Sand and Blood

Chapter 7: Middle of the Trip

The desert has no time for the weak and sickly. The savages slaughter children with minor deformities and constantly push their youth to their limits.

—Paladin Ruse, War Council of Kormar

Rutejìmo's chest ached, and sweat poured down his neck and shoulders. Sunlight bore down on him, stealing his breath as he struggled to jog along the ridge of the dune. For all the practice, wrestling, and racing in the valley, nothing could prepare him for the difficulty of simply keeping up with the rest of the clan day after day.

He ran strongly for the first day, but he was soon straggling behind everyone but Pidòhu.

By the third day, his cheeks burned with humiliation and he prayed for the end.

After that, he lost track of how long they've been running. It had all blended together, but it felt like weeks. His life had been reduced to running during the day and sleeping fitfully at night, only to be woken at dawn to do it all again.

His only comfort was that he kept up better than Pidòhu. Hiding his smile, he glanced over his shoulder. With every step the other boy struggled to keep moving. As he reached the top of a dune a few chains away he stumbled and sent sheets of sand pouring down in front of him. As much as Rutejìmo strained to keep up, it was nothing compared to Pidòhu's efforts.

Desòchu paced next to Pidòhu, jogging without any effort. He smiled and held his hand out, but wouldn't grab Pidòhu unless the weaker teenager reached out for him.

Jealousy rose up inside Rutejìmo. Desòchu had never given him the same attention as he had Pidòhu. His brother always pushed for him to run faster, even in the baking sun, but then sent him to run on his own. Rutejìmo turned away to avoid the anger that surged up inside him. Focusing on his destination, he strained to find some burst of energy to get him through the last chains until he reached the camp.

The clan had stopped in the space between three narrow columns of rock that rose into the sky. They were called Wind's Teeth, and legends claimed they were the bones of some ancient creature that used to wander the deserts. Now, they were just used for landmarks and shelter for the clans who traveled the sands.

As he jogged down the final dune, he peered through the rocks to the camp. Most of the familiar tents were already set up, the bright colors of the Shimusògo clan comforting. All the tents were small and easily carried by one person. The material was thin but strong; it was also expensive and required a trip to Wamifuko City to obtain. Since he would spend most of his adult life in one, it was an easily justified cost.

Karawàbi and Tsubàyo were gasping for breath with their backs to one of the Teeth. Karawàbi was on the ground, head between his large hands while Tsubàyo bent over and braced himself on his thighs. They were soaked in sweat and shaking violently.

Gemènyo stood next to them, waving his hands wildly as he went on about a dangerous adventure that would, like most of his stories, end with him drunk off his ass. Like most of the adults of the clan, Gemènyo wasn't covered in sweat or even winded. Instead, he hopped back and forth as he tried to cajole Tsubàyo and Karawàbi into standing up.

Beyond the rocks, Chimípu stood calmly as she spoke to Hyonèku with only a triangle of sweat down her shirt and a glistening on her brow. If he didn't know better, Rutejìmo would have sworn she had just started on the trip.

Rutejìmo glared at Chimípu as he came up to the outer edges of the camp. While he struggled to run the last chain without throwing up, she was calm and collected. He slowed down as he fought his jealous thoughts, knowing that being blatant with his opinions would just ask for trouble and mockery from the adults.