Sand and Ash

Chapter 34: Unshed Tears

Death strips the armor off our minds and bares our souls.

—Queen of the River (Act 3)

Hours later, the flames had finally burned away, and the two pyres had become nothing more than circles of smoldering ash. The heat cut at Rutejìmo's feet and knees as he walked to the center of the largest one. He stopped in the center and knelt to scoop out the blackened ash with his bare hand. Mouthing words to a prayer, he held it over Gemènyo's vase and let the ashes slip through his fingers. Small embers caught on his calloused hand before dimming in the relatively cool night air. He ignored the brief sparks of pain and worked in silence. He had to focus on his task to avoid the gnawing grief that clawed a hole out of his heart.

Despite remaining silent, he choked when the prayers came up to Gemènyo's name. The memories were too raw and painful to even think the words, much less say them. He forced himself to shape each word, praying with all his might that the desert would guide his friend's spirit to Shimusògo.

By the time the vase was full, the ashes were cold underneath his body, and the smoke no longer stung his eyes. He held his hand over the top and staggered to his feet, turning around once to orient himself. He staggered to the boulder he used as a seat.

He mouthed one final prayer while pouring wax over the lid and inscribing Gemènyo's full name along the opening.

When he finished, Rutejìmo held up the vase and stared at it. It was night around him, but after a year of performing rituals, he found that he could see well in the darkness. He stared at the vase and tried to come up with some words to say to his friend. No one would hear them, and he knew that Gemènyo deserved more than just a name on a vase.

A cool breeze washed over him, the flames flickering. He leaned into it and took a deep breath to let the incense-laden air fill his lungs.

Memories drifted through his head, and he let them flash across his mind. They were formless, the idea of an event more than specific details, but he didn't care. Scenes from Gemènyo's life flashed and were gone, fading slowly until there was nothing but darkness in Rutejìmo's head.

It felt like he had run out of things to say, though not a word had passed his lips. He set down the vase next to the boulders. He started to reach for the second one, his son's, but his body froze. From the despair in his heart, he felt a welling of sorrow rising up in his throat. He considered the plain vase for a long moment.

Rutejìmo berated himself. He had to keep going. He had a duty. He had a purpose. He was a kojinōmi, or at least learning to become one.

It took all of his effort to grab the vase. His fingers slipped off, and he had to try two more times before he could wrap his fingers around the icy cold opening and pick it up. Glancing at the second funeral pyre, he knew it was cold enough for him to gather ashes, but he couldn't force himself to walk closer. Closing his eyes, he clutched the empty vase to his chest and cradled it like a child.

There were more memories: he and Mapábyo coming up with names, their whispered dreams of what the child would become, and even the playful sex while she grew rounder with every passing night. None of them brought a smile to Rutejìmo's lips anymore. He wondered if he would ever smile again.

Footsteps crunched on the rock behind him. Rutejìmo slowly opened his eyes. He looked at the final pyre but didn't see anything. He focused his hearing on the approaching person.

"Rutejìmo." It was Desòchu. He spoke in a low, cracked voice.

Rutejìmo tensed and gripped the vase tighter. He wondered if his brother saw him speaking with Hyonèku. If he did, then Desòchu was there for blood. Memories of Rutejìmo's own suffering flashed through his mind, the remembered pain of being beaten and the look on his brother's face when he kicked Rutejìmo out of the clan were the clearest.