Sand and Ash

Chapter 32: Forbidden Words

Silence is the hallmark of banyosiōu. They do not speak nor are they spoken to. To do otherwise breaks the illusion and demands an immediate response.

—Roman Tomsin, Observations of the Desert

It was a beautiful day in the desert, and Rutejìmo wanted to sing. Everything was finally right: the breeze that licked his skin, the wavers of heat from the sun bearing down, even Opōgyo's thudding footsteps complemented the beat in Rutejìmo's heart. He made his way back home with a smile.

Mapábyo had come home late the previous night to a celebration. Her efforts with the other clans had earned the Shimusògo a decade-long agreement at almost twice the original contract price. It was also her last run before giving birth. Her bulging belly was already hampering her ability to race across the sands though it was still two months before the child would be born.

There was only two months left before Rutejìmo could rejoin the clan.

While missing her had taken its toll on Rutejìmo's hopes, Chimípu and Pidòhu were always there just when he thought he couldn't handle it anymore: they read poetry and told stories, brought warm food when he couldn't cook, and talked about how they missed him. For his birthday, which passed in silence, they brought fermented drinks and just sat near him. None of them said anything and neither of them made note when Rutejìmo couldn't stop crying.

Tearing himself away from his memories, he spun around and gave a little dance. Life had reached a peak and everything felt right. His despair over being a banyosiōu had faded. He cleaned and hauled and did the chores no one else wanted. Even the more horrific of duties, cremating the dead, had become a task of honor and something he cherished instead of dreaded. He spent his nights reading from the Book of Ash and learned how to be a kojinōmi. Sadly, he also added at least three more entries into the list of the dead near the back.

In his spiritual death, he had somehow found a place. And his role wasn't just among the Shimusògo. As if the other clans somehow knew that the old woman had given him the book, requests had begun to show up for him to tend to the surrounding valleys. Even traveling groups somehow knew about his decision. He had cremated a Ryayusúki warrior only a week ago, and a couple who died at night a few weeks before that.

No one besides Mapábyo talked to him, but the requests were just as clear as a shovel by the cave entrance. Instead of tools, he would find a small token of white or gold—the colors of death—and a strip of paper with the name of the dead. The book told him how to respond, both in approaching the other clan and the rituals that needed to be performed. It was poetic but concise, a beginner's guide to tending the dead.

It took him a day to bring up becoming a kojinōmi to Mapábyo. In their whispered conversations in their bed, she agreed. He thought about telling Tejíko when he could speak again, but then realized no words were needed. He would just do it, silent as the dead. The rest would understand and help just as they had since he returned.

A rumble drew his attention.

Rutejìmo looked up curiously.

A glowing shot burst from the lookout and streaked across the sky. He turned to watch it sail toward a flock of birds, but the burning bola sank too fast, and it slammed into the ground a quarter-mile away. It was almost a year ago when he had tried firing rocks off the cliff, and he smiled at the memory.

Light flashed in the corner of his eye. Rutejìmo frowned and turned toward it, already knowing it was Desòchu running around the valley. From the distance, Rutejìmo could see nothing but flashes of light ahead of a rapidly increasing plume of dust that rippled out in waves and rose into the air. There were very few who could summon enough of Shimusògo to burn so brightly, and Chimípu was a hundred miles away escorting some couriers.