The Back Country

Prologue

 Dust filled an orange sky. Bare feet stamped rhythmically against the desert sands. Forgotten chants of native tongues echoed through the barren plains. Painted white faces solemn as they danced, feathers bouncing, swaying in the warm autumn wind. In unison, they fell silent, the dying sun washing their face in a haunting red glow. Their eyes locked ahead, 3 rough hewn plinths stuck in the sands looming above them. They parted, a young man, clad in hard leathers, sharp ax in hand. He stepped forward, uncertainty across his face. He scanned the dark faces of the warriors around him. Hesitantly, he stepped forward. His father stood before him, casting a long shadow, silhouetted by the sun, dwarfed by the stone monuments.

"Father..." The boy said with shaking voice.

The aged chief straitened his back as he looked down at his son. His feathered bonnet was regal, fitting for a tribal chief. His stern looked broke into a prideful smile, his tanned face suddenly warm. The boys shoulders relaxed, letting out a deep sigh.

"My son, come, step forward. A man has no fear."

The boy began to step forward. A man has no fear, he thought, but I'm not a man. He was barely a teen. Just a summer had passed since he was a child at play. The leather straps of his armor dug into his soft pale skin, weighing him down into the sand, making it hard to move. Slinging the ax over his shoulder, he approached his father, but what laid beyond him froze him in his tracks. The sand sunk in a vortex, at its center a darkness. It was hard to look at, his heart skipping a beat as he looked away.

"Do no look away from the shifting sands."

The chief stepped forward, grabbing onto his sons shoulder roughly. He shoved him towards the vortex, right to its swirling edge as the boy stared directly into its abyss. His ears rang with a cacophony of sound, of unnatural screams and things he couldn't describe. His head felt as if it was being split in two, lowering his head and covering his ears with his hands. It reached a crescendo as the boy began to scream, when suddenly it stopped. Silence fell across the sands as the boy opened his eyes and looked around. He turned to his father, his face solemn again.

"It is time..."

Again the warriors began to chant, their feet pounding against the sands. A thunderous chorus arose. One by one, the warriors moved around the plinths, dancing an ancient ritual. The boys heart filled with terror, not just at the unknown but knowing he bore the weight of his ancestors. There was no fear in their tribe. Generations of his forefathers had braved the shifting sands, but none had returned. Elders spoke of it as a portal, a journey of the souls beyond their living realm, but others said it was merely suicide disguised as ritual. The stamping of their feet grew. He could feel it in his chest, their singing reaching a yell, their screams stretching across the dark desert. The boy closed his eyes, seeing the faces of the honored spirits. His foot raised, he stepped forward.

The singing ceased, the warriors feet standing still. All eyes fell to the pit. The boy had no sunk, merely disappearing into the vortex without sound or fanfare. Their faces stern and dark, they looked to the moon cresting over the plinths before turning their backs to the cursed sands.