Sand and Blood

Chapter 21: From the Shadows

We step through the shadows on silent hooves of steel.

—Pabinkue Zabīno, Birth of the Pabinkúe

Even after a day of walking, the three teenagers had nothing to say to each other. Instead, they approached the end of the day with in mindless trudging, focusing on moving one foot in front of the other and lost in thought. The only sounds were the scuff of sand, the whisper of the breeze, and Pidòhu's labored breathing. The heated wind burned Rutejìmo's skin, and he wished he could run, if just for the breeze, but also to escape his own thoughts.

Even through the pain and exhaustion, Rutejìmo couldn't stop thinking about Karawàbi's corpse. The look of Karawàbi's face and the sight of blood had burned itself into his memories. Even worse, he kept imagining himself in the murdered boy's place. He wondered if Karawàbi knew death was coming or if it was a surprise. If it was Tsubàyo, did he sneak up? Did they talk? Did they fight?

Each scenario made him sicker, but he couldn't stop his morbid imagination. Instead, he just walked in despair and silence.

They reached the Wind's Teeth in early evening. The campsite Rutejìmo had seen was completely obliterated by the wind, but the hunk of rock he had broken off marked their destination. Without a word, he set down Pidòhu and began to pitch the tents.

A moment later, Chimípu joined him.

He was startled by the quiet companionship she gave him. With Tsubàyo and Karawàbi, he had bristled under their constant commands and attitude. But Chimípu worked without question, and he felt the need to keep up. He was reminded of his brother's last advice to him, a suggestion to help Pidòhu make dinner. Now, days later, he could appreciate the advice of simply doing what needed to be done.

"Jìmo," Chimípu asked as they finished the tents, "after dinner, do you want to run? Just around the Teeth." She didn't need to mention Karawàbi or Mikáryo, but Rutejìmo could see the fear in her eyes.

With a grunt, he said, "I'd like that."

They shared a brief smile.

Chimípu looked around. "If you get Dòhu comfortable, I'll start dinner. That way, we'll have time before the sun goes down."

Rutejìmo finished the last tie and headed over to Pidòhu. At his side, he knelt down and loosened the ropes to give Pidòhu a chance to move around—as much as he could with a broken leg.

Pidòhu lifted his gaze to Rutejìmo, his eyes steadier than they had been in a while. He reached out with one hand and swatted a fly trying to burrow into his bloody bandages.

"Feeling better, Dòhu?"

"Yes, much better." Pidòhu stretched his arm out before resting it back on his lap. "The fever-block and the pain killers are helping. Everything hurts, but at least the throb is bearable."

"Do you need me to change the dressing?"

"Please?"

Rutejìmo peeled back the bloody bandage. Seeing it no longer brought the bile up, but the smell was overpowering. It was sweet and coppery; it reminded him too much of Karawàbi's blood. He stopped at the final wrapping, where the blood had turned the bandage crimson.

"I can do this," whispered Pidòhu. "You don't have to."

Rutejìmo gave him a thin smile. "Might as well, right? Just tell me if it hurts."

"Of course, Great Shimusogo Rutejìmo."

"I don't deserve that," snapped Rutejìmo as he focused on pulling back the bandage.