Sand and Blood

Chapter 16: Pushing Forward

Revealing one's voting stones to the sun is a deeply personal decision that can never be taken back.

—Ryugamiku Byotsúma

Rutejìmo yawned as he came back from answering the call of nature behind the far rocks of the camp. He was exhausted from the night, both from being awake during his watch and the uneasy sleep plagued with guilt. His feet crunched on the sand, and he wished he was back at home in the valley, ignorant of the last few days. If he had to do it again, he would try harder to listen to the lessons everyone had been trying to teach him. But, even as he walked across the sands, he knew he wouldn't have. Just as he never woke up early to train after Chimípu humiliated him.

He stopped when he caught sight of Pidòhu. The frail-looking boy was huddled underneath blankets, wiping the sweat from his brow with a shaking hand. A second later, he did it again and stared at the droplets running down his hands with unfocused eyes.

Fear clutched Rutejìmo. He wondered if he was seeing someone die in front of him. He knelt in front of Pidòhu. "Are you okay?"

"I—" Pidòhu looked over Rutejìmo's shoulder, but when Rutejìmo glanced over expecting to see Chimípu, he saw nothing but sun-baked sand. "I keep seeing shadows. They are running across the desert, but they never get to me. I-I'm so cold." He shivered and clutched himself.

A frown marring his brow, Rutejìmo rested the back of his hand against Pidòhu's forehead. It was soaked with sweat and searing hot. The heat rolled off the injured boy, but it was a wet, sick heat instead of the burning dryness of the desert sun.

Pidòhu bit back a sob, tears shimmering his eyes. "All I see are shadows, Jìmo."

"I-I think I need to get Chimípu." Rutejìmo started to his feet, but Pidòhu grabbed him.

"No, Jìmo. Don't go."

Feeling himself on the edge of tears, Rutejìmo knelt back down. "Dòhu, I don't know what to do. I... don't know anything."

"I'm getting sick."

"Okay, that part I figured out." Rutejìmo rolled his eyes, "But what do I do with this? With you?"

Pidòhu frowned and then wiped his face. "I... move me. Take me home."

"We're days away. Won't it be safe to stay here?"

Pidòhu gave him a weak smile, his body swaying. "I think I know what happens if I stay. Don't you?"

Rutejìmo gulped. He'd heard stories about couriers dying, but it was always a dramatic death in delivering a final message. There was never a heroic story about a Shimusògo dying in the shadow of a rock, unable to move. Rutejìmo squirmed uncomfortably.

"Jìmo, I know we can't make it. But, if I stay here, I'm going to die. I'm going to get weaker. I don't want this to be my grave." He gestured up to the rock.

"We won't make it."

"Better to die on the move than in the shadows of a rock. But"—he gave Rutejìmo a weak smile—"I don't want to die. There is a chance to make it, to get home. I know I'll be okay if we do."

Looking into Pidòhu's pleading eyes broke his hesitation. "I'll do it, Great Shimusogo Pidòhu." It felt a little easier to be respectful.

Pidòhu's eyes trailed to the side. "Shadows. All I see are shadows across the sand." He slumped back and closed his eyes. "Please, Jìmo," he said in a broken whisper, "just take me home."

Rutejìmo got up and eased the tent from around him. He pulled out the poles and began to lash them together into a narrow frame. Pidòhu was too heavy to carry and with his broken leg, he wouldn't be able to ride on Rutejìmo's back.