I consciously stand more than a stone’s throw away as the natives assemble their morning prayer circle.
Kiddu rests against my shoulder, dressed now in her hand-me-down full blue robe. It’s a good thing she has so much hair or the rock would have done a lot more damage.
“Savages,” she says. “Stupid backwards savages. Honestly, these people got what they deserved in Libri.”
Even from a distance I can see a few of the native men glaring at us. So too with one of the women—probably one of the witnesses to our supposed crime. I wonder if they’re neglecting their prayer.
“Remember what you said when we were in prison?” I say.
“What did I say?”
“You said—it’s not their fault that they act like savages.”
“Whatever.”
The prayer circle begins to break up and I flinch as some people walk towards me. But it’s just Jaruna and Ayan coming to join us on the day’s march, away from the rest of them.
“You know that’s why Jaruna and Ayan hang back with us on the march,” says Kiddu. “Because they can’t stand the natives either. By the way—truce? For real this time.”
I take her hand and shake it firm.
“Agreed. We need to be more careful.”
Jaruna just finishes tying his turban on as he reaches us.
“Your secret is out.”
“What was I supposed to do?” I say. “They were going to kill us.”
“Chief Dronaja said he will speak to the men as we march,” Ayan says. “I will speak to the women. Please understand, this was not meant to happen.”
“It sure sounds like they meant it to happen—”
“Kiddu!” I say. “Remember—Harrappa.”
“I mean,” she says, “what I meant to say is, I respect the ways of the Akajaz Tribe and I will try to avoid being stoned to death in the future.”
“Azkazraj Tribe,” says Jaruna.
We march through a yellow fog of jagged lancelike particles. The natives ahead are blurry shades in the haze as they coalesce into the noon prayer circle. I can barely hear their chanting over the wind.
The sun, the God of which is the recipient of their prayers, is a dim blotch of white above the dust. Dead-looking. An afterimage.
I pull my hood up around my face and tie the elastic cords tight. My stomach growls. Nobody offered us any breakfast and this is easily the most grueling march yet.
The dust turns from yellow to dark orange and then black as the sun sets. Dimly I see the lines and motions of the cyclone winds slashing the air in alternating light and dark bands.
Jaruna uses his wind astras to whip up the sand into a bulwark of small but steep dunes that shield us from the wind. The trajectories of the green-white arrows glow like fat worms in the dark dust cloud.
The natives set up camp behind the dunes. Kripa and Hatvan assemble our tent wordlessly. We duck inside, desperate for a respite from the sandstorm winds.
I am so exhausted that I pass out as soon as I hit the ground.