Early the next morning I find myself mindlessly shuffling in the sand, trailing a similarly sleepy Jaruna. We had both slept on soft woven mats in Bayaja’s own house, a great honor for me. It was crowded on the floor with all of Bayaja’s many male children sleeping there too, along with Dronaja. But I was so exhausted and stuffed with food that I fell asleep instantly.
Now I feel like I could fall back asleep any minute, even in the middle of walking. The light from above is dark blue. According to Bayaja, the sun is about to rise, but with the sharuq blocking the horizon it’s impossible to tell for sure.
Bayaja leads us all to the central cactus grove. Crowds of men have already gathered there, spread outwards from the Brihmam. There are no women.
“Where’s Kiddu?”
“Still with my sister,” Jaruna says. “You truly are protective of that girl. Do not worry so much. She will be fine.”
The morning prayer begins suddenly, randomly, again with the discordant humming that shifts abruptly into a chant led by Bayaja. I’m far too tired to pay attention, let alone to try chanting along.
After the prayer I spot Ayan at the edge of the crowd. Kiddu is next to her. I run over.
“GIL!” Kiddu yells when she sees me. She throws her arms up, about to hug me, but then apparently thinks better of it. Too many tribesmen watching.
“How are you,” I ask.
“Ugh. What a disappointment. I was expecting some kind of ancient magic mystic temple behind the sharuq. Or something interesting, at least. Not a village of goddamn hicks. They made me wash dishes all night!”
“Kiddu,” says Ayan, “remember that you are a guest here. And that you are from an unfamiliar and hostile land. It was important for you to show your gratitude. I am sure the women here appreciated your help.”
“That’s easy for you to say, princess! You didn’t have to wash a damn thing!”
Jaruna emerges from the chaos of the dissipating prayer crowd. “Good morning, everyone. Ayan, you should begin assembling the women. We must head out soon.”
“Brother, we must talk first. Some of the Azkazraj women do not wish to continue to Harrappa. You should ask Chief Bayaja if they can stay and marry some of the men here.”
“What a bother—”
“No, brother, listen! They are simply not fit to travel across the desert. And this way, you can ask for food and supplies as part of their brideprices.”
“Hm,” says the mystic. “You know best, sister. Of course, I could demand food and supplies. They are shudra.”
“Chosen one!” says Bayaja, waddling up towards us. He looks around and behind, hunched over, as if he’s concealing something. When he’s sure nobody is listening he leans closer. “Or should I say, chosen ones. Bwah, ha, ha! Gil of Akkad! Why did you not tell me you were mujashatriya? And not just any mujashatriya—a prophet as well!”
“We were not sure how your tribe would take it,” says Jaruna.
“Fah! Come with me to the Temple, both of you! Please! I must give you gifts!”
The Temple is a short walk from the cactus grove. It’s surprisingly small. A thin red cloth hangs from its entrance in lieu of a door.
I duck under, following Bayaja and Jaruna.
The circular room is dark, unadorned, tiny, barely bigger than Bayaja’s mud hut. It certainly could not hold more than twenty or so people packed tight. A chunk of ceiling is missing, which lets in dark dawn light. I guess this is supposed to be the same motif as the ceiling window in Libri’s Sun Temple.
“I apologize for the mess, chosen one,” says the chief. “I know, I know, the Temple is for prayer. But our Brihmam prefers to sit under the big cactus and so we all like to pray outside with him.”
On a central misshapen platform, barely visible in the near-dark, is a pile of what looks like entirely random objects. A bunch of large white feathers. A few quivers. Stones. A weathered book. A sandal. Some strings. A small bone.
As my eyes adjust, I see something else leaning against the platform. A long curved bow.
“We keep the holy artifacts in here, you see. When the people want a special blessing they circle the platform, praying to Asham, and touch them for luck.”
“I hope you do not mind parting with some of them,” says Jaruna.
“But of course not! Your wishes are my commands, young master.” He picks up a quiver from the platform and presents it proudly to Jaruna. “These arrowheads are tipped with the juice of blood cactus. Asham willing, your foes will fall to the ground even if you do not strike a fatal blow! And … and…”
He waddles around and takes the bow. Brushes it lightly with his hand. Blows off the dust that remains.
Then he waddles over to me and carefully and slowly gets to his knees, bows his head, and holds up the weapon.
“For Gil of Akkad, chosen of the western lands.”
I look at Jaruna for approval. He nods with an encouraging smile.
I take the bow. The wood is smooth and very heavy. Worn cloth is wound around the grip. I notice it doesn’t have a string.
“My father once told me the bow is called Quodanda. It was left here by a mujashatriya of great power long, long ago. My tribe has faithfully kept it, treasuring it and waiting for the time when another chosen one should come to collect it. Gil of Akkad, I humbly present you with this holy weapon. May Asham guide your hands to victory.”