“All praise to Asham on this fine morn­ing!” says Jaruna.

I rouse myself awake, not sure if I was asleep to begin with.

I must have been because Kripa and Hat­van have already half-disassembled our tent. Kiddu is up and dressed in her native get-up and veil. It’s hard to tell but she looks chip­per talk­ing to Jaruna.

“We’re not even inside the sharuq yet?”

“It is dif­fi­cult to say. It is not as though the sharuq has a def­i­nite bound­ary. I sup­pose you could say the sharuq begins at the moment it becomes impos­si­ble to walk through the sand­storm.

“It gets worse?

“It is said that the dusk is always dark­est before the dawn.”

When all the tents are packed up, Dron­aja leads the columns of men and women into the haze and after just a few cubits their forms start to van­ish in the dust. We try to fol­low them.

 

Even­tu­ally the wind becomes so fierce that I can no longer move against it. The columns ahead have stopped any­way. I have to crouch low or the wind catches my robe and throws me back­wards.

Kiddu shouts some­thing at Jaruna but the mys­tic either can’t hear her or chooses to ignore her.

The sand is worse down low. It cuts into my face and hands. I pull the elas­tic on my hood so tight that there’s only a coin-sized open­ing in front of the bridge of my nose. But sand flecks still man­age to get in, so I just squeeze my eyes shut and sit there, motion­less and blind.

Then I hear a dis­tinct new whistling sound—followed by a loud incan­ta­tion.

“Vayas­tra!”

This time Jaruna shoots his wind astra for­ward, not behind—and the glow­ing arrow carves out a tun­nel of clean air, deep into the sharuq.

I open my eyes and relax my hood. I can see! I can even breathe.

We walk into the tun­nel of air.

 

At every step the sharuq presses against our tun­nel, threat­en­ing to drown us all in chok­ing debris. The effect is dizzy­ing, like being in a long nar­row cave with walls of swirling dust instead of rock. This miasma of par­ti­cles rushes over our heads scream­ing a thou­sand dis­cor­dant howls.

The winds are so loud that I can barely hear Jaruna shout the astra incan­ta­tion again. A sec­ond green-white arc shoots over my head and broad­ens the pas­sage­way, rein­forces against the intrud­ing chaos.

I’m ter­ri­fied. It feels like we’re being swal­lowed by some enor­mous crea­ture of the air. Or the storm from my night­mares.

The slow pre­dictable rhythm of the desert march gives way to a back-and-forth strug­gle into the sand­storm. Each astra is a des­per­ate gulp of breath. I clutch Kiddu’s arm with both of my hands.

 

Just as I’m start­ing to get used to this claus­tro­pho­bic scream­ing cor­ri­dor I notice the line of natives ahead start to weave around some­thing on the ground.

 

It’s a spindly plant, fright­en­ingly red. Vines con­nect bul­bous orbs cov­ered in fine hair.

As I pass I see the hairs are actu­ally spines. And that they are cov­ered in decay­ing insect corpses.

Jaruna shouts into my ear: “Blood cac­tus! Do not touch it! It will par­a­lyze you!”

The ground soon is cov­ered with a labyrinth of the blood cacti, the vines like veins and arter­ies lash­ing together the heart­like spiny bulbs, each one coated in dried out insects. Some of these corpses are as big as my hand.

 

Jaruna shoots another wind astra and in the gust of fresh air a blood cac­tus vine tears free and whips in front of my face like a ten­ta­cle.

I skirt this, fin­gers dig­ging into Kiddu’s arm, and come inches away from a waist-high bulb growth. A huge scor­pion, still liv­ing, is impaled on the spines, arms and tail writhing as the plant sucks out its juice.

As I watch this grisly scene another fly­ing insect tum­bles into the same huge cac­tus bulb, swept into the plant’s death­trap by the blow­ing winds.

I almost faint. Kiddu nudges me with her shoul­der.

 

We march so slow through this sun­less night­mare world that time itself becomes slug­gish, its flow clogged. The omnipresent yel­low dust clouds above and around slowly darken, fad­ing into the color of bile.

I won­der if Jaruna has brought enough arrows. What if we get trapped here for the night? Or for­ever?

Finally, a wind astra extends our tun­nel of air—and in the dis­tance, at the end of the tun­nel, I think I can see an open sky.