Sand and Blood

Chapter 17: An Evening Run

Every magic has a mechanism to activate. It could be precise rituals, prayer to a divine power, or dancing.

—Kamanen Porlin

Rutejìmo trudged forward, focusing on digging each foot into the shifting rocks and lurching to pull the sled after him. His back and legs screamed out in pain, the ache burning clear up to his shoulders. He couldn't feel his fingers anymore; they had stopped bending hours before, and he panicked when he first saw the claw-like curve to them.

Pidòhu's stretcher pulled against him, held down by weight and friction.

Rutejìmo let out a cry as he forced himself up, one step at a time. At the top of the dune was a rock with a broad shield against the sun and wind. It looked like a sand tick on the back of Mifúno, the desert, but it was shelter.

His eyes streamed with tears from the agony of pain and from staring into the burning red orb of the sun. It was sunset, and they had barely made a third of the route Rutejìmo had run the day before. It was painfully slow, which only made their efforts worse.

Chimípu jogged back down the sand, running along a shifting ridge. She held out her hands for the ends of the frame.

Rutejìmo shook his head and kept on trudging up.

"Damn it, Jìmo. Let me take the last rod. You've been dragging him for two hours now."

Rutejìmo gasped and shook his head again. His cracked lips worked silently for a moment. "You carried him through the high sun. For far longer than two hours."

"Yes, but I'm...." She closed her mouth.

"Better, I know. But I will"—he grunted and dragged himself farther—"do this!"

He expected her to shove him aside or to take the back end, but she didn't. Instead, she turned and walked next to him, keeping with his agonizingly slow pace as he dragged Pidòhu up the side of the dune and into the shade of the stone.

The shadows felt wrong to him, as if Tachìra's sunshine could no longer reach him. Frowning, he wiped the sweat from his brow and took a step back into the heated sun. The heat and light was a comfort, and he sat down heavily on the sand.

Pidòhu groaned and reached out for the rock above him. His fingernail scraped on the stone before he slumped back. "I like it. Homey." He said with a strained chuckled.

Rutejìmo smiled and stared down at his hands. The joints were locked in agony, curled around a handle that was no longer in his palms. He jammed his hands into the searing sand; the heat was nothing compared to the ache of his frozen joints. He flexed, wincing as he worked at loosening his fingers.

"Can you find water, Dòhu?" Chimípu's voice was just as broken as Rutejìmo's, exhausted. Her body was soaked in sweat, and the fabric of her shirt clung to her skin.

Pidòhu peered around, scanning the sands.

Rutejìmo watched with surprise. He knew the basics for finding water, but Pidòhu wasn't simply looking for the lowest place. Instead, he was searching for something specific.

Bracing himself against the rock, Pidòhu pointed to a low spot with a dark patch of sand. "There. About three feet down. There are some rocks too, to brace the sides."

"Thank you, Great Shimusogo Pidòhu." Chimípu bowed and grabbed a set of spikes and the translucent fabric used to gather moisture. She trotted down to where Pidòhu pointed.

Rutejìmo turned to the pale boy. "Why there?"

Pidòhu chuckled and then shivered. "There are shadows pooling there. It feels... cool."