Sand and Ash, Page 3

the ground, she peeked up at him. “Sorry… Rutejìmo.”

  Rutejìmo stepped into his cave and grabbed two stools from inside the entrance. Turning around, he almost bumped into her. For a moment, he stared into her green eyes, and an uncomfortable feeling twisted his gut. “Um, out here would be best. That way no one would get any ideas.”

  “Oh,” she stepped back.

  Rutejìmo set the stool on the ground.

  She watched until he stopped moving, then sat down on it. Twisting her hands in her lap, she struggled for a moment then said, “It’s about… the rite of passage.”

  He sat down heavily. “You know I can’t tell you anything. Part of the rites is not knowing what will happen; otherwise you might not hear Shimusògo when he calls.”

  She gave him a pleading look. “I know, but I was hoping you… might be willing to break the rules. I remember when you came back from yours. You had this,” she waved her hand as she paused, “haunted look on your face when you didn’t think anyone was watching. And ever since, you’ve run just a few steps away from the others.”

  Rutejìmo thought back to his own rite of passage. The clan had abandoned him and others in the middle of the desert to find their true character. Rutejìmo, to his dismay, almost didn’t survive it. He only lived because of friendship from the other teenagers in the clan. It also introduced him to Pabinkue Mikáryo, the woman who haunted his dreams.

  Mapábyo held up her hands. “Anything? Please, Great Shimusogo Rutejìmo?”

  He chuckled softly. “Pábyo, I can’t tell you what’s going to happen because I don’t know. What I went through was nothing like what your father or even Gemènyo experienced. You probably won’t even realize you are in it until…” He realized he was saying too much. “Well, until you’re in the middle of it.”

  She sighed and tugged on her braid.

  He glanced out into the valley where night was descending. Crystal lanterns were flickering to life, bathing the trails in hazy blue light. The one outside his cave hummed before coming to life. With a flicker, both Rutejìmo and Mapábyo were cast in a harsh, painful light.

  “It’s been years since I’ve been old enough,” she said on the edge of tears. “Why haven’t they taken me by now? Is it because I wasn’t born a Shimusògo?”

  With a shake, he pointed to the shrine. “You got in trouble trying to break into the shrine during Shimusògo’s birthday festival. And you should be glad it was Chimípu who caught you instead of your father. He wouldn’t have stopped at the entrance.”

  She giggled softly and ducked her head. “I thought Chimípu was going to kill me.”

  “So did all of us. Though,” he grinned, “I had four pyābi that you would have made it to at least the pillars.”

  Mapábyo looked up with a gasp. “You did?”

  Gemènyo stepped into the light and said, “Yes and I had ten that she would beat your ass before you made it past the cooking area. Of course,” he grinned and exhaled, “I won.”

  Ducking her head, she stood up and gestured to the chair. “Good evening, Great Shimusogo Gemènyo.”

  Gemènyo shook his head and gestured back to the chair. “Don’t you know better than to ask about the rites?”

  “Yes, Great Shimusogo Gemènyo.” She spoke in a quiet, deferential voice.

  “Go on, your papa’s probably asking for you down by the fires.”

  She ran down the trail toward the fire, not with the magic of the clan, but with the energy of a teenage girl. She wouldn’t be able to chase the dépa until after her rites, when the stress would lay her soul bare to the spirit of the clan.

  Rutejìmo stood up, grabbed the two stools, and replaced them inside the cave.

  When he stepped out, Gemènyo was watching him with a smirk on his face.

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing… Great Shimusogo Rutejìmo.”

  Decisions Made

  Certain rituals in one’s life are carefully planned behind the scenes.

  —Ryochisomi Kadèfu, Introduction to Kyōti Society

  “Three of snakes in the north, one point.” Rutejìmo tapped his card against one of the four piles before picking up the top card from the other three piles on the table.

  “Damn, that was my three of scorpions.” Gemènyo sat with one leg in a crook and his pipe balanced on his knee. He groaned and pulled out a six of snakes and set it on the east pile. “Your turn.”

  Rutejìmo glanced down at his cards. He only had two left, but neither would help him get another trick out of the cards on the table. Hissing through his teeth, he plucked out the card with an illustration of two rocks sticking out of a sand dune.

  Gemènyo grinned.

  Rutejìmo placed it on the south pile. He shuffled through the stack looking for another snake. He got through the pile before he realized he picked the wrong one. “Damn.” He grabbed a random card, the five of birds, and set it down on top of the rocks. “Your turn.”

  “So,” Gemènyo said, “you think Mapábyo is going to have her rites soon?”

  Rutejìmo glanced up. “Probably. Why?”

  “Oh, just curious.” Gemènyo set down a three of horses on the north pile. “I heard her asking you about it.”

  Rutejìmo had only one card left. He set it down on a nine of birds. “I’m out. She was just curious. Don’t worry, I didn’t say anything to ruin the surprise. Not like there is anything I could do to ruin the joy of being abandoned in the middle of the desert to die.”

  “Ha!” Gemènyo slapped down his card on top of Rutejìmo. It was a four of scorpions.

  Rutejìmo looked at the cards and groaned.

  “A broken chain!” Gemènyo plucked the sequential cards from the four piles. “That gets me eight points. I win!”

  Rutejìmo shoved his three pyābi across the table. Sitting back, he picked up his mug and watched the mist rising from the almost frozen bichíru, a fermented drink made from sweet plants. “At least I won the last game.”

  “And you’re going to lose the next one. Deal.”

  As Rutejìmo shuffled the cards, he heard footsteps outside of the cave. With a nod to Gemènyo, he cut the deck and shuffled again. “Go on, old man, it’s your home.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Gemènyo groaned. He stood up and headed for the entrance. He stuck his head out and then pulled it back in. “It’s Hyonèku and Desòchu.”

  Rutejìmo froze at his brother’s name. Afraid to make a scene, he cut the deck and shuffled it again.

  Gemènyo held aside the blanket and the two men came inside.

  Hyonèku was a friend to both Gemènyo and Rutejìmo. He was a tall, thin man with short black hair and a neat beard. He wore cotton trousers, dyed orange with red cuffs, and a white belt. Rutejìmo could see gray hairs ghosting across his bare chest.

  Behind him stood Desòchu, Rutejìmo’s older brother by almost a decade. He was powerfully built, with hard lines of muscles and battle scars. He had a closely cropped beard, barely a black shadow along his throat and chin. He wore a loose-cut, white jacket with orange trousers. Both top and bottom were trimmed in red.

  Desòchu clapped hands with Gemènyo and glanced over. “You didn’t stay long at the fire, Jìmo. Something wrong?”

  Rutejìmo tensed and forced himself to shrug. “Wanted to play cards with Gemènyo.”

  “Great Shimusogo Tejíko was looking for you. And,” his green eyes narrowed, “I heard that you were talking to Mapábyo.”

  Setting down his cards, Rutejìmo said, “She wanted to ask some questions.”

  “You didn’t tell her anything, did you?” Desòchu’s voice was tense, and Rutejìmo could see the muscles in his jaw tensing.

  “No,” Gemènyo said, “your little brother didn’t say anything. I was listening the whole time.”

  Desòchu stared at Gemènyo, his lips pressed into a thin line.

  “I brought something to drink.” Hyonèku slipped past him and set down a bottle of spirits. “Deal me in.”

  Gemènyo
sank down and tapped his pipe out into a wooden bucket. “Sure you have time for a game, Sòchu?”

  His brother hesitated for a moment. “Yeah, deal me in.”

  “Three pyābi for the couriers, but Great Shimusogo Desòchu has to pay six because he won the last four games.”

  Desòchu gave a mock glare and sat down heavily. “How about I just bring these instead?” He dug into his belt and pulled out a small bag. He tossed it on the table and candied nuts spilled out.

  “You’re in,” announced Gemènyo.

  Rutejìmo dealt all the cards to the four players. When he went to pick up his own, he hesitated. The desire to stand up and leave rose inside him, and he struggled to fight it. It would just further ostracize himself from the others, and Desòchu had repeatedly criticized him for doing that. He bit his lip and then scooped up the cards.

  None of the four men said anything for the first few minutes. The fire in the corner of the cave sparked and popped while they set down cards on one of the four piles. Occasionally, Desòchu or Gemènyo would finish a trick and pick up a card from each pile. Rutejìmo played conservatively, making no effort to draw attention to himself or trying to beat his brother.

  Desòchu broke the silence. “Kidorīsi and Mafimára asked for a courier.”

  Rutejìmo groaned, and Gemènyo laughed.

  “Those two…” Hyonèku shook his head sadly before setting down his next card.

  Shrugging, Desòchu plucked a nut from the table before setting down his hand. His fighting bola thumped against the side of the table. “They pay annually and pay well, despite their fighting. Rutejìmo, I want you to do the hand-off. They know you.”

  Rutejìmo nodded and watched Gemènyo play his card before setting down his two of snakes on one of the piles.

  “Hyonèku,” Desòchu turned to the other man, “do you want to go with Rutejìmo?”

  Rutejìmo hesitated, his fingers pressed against the rough card before he pulled his hand back. Desòchu never gave Rutejìmo a chance when it came to assigning jobs.

  “Why?” asked Hyonèku.

  “We’re going to start Mapábyo’s rites tomorrow.”

  Hyonèku grunted and nodded. “Yeah, I’ll run with Rutejìmo. I don’t think I could take watching her fumble around.” He smirked and kicked Rutejìmo playfully in the shin. “One thing to see Jìmo running aimlessly on the sand.”

  Rutejìmo grinned and glanced over to Gemènyo who winked back.

  “But my own daughter?” Hyonèku snorted. “No, I’d rather steal one of Tejíko’s maps and tear it in half.”

  “No,” Desòchu said with a smirk, “watching your daughter’s rites won’t kill you. And we won’t hear you screaming from here. Or have to clean up the blood.”

  Everyone laughed and the tension broke, but only for a moment. As soon as it ended, the cave grew quiet again.

  “Great Shimusogo Hyonèku, thank you,” said Desòchu. “Will you leave at first light?”

  Hyonèku tapped his card on the table. “Isn’t that Great Shimusogo Rutejìmo’s choice? He’s handling the package.”

  Desòchu glanced at Rutejìmo. There was a hardness in his eyes, a reservation that Rutejìmo had seen many times. The warrior rested his hand on his blade, but only for a second before making a show of picking up one of the treats off the table. “Of course. Jìmo?”

  The muscles along Rutejìmo’s spine tightened before he managed to nod twice. “First light is fine. We’ll be ready.”

  Nightmares

  … including allowing the so-called warriors to vent their lusts on the unmarried youth in the name of “preparing” them for marriage.

  —Rolan Madranir, Barbarians of the Desert

  Rutejìmo sat in the dark. Beneath him, the sand scraped at his buttocks and hands. A cold wind of night peppered his face with flecks of sharpness. He could see the sun, but the brilliant orb gave no heat or light to the world around him. He was alone and helpless.

  Most of his dreams started that way. Just as all of them ended in nightmares.

  He hated and feared the night. He still remembered the day when he sent Chimípu out to save Pidòhu, and he was left alone to fend for himself. It had been ten years and memories were hazy, but the dying flame had been burned into his memories. Only a single light source lit up his world, pushing back the horrors that waited for darkness.

  Ten years ago, he would have the same nightmare every night. The years had passed and the nightmares faded with time. Now, clutching his muscular legs to his chest, he remembered the sick fear of helplessness clawing at his guts.

  He glanced over his shoulder, expecting something to come out for him. He wouldn’t hear it coming, he never did. It was the warriors who saved him, first Chimípu and then… her. Pabinkue Mikáryo. The warrior of night who haunted not only his nightmares but also his fantasies.

  Struggling to remember the confidence of a runner, he looked around. He searched for some light or a hint of what was coming for him: a mizonekima chyòre, the same type of giant snake that had almost killed him years ago; the bandits that preyed on the routes he ran between cities; or even some other unspeakable horror. Mifúno, in all of her glory as the desert herself, had secrets even on the beaten trails, and Rutejìmo knew he hadn’t seen them all.

  He whispered a prayer to Tachìra, begging the sun spirit to bring light, but there was nothing other than cold wind and sand.

  Something brushed against his arm, and he jumped. Turning around, he clamped down on the muscles between his legs in fear of urinating on himself. There was nothing but darkness.

  Letting his breath out, he turned back.

  Mikáryo was right there, her face less than an inch from his nose.

  Rutejìmo screamed and dove back. His heart slammed into his chest with a ceaseless drumming. He could see her bright as day, but he couldn’t stop the fear that drove him to crawl away.

  “You’re pathetic,” she said. She leaned forward to land on her hands, crawling after him on her knees. He could barely remember her anymore, just a memory glossed over by years of nightmares and dreams. He strained to recall the details that had faded with time.

  Her black hair flowed down her chest, along the dark brown skin and over the black tattoos that covered almost every inch of her body. There were swirls of horses which trailed along her curves and beneath her clothing. She was almost naked, just like the day he saw her preparing to leave, with only a black cloth over her breasts and a matching loincloth.

  Rutejìmo’s heart pounded in his chest and he slumped to the ground. He couldn’t breathe.

  She crawled up to him, dragging her body along his legs. He could feel her arms, breasts, and hips with her movement. Her heat was a stark contrast to the icy wind streaming around them.

  “Adorably pathetic, actually.” And then there was that smile, a mixture of pity and affection.

  Rutejìmo whimpered and reached out for her, afraid to touch her but desperate to feel her.

  A flash of sunlight burst across his eyes and two dépas bounded over his chest. Before he could exhale, two bodies slammed into Mikáryo and threw her into the darkness. Rutejìmo knew it would be Desòchu and Chimípu, but he couldn’t see anything but the sunlight glowing around their bodies.

  The sound of fighting filled the air. They were attacking each other, bare fists against flesh. With each impact, a flash of sunlight or moonlight would burst out to highlight the blow before the darkness would rush back in. It left stars across his vision.

  Rutejìmo clamped his hands over his ears and closed his eyes tightly. He hated the violence. He hated watching the clan warriors defend him, even when his life was in danger. He screwed his face in desperation to keep his senses shut, but the sounds and lights kept intruding despite his best efforts.

  And then Mikáryo’s scream, shrill and angry, slashed through the darkness. It rose to a high pitch and then there was a heavy thud. Her scream ended abruptly.