Sand and Blood

Chapter 13: Breaking Up

Desert spirits cannot be first heard during happiness. Pressure is needed to open up the gates of power.

—Mifukiga Chobāni

Rutejìmo woke up huddled against a rock. The morning sun had not reached the horizon, but the false dawn gave his aching eyes a chance to focus on something besides ever-present darkness.

It had been a night of hell for him. He had only dozed and shivered. Every time he started to drift to sleep, the fear that something was going to rush out of the darkness kept him awake. Every wind, every prickle along his skin, and even the pounding of his heart refused to let him close his eyes for long.

He yawned with exhaustion. As soon as he could distinguish the ground from the sky, he staggered to his feet. Pain radiated from his leg, and he looked down to where he had slashed open his trousers on the rock he used as shelter. The long gouges were bloody, but he had managed to keep them covered long enough for a thin scab to dry over the top. His hands were smeared with dried blood. Disgusted, he used some sand to scour them clean before crawling up on the rock.

His entire body ached from the effort, but he couldn't survive another night alone in the desert. Shielding his eyes, he turned in a slow circle in hopes he could see the camp.

To the one side, he saw smoke billowing up in a lazy cloud. It was too large to be his camp, and he shivered at the nightmare of the immense brass vehicle towering over the campfires. Turning his back, he tried to imagine the route they had walked and peered along the horizon.

He couldn't see anything, and despair gripped his gut. Around him, the wind kicked up sand, and the dry grit scraping against his bare skin encouraged him to move. He yawned again, found a place to relieve himself, and made up his mind to start moving.

One lesson was drilled into him from the moment he could walk. If he was lost, he was to head for the tallest rock. For many places, it would be the Wind's Teeth, but at least it gave him a direction. He looked around again and saw a pair of rocks sticking out. It was in a different direction than the scorpion and the clan, and he considered the distance with trepidation. It was over a mile away, but he didn't know how long he had been running in the dark. He could be a hundred chains or a number of miles away from his tent.

Rutejìmo promised himself he would never run in the dark again. Groaning at the aches and pains, he started walking toward the rocks. It was going to be a long day, but he had to do something to avoid thinking about the very possible future that he would die alone on the sands because of Tsubàyo and his own stupidity.

An hour later the sun had baked his skin, and he was sweating. Rutejìmo stripped off his shirt and draped it over his shoulders. He trudged along the top of a ridge, forcing each step through the sand that enveloped his feet. He ached and he was tired. His stomach gurgled uncomfortably, but there was nothing to eat.

He regretted leaving his pack in the tent. He berated himself for following Tsubàyo, leaving Mípu and Pidòhu. He also wished he had never watched the clan meeting that set them off on the trip. Everything would have been better if he had just remained an innocent boy.

Lost in dark thoughts, he almost missed the dépa racing across the ridge.

Rutejìmo gasped and trailed the bird's footsteps, but the bird was already gone. Frowning, he turned around, but he couldn't find where the dépa could have disappeared. The wind erased its trail, and he was once again lost.

He took a careful step forward, then another. When the dépa didn't reappear, he sighed. Unsure, he started to walk along the ridge again. This time, he kept his eyes out for the flash of feathers or the trail of the bird.