It’s a field.
Thick blades of grass rise up from the sand, green-gray in the sunset light. There are taller shapes, too—branching cactus pillars silhouetted in the dark.
It’s such a bizarre scene, especially coming after the sharuq, that I worry it’s not real. That I’m sinking deeper into some kind of dream illusion.
“I have sand … EVERYWHERE,” says Kiddu. She collapses next to me, furiously shaking out all her clothes.
Jaruna lays on the ground too. He empties the entire contents of his water bottle into his mouth, splashing about half of it on his face.
Ahead of us most of the Azkazraj are sitting or laying down at the edge of the field.
I manage to push myself up to get a better view. With relief, I confirm the grass is just normal reedy grass—not the horrid Underworld polyps.
The field slopes gently downwards like the interior of a bowl. In the bowl’s center are a nuber of dark structures, shorter but thicker than cacti. Buildings.
And all around the perimeter of the bowl is the vast spinning wall of the sharuq. We’ve entered an oasis in the eye of the sandstorm.
The air in this place is dead calm. This creates a weird dissonance with the still-deafening noise from the sharuq. After days of marching against biting winds I keep on flinching and bracing myself, expecting to be blown away any minute. The howling noise prevents my body from relaxing.
The noise also masks the rustling of grass as a retinue of red-robed men push through the field towards our gathering.
“Outsiders!” says a plump man. His retinue all carry long wooden staffs—probably not for walking, as each one is tipped with a mess of blood cactus spines.
“Those clothes…” says the fat man upon seeing the collapsed Azkazraj. “Can it be? Is this … the Lost Tribe?”
Jaruna finally notices these people, pulls himself to his feet, makes a show of unstringing his bow. The fat man’s eyes widen into big saucers when he spots the mystic. He waddles over and bows deeply and carefully on knees that strain to support his bulk.
“Chosen one!” he says. Forgive me! I did not see you! I am Bayaja, son of Salub. I am the chief here. Yis! Behold! The Bitrib Tribe welcomes you to our oasis! All praise to Asham for blessing us with your presence!”
Jaruna takes his sister by the hand and together they bow to Bayaja somewhat stiffly, as if acting from a half-remembered formalism.
Bayaja grins ear to ear, ignoring the teeming throng of disheveled refugees surrounding him. He sweeps a welcoming gesture with his giant arms. As he turns he catches a glimpse of me and Kiddu—
“Chosen one! Draw your bow, quickly! You have demons in your midst!”
He staggers back, a twitching chubby finger extending towards us. Instantly his retinue spin around and brandish their long staffs.
“Stand down,” Jaruna says, still breathless. “The Akkadians are with me. They are my guests.”
Bayaja’s guards slowly tilt up their staffs. The chief looks at me, frowns, squints. I smile back as best as I can.
Then, so suddenly it almost makes me jump, Bayaja claps his hands together and grins. “BAH HA HA! If the chosen one says they are to be trusted, who am I to say otherwise? Baga! Naruba! Get our guests some water! All of them! ALL OF THEM! And tell the women to begin cooking! We shall have a FEAST TONIGHT!”