Sand and Blood

Chapter 14: Coming Back

It takes a strong man to admit a mistake to a strong woman.

—Kosòbyo Proverb

Even following the dépa, Rutejìmo didn't think he would ever make it back to Chimípu and Pidòhu. Alone in the desert with the sun baking down and body aching from head to toe, every step was a struggle. But, if he dared to slow down, the dépa disappeared and he was forced to run bereft of the bird's company. Only when he pushed himself to run near his limits would the bird appear.

When he saw the Wind's Teeth, he almost sobbed with relief. It was early afternoon as far as he could tell, but he couldn't stop to look at the sun. Every stop meant he had to struggle to move fast enough to summon the dépa again. He bore down, pushed past the exhaustion, and drove himself toward the tiny, dark marks that would grow into the towering rocks.

He recognized his approach as he crested the dune. It was the same route they had taken the first time they approached the Wind's Teeth. Desòchu and the rest of the clan ran with him then; now he was alone. The contrast of the two days was painful and Rutejìmo wished he was still struggling to catch up instead of coming back to two people he abandoned.

Coming to a stop a few rods away from the Tooth, he called out, "Hello?"

There was no answer.

Panting for breath, Rutejìmo headed straight to where they had set up the tents two nights before. His feet scrunched against the sand blown up against the rocks, and the wind teased his face. As he walked, he felt the muscles in his neck and chest tightening—not from his run, but from anticipation and fear.

He hurried over to where the tents had been. The rocks prevented the wind from erasing the tracks. He could see his own faint footsteps from when he took down his tent, a swirl from where the others fought, and even a fresher trail going back and forth from Chimípu's tent and toward the rock where Pidòhu fell.

Rutejìmo stared down at the last trail. There was evidence of more than a few trails back and forth. He followed the paths, keeping his eyes on the footsteps precariously imprinted on the shifting sand. He didn't know what he would do if there was no tent or—his stomach lurched at the thought—if Pidòhu didn't make it through the night and he was walking toward a corpse.

Doubt burned brightly, and he clutched his stomach from the pain. He was afraid of everything he would find around the corner: blood, death, or even Chimípu accusing him of abandoning her. He wanted to run way, to grab his small pack and just start running. But, there weren't enough supplies to make it to the Shimusogo Valley or Wamifuko City.

He came around the edge of the Tooth and saw Chimípu's tent. It was pitched against the rock with one stake caught in a crack a yard above the ground. A small alchemical fire burned a few feet to the side, with smoke rising up from four small birds cooking over the flames. A cloth was spiked to the ground with a rock in the middle; he knew there would be fresh water collecting underneath it.

Next to the fire sat Pidòhu. The young man was huddled underneath one blanket and had another neatly wrapped around his legs. Three sticks—the rods from Chimípu's tent—ran along his leg; Rutejìmo could see them peeking out of the folds. A large stain centered over his injury, but there was no blood dripping to the sand below.

As he stood there, Pidòhu's head jerked up and he looked around. Slowly, their eyes met, and Rutejìmo felt more ashamed than he had ever felt before. The hurt and betrayal in Pidòhu's gaze bore right to his bones, etching the guilt and shame into Rutejìmo's soul.

"Dòhu...." Rutejìmo stepped forward, holding out his hand. He didn't have the words to ask for forgiveness.

Around him, the wind kicked up and tore at his exposed skin. He blinked at the tears that formed in his eyes. It rose into a familiar howl, of a clan runner racing toward him. He managed to turn just as Chimípu's scream tore through the air.