Moonfire is the remarkable intersection of a computer nerd and a scientist. He inherited a desire for learning, endless curiosity, and a talent for being a polymath from both of his parents. Instead of focusing on a single genre, he writes stories and novels in many different settings ranging from fantasy to science fiction. He also throws in the occasional romance or forensics murder mystery to mix things up.

  In addition to having a borderline unhealthy obsession with the written word, he is also a developer who loves to code as much as he loves writing.

  He lives near Cedar Rapids, Iowa with his wife, numerous pet computers, and a pair of highly mobile things of the male variety.

  You can see more work by D. Moonfire at his website at https://d.moonfire.us/. His fantasy world, Fedran, can be found at https://fedran.com/.

  Fedran

  Fedran is a world caught on the cusp of two great ages.

  For centuries, the Crystal Age shaped society through the exploration of magic. Every creature had the ability to affect the world using talents and spells. The only limitation was imagination, will, and the inescapable rules of resonance. But as society grew more civilized, magic became less reliable and weaker.

  When an unexpected epiphany seemingly breaks the laws of resonance, everything changed. Artifacts no longer exploded when exposed to spells, but only if they were wrapped in cocoons of steel and brass. The humble fire rune becomes the fuel for new devices, ones powered by steam and pressure. These machines herald the birth of a new age, the Industrial Age.

  Now, the powers of the old age struggle against the onslaught of new technologies and an alien way of approaching magic. Either the world will adapt or it will be washed away in the relentless march of innovation.

  Sand and Blood (Rutejìmo #1)

  Sand and Blood cover

  Can the power of the weak save them all?

  Growing up a disappointment, Shimusogo Rutejìmo has always struggled with proving himself worthy to his family and clan. All he wants is the magic to run faster than the strongest warrior, emulating his brother’s strength and courage. When he is once again caught showcasing his poor decisions and ineptitude, he’s sent on a quest for his manhood, a discovery of his true bravery and worth.

  His journey proves perilous and contrived as the elders who were to guide his endeavors abandon him in the dead of the night, forcing him to forge on without the tutelage he needs to succeed. When danger begins to envelop him, it’s up to Rutejìmo to find a way to not only gain inner courage and confidence, but to bravely save the friends he’s encountered along way. But he’ll need the clan spirit’s ultimate speed to conquer the impossible. Can a meek man find the strength to fight for himself?

  Sand and Bone (Rutejìmo #3)

  Sand and Bone cover

  The final journey starts with a single step…

  Now a father, Rutejìmo is finally comfortable with his place in society as a tender of the dead. But when his children question his bravery after a vicious attack from their enemies, Rutejìmo is thrust into a violent world of revenge and war.

  After a violent bloodbath with enemies disguised as allies, Rutejìmo begins to lose all that is sacred to him. It’s up to him to find his way back to his family and his solace, running for his life, his redemption, and his honor. Can Rutejìmo battle his biggest enemy, himself, before it’s too late and his legacy is destroyed once and for all?

  License

  This book is distributed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International license. More info can be found at https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0/. This means:

  You are free to:

  Sha
re — copy and redistribute the material in any medium or format

  Adapt — remix, transform, and build upon the material

  The licensor cannot revoke these freedoms as long as you follow the license terms.

  Under the following terms:

  Attribution — You must give appropriate credit, provide a link to the license, and indicate if changes were made. You may do so in any reasonable manner, but not in any way that suggests the licensor endorses you or your use.

  NonCommercial — You may not use the material for commercial purposes.

  ShareAlike — If you remix, transform, or build upon the material, you must distribute your contributions under the same license as the original.

  No additional restrictions — You may not apply legal terms or technological measures that legally restrict others from doing anything the license permits.

  Preferred Attribution

  The preferred attribution for this novel is:

  “Sand and Ash” by D. Moonfire is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0

  In the above attribution, use the following links:

  Sand and Ash: https://fedran.com/sand-and-ash/

  D. Moonfire: https://d.moonfire.us/

  CC BY-NC-SA 4.0: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0/

  Patrons

  This book is freely available on the Fedran website at https://fedran.com/sand-and-blood/. It can be reformatted for any device, shared, and even reposted on other websites (with attribution and a link to the original). If someone wants to write a fanfic or create art inspired by the book, they are allowed to do so with relatively few limitations, which are set down by the license described in the previous section.

  It is hard to compete with “free” in this day and age. Releasing a book under a Creative Commons license is one way of doing that, but there are still costs associated with producing the results. There are hundreds of hours put into writing it, hiring editors to go through it, and even hosting it on a website. As economics will tell you, there is no such thing as a free lunch. Most of the time, you pay for a book before reading it. Sometimes you have a sample of a few chapters to give you a hint, other times just a blurb. Here, you get the entire piece. If you like it, please consider supporting my writing.

  The cheapest way of helping is simply to talk about the book. Post opinions on social networks, write a review and put it up on Amazon or Goodreads, or give a copy to someone who might like it.

  The second way of helping is to donate money. Even a dollar helps. There are quite a few ways of doing this: you can buy a print copy; the tip jar at Broken Typewriter Press (https://broken.typewriter.press/dmoonfire/); or even consider becoming a patron. Patronage provides advance access to works-in-progress, votes on new stories and titles, and input into the world and my writing. You can read more about patrons at https://fedran.com/patrons/.

  I can only hope that if you like it, you’ll help me write the next one.

  Thank you.

  Credits

  I used to do acknowledgements but then I realized there were a lot of people who went into helping me write this book, more than would comfortably fit in a few paragraphs. At the same time, I felt the need to thank them because without their help, this book would