Sandstorm

1:55 A.M.

SAFIA HUGGEDKara. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m not sure.” Kara trembled in her grip. Her skin felt clammy, moist.

“The others? I saw Painter…what about Omaha, his brother…?”

“As far as I know, everyone’s okay. But I was away from the fighting.”

Safia had to sit down, her legs weak, knees rubbery. The cavern swam a bit around her. The tinkling of the waterfall through the hole in the roof sounded like silver bells. Firelight from the five campfires dazzled her eyes.

She sank to a rumpled blanket by the fire. She couldn’t feel the heat of the flames.

Kara followed her down. “Your shoulder! You’re bleeding.”

Shot. Safia didn’t know if she’d spoken aloud or not.

Three women approached, arms full. They carried a steaming basin, folded cloths, a covered brazier, and oddly out of place, a box with the red cross of an emergency medical kit. An elderly woman, not the same as the one who had led her here, followed with a tall walking stick, fiery in the glow of the campfire. She was ancient, shoulders hunched, hair white but neatly combed and braided back over her ears. Rubies adorned her lobes, matching her teardrop tattoo.

“Lie down, daughter,” the old woman intoned. English again. “Let us see to your injuries.”

Safia had no energy to resist, but Kara guarded over her. She had to trust that her friend would protect her if necessary.

Safia’s blouse was stripped from her. The soiled bandage was then soaked in a steaming poultice of aloe and mint and slowly peeled back. It felt as if they were flaying the skin off her shoulder. She gasped, and her vision darkened.

“You’re hurting her,” Kara warned.

One of the three women had knelt and opened the emergency medical kit. “I have one ampoule of morphine, hodja, ” the woman said.

“Let me see the wound.” The elder leaned down, supported by her staff.

Safia shifted so her shoulder was bared.

“The bullet passed cleanly through. Shallow. Good. We’ll not have to operate. Sweet myrrh tea will ease her pain. Also two tablets of Tylenol with codeine. Hook an IV to her good arm. Run in a liter of warmed LRS.”

“What of the wound?” the other woman asked.

“We’ll cauterize, pack, and wrap the shoulder, then sling the arm.”

“Yes, hodja. ”

Safia was propped up. The third woman poured a steaming mug of tea and handed it to Kara. “Help her drink. It will give her strength.”

Kara obeyed, accepting the mug with both hands.

“You’d best sip, too,” the old woman told Kara. “To clear your head.”

“I doubt this is strong enough.”

“Doubt will not serve you here.”

Kara sipped the tea, grimaced, then offered it to Safia. “You should drink. You look like hell.”

Safia allowed a bit to be dribbled between her lips. The warmth flowed down into the cold pit that was her stomach. She accepted more. Two pills were held in front of her.

“For the pain,” the youngest of the three women whispered. All three looked like sisters, only a few years apart.

“Take them, Saffie,” Kara urged. “Or I’ll take them myself.”

Safia opened her mouth, accepted the medication, and swallowed them down with a bit more of the tea.

“Now lie back while we minister to your wounds,” the hodja said.

Safia collapsed to the blankets, warmer now.

The hodja slowly lowered to the blanket beside her, moving with a grace that belied her age. She rested her walking stick over her knees.

“Rest, daughter. Be at peace.” She placed one hand atop Safia’s.

A gentle bleary feeling swelled through her, fading all the ache from her body, leaving her floating. Safia smelled the jasmine wreathed about the cavern.

“Who…who are you?” Safia asked.

“We’re your mother, dear.”

Safia flinched, denying the possibility, offended. Her mother was dead. This woman was too old. She must be speaking metaphorically. Before she could scold, all sight dissolved away. Only a few words followed her away.

“All of us. We’re all your mother.”