Vessel

Chapter Four

Alone, Liyana stroked the cool blade of the sky serpent knife. Stay alive, her little brother had said. But this blade could promise her the opposite. One quick slice, and her soul would (finally) leave her body.

She spent several minutes imagining a confrontation with Bayla in the Dreaming. First she’d ask, “Why?” And then she’d shame the goddess into selecting a new vessel. She’d tell her about Jidali, who deserved a future; about Talu, who honored Bayla with every breath she took; about Ger and Esti, who wanted to marry and start a family; and about Liyana’s aunts and uncles and cousins, who all had their own hopes and dreams.

She laid the blade against her neck. It chilled her skin.

“Idiot,” she said out loud. She lowered the knife. Her reflection flashed across the glass-like surface. If Bayla had truly rejected her, then the goddess would refuse to speak with her. And if Bayla had not rejected her, then the goddess would be extremely put out if Liyana slit the throat of her new body.

Besides, Liyana planned for Jidali to find his gift again someday. He shouldn’t find it pressed against the throat of his sister.

She tucked the knife into her sash. The desert could take care of killing her if it wanted to. She didn’t have to help it. In the meantime, since she wasn’t about to slit her own throat, she also wasn’t going to allow herself to freeze to death in the night. Liyana pushed herself to standing. Her muscles protested, and she felt as if they were shrieking. The bone handle of the knife dug into her rib cage.

As the desert sank into dusk, Liyana used a flat rock to dig a shallow hole. Testing its length, she lay in it. The sand within was chilled compared to the surface. She rose. Dead leaves were matted under a date palm tree. She spread the leaves in a thick layer in her hole. She then stacked rocks to block the night wind. She stopped only when her arms ached too much to continue.

By now the temperature had plummeted. She retrieved the blanket that had been her shade earlier, and wrapped it tightly around her as she crawled between the dried leaves. She pulled several of the leaves over her head. Looking up through the slits, she counted the stars and listened to the wind and tried not to think. She felt the knife hilt against her ribs, its solid pressure comforting her. Eventually she slept.

She woke stiff and cold as dawn peeked over the edge of the world. Stretching, she shifted, and the leaves rustled around her. She felt a dry rope glide over her ankle, and her eyes popped open. She didn’t move. She didn’t breathe.

Snake, she thought.

She felt its scaled body resettle against her leg. Her heart pounded hard within her rib cage. A scream built up in her throat. Don’t move, she told herself. Soon the desert temperature would rise, and the snake would want to sun itself on the rocks, rather than press against her body for warmth.

Liyana lay motionless. She breathed shallowly and slowly. Her bladder ached to relieve itself, and her muscles felt knotted. Soon her tongue felt thick and dry from thirst, and her stomach rumbled and rolled. The snake didn’t move.

She watched through the palm leaves as the sun inched its way higher into the sky. She had a view of the sliver of sky above the stone mountains. Light spread over the barren peaks. Slowly her nest heated. She began to sweat within her blanket. Still the snake didn’t budge.

Perhaps Bayla had sent it. Instead of the knife, this was to be Liyana’s death. Or perhaps the snake was merely cold, she thought. She shouldn’t assume divine intervention. She’d never heard of any story in which a god sent a snake to kill. According to all the tales, deities couldn’t influence the real world while they were in the Dreaming—that was the reason they needed vessels.

After what felt like an eon, the snake stirred. Liyana held her breath as the snake slithered down her leg toward her foot. It crossed over her beautiful shoes, and then the palm leaves rustled as the snake poked through them to greet the sun.

Slowly, very slowly, Liyana withdrew her legs and tucked them beneath her. Reaching into her sash, she pulled out the sky serpent knife. The snake had exited near her feet. Most likely it was sunning itself on the rocks she had gathered. Liyana inched backward, and the bells in her hair tinkled. She halted and listened for the snake. Her palm sweat, and the knife blade felt slippery. She didn’t hear anything. She scooted out of the pile of leaves.

Watching for the snake, Liyana grabbed one of the poles that Father had used to prop up the blanket. She held it like a spear as she scanned the rocks.

Sweet Bayla, it’s a cobra.

Curled on a rock, the diamond cobra raised its head. Its tongue flicked in and out. It hadn’t pinpointed her location yet. For an instant, she stared at it, frozen by the knowledge that its venom could kill a grown man in three hours of exquisite pain.

One, two, three . . . The bells in her hair rang as she lunged toward the snake and slammed the tip of the pole into its neck. Fangs out, the cobra struck the pole as she pinned it against a rock. Quickly she sliced its head off with the sky serpent knife. The blade slid through the snake as if she were slicing sand, and the head toppled into her makeshift bed.

Her heart pounded painfully hard as she grabbed the second pole and used the two to lift the still-venomous head out of the palm leaves. She laid it carefully on a rock. Its fangs were open, and the yellowish venom oozed over the snake’s chin. The snake’s body twitched. She picked it up by the tail and held the body in the air until it quit writhing. She then laid the body on another rock, sat back hard on the palm leaves, and tried to remember how to breathe.

If she had rolled while she’d slept, if the snake hadn’t crawled out, if she’d been slower to spear it, if it had reacted faster to her movement or to the sound of the bells in her hair . . . With shaking hands, Liyana used a leaf to clean the blood off the sky serpent blade, and then she sliced off the tips of her braids, letting the tiny silver bells fall to the ground.

If her family were here, Mother would have skinned the cobra in two seconds, and Father would have peppered it with spices and cooked it until crispy. And then Aunt Andra would have sneaked her share to Jidali, who would have gobbled it up and told all his friends that his sister had killed it with her bare hands and teeth. A half laugh, half sob burst out of her lips. She scooped the bells into her hands. Since she wasn’t ready to part with the knife yet, perhaps she could leave the bells for her family to find.

Carrying the bells, she crossed to the circle that Talu had drawn. She halted and stared at it. Already the wind had begun to erase it, as if it were erasing all hope. Liyana wanted to redraw the circle and stay inside it. She had never expected to leave this circle. Losing the line in the sand felt . . . She’s not coming, Liyana told herself. Wallowing in false hope was stupid. She’d leave the bells by her family’s tent site, and then she’d . . . She had no idea. The horrible emptiness of that thought seized her.

Just complete this task, she told herself. Leave the bells. Say your symbolic good-bye. Then she’d figure out what to do next. Liyana stepped out of the circle.

She strode through the remains of the Goat Clan’s camp. Walking over the indents left behind by tents, she felt as if she were walking over graves. Wind swirled sand over her feet. She tried not to think about how alone she was. In a few days, the wind would erase all traces of the tents, leaving only the stones from the cooking areas. That was where she intended to leave the bells.

Halfway across camp, she lost her bearings. She turned slowly in a circle, surveying the oasis, orienting herself with regard to the distant mountains and the sun. At last she spotted the vestiges of her family’s goat enclosure. Her family had taken the posts and rope, but the holes were still visible. She located the cooking stones.

Obscured by sand, a sack lay next to the stones. It was a hunter’s pack, designed to blend in with the desert. Her family must have overlooked it. Except . . . why was it by the cooking fire? Her family always kept packs by the front tent flap for ease of access. Pots, pans, and dishes belonged in the fire area. Indeed she could see the indent from Father’s favorite teapot. Squatting next to the pack, she brushed off the sand that had settled on it overnight, and she opened it.

Liyana rocked back on her heels as she ogled the contents: a second waterskin, strips of dried meat, fire-starting flint from the desert mountains. . . . Reverently she took out the items one by one and spread them in front of her. A knife, one of her father’s best. Clothes, her own sturdiest set. Herbs for healing. Spices for cooking. A sling and snare wire to help her hunt. A length of gauze-thin cloth to wrap over her face to protect against the sun and sand. Needle and thread inside one of her mother’s embroidery pouches. Her father’s favorite travel tent, consisting of a tarp and a set of flexible poles. Liyana cried as she touched each item. Even if Bayla had rejected her, her family hadn’t. They wanted her to live.

She left the bells in place of the pack—as a thank-you, rather than the intended good-bye—and she carried the pack back to the ceremonial circle. She dumped her precious new supplies next to her makeshift shelter.

Renewed, she bustled into action. First she needed water. Taking the two waterskins, she crossed to the oasis’s well. It was protected with a thick stone that prior generations had carted there ages ago. She laid her back against it, braced her feet, and pushed. It scooted an inch. She took a deep breath and pushed again. Another inch. She shoved again. Inch by inch, the stone scraped across the top of the well until she could see inside. Panting, she swallowed, and her tongue felt like wool in her mouth. Nearly at its zenith, the sun blazed down on her. She felt for the rope that held the bucket and lowered it. The bucket scraped bottom, and she pulled it up slowly, careful not to spill any of the precious liquid. She drank, draining half the bucket, and then lowered it again. She filled the waterskin Father had given her yesterday and the new waterskin from the pack. Leaving the stone off the well so she could fetch more water later, she returned to her little camp.

Carrying rocks from nearby fire pits, she built her own cooking area beside her nest of palm leaves. She located a pile of sun-dried goat dung and carried it over to be her fuel, and she crumpled a dried palm leaf for kindling. She struck the flint and started her fire. Once she had a steady blaze, she skinned the snake, wound it around one of her poles, and laid it over her fire to cook. She buried the snake’s head.

While the snake cooked, she focused on enhancing her shelter. Keeping her same shallow hole (but checking it for snakes and scorpions), she set up Father’s tent and secured it with rocks around the outside.

By now the sun was directly overhead and felt as harsh as a fist. Liyana ducked into her tent with her snake meat and waterskins, and she ate and drank. She then stripped off her ceremonial dress, washed herself with the smallest amount of water she could spare, and dressed in more practical clothes. Carefully she folded the dress and placed it at the bottom of her pack. She felt as if she were laying bones to rest.

When her tasks were done, she lay down in her tent to wait out the heat of the day. Perhaps in the evening, when the air wouldn’t choke her, she’d climb one of the trees and pick any dates that the clan had missed. She’d also need to fetch more water, maybe hunt for more snakes or a desert rat. And then . . . she could survive today and tomorrow. Maybe a week.

And then what?

She was nearing the time of year when this oasis dried up. In three weeks, she wouldn’t be able to stay here. But it would take a miracle for one girl, alone, to cross the desert and reach the next well. . . . And assuming she did, what next? What was she surviving for?

She wasn’t supposed to live past yesterday. Ever since her dreamwalk, she had been the girl with no future. Others, like Ger and Esti, had made plans. Others looked ahead. She never had. She’d known her fate. But now . . . her future was as empty and terrifying as the desert that stretched around her in all directions.

Two hours later, Liyana heard the howls in the wind.

She slid the glass-like knife out of her sash and held it against her chest. The sand wolves sounded close. That meant a sandstorm would hit soon, and the wolves would run freely through camp. . . . Except there was no camp anymore. There was only her.

Clutching the knife, she huddled inside her tent. The tarp billowed and rolled. Usually during sandstorms, the clan huddled together in the center tents, using the outer tents as a buffer. The sheer number of people served as a deterrent to the wolves. She’d heard them often enough, but she’d never seen them. Tales said they were made of sand.

“Bayla, is this how you’ll kill me?” she asked out loud. “There are easier ways. You could send another snake. I am sorry I ate the first one.” Hearing her own voice made her feel braver. “He was delicious, though.”

As sand pelted the tent, she told herself that this wasn’t a punishment—Bayla couldn’t punish her, not from within the Dreaming. Like the snake, this storm was merely a natural occurrence. She only had to ride through it, and the wolves would be swept away with the winds.

She repeated this to herself as the world darkened, as if day had switched with night. Sand slammed against the tarp. The tent swayed sideways and then snapped sharply back upright. The poles shook, and she wondered if they’d snap. She cringed each time the wind knocked the tent back and forth. She wished she’d left rocks inside. She could have used them to brace the poles—or simply to be doing something other than listening to the howls of the wind and wolves.

The wolves were much too close.

Sand wolves hunted within sandstorms. In children’s tales, they carried away boys and girls who did not obey their parents’ warnings to hide from the storms. In adult tales, they slaughtered any goat, sheep, or horse that was not sheltered or guarded. They killed hunters who failed to outrun the storm and anyone foolish enough to be out alone.

She had to hope that they didn’t notice her tent. It was all she could do: hope and wait. The paralyzing helplessness was almost worse than the storm itself.

Sand slipped through the gaps in the seams, and it swirled inside the tent. Liyana wrapped the facecloth around her head to keep the grains from stinging her eyes. Each inhale was filled with grit. She breathed only through her nose. It didn’t help. She felt as if her lungs were coated with sand.

Outside, the howling came closer.

She saw a shadow surge past the door flap, and then she saw it again, darker than the already dark shadows that squeezed the tent. Her heart hammered in her chest. She crouched, knife in hand.

Another shadow ran past. This time the tent swayed as the shadow brushed it. She saw it pass again. It’s circling, she realized. Oh, sweet Bayla!

The sandstorm screamed. Wind hit so hard that the tent shook as if it were about to collapse. The roof bent in on her, and she braced it with a hand as she ducked. It then billowed up before bending down again. The walls shuddered, and the rocks that had pinned the edges outside rolled and crashed against one another.

Suddenly the tent wall split.

Claws of sand raked through the tarp, and a wolf jabbed his head into the tent. His face was hardened sand, and his eyes were holes. Sand sloughed off his muzzle as he tilted his head back. Liyana scrambled backward as he howled. His jaws . . . As he spread them wide, she saw his teeth were sharp rocks. He lunged toward her.

She dove to the side—too slow. Hard as stone, sand claws raked her arm. She felt pain shoot up to her shoulder, and she screamed. Twisting, he snapped his jaws at her, and she rolled backward. His teeth closed on air.

Wind whipped into the exposed tent, and sand flayed her. She saw the shape of the wolf, blurred by the swirling sand. He leaped for her again, and she struck toward his throat as she ducked beneath his jaws.

She felt the blade slide in.

And then sand, only sand, fell over her as the sand wolf disintegrated around the sky serpent knife. Coughing and spitting, she wiped the sand away from the cloth over her face, and then she lunged for the hole in the tent. Yanking it closed, she held it shut against the wind.

Outside, the wind roared. She heard other wolves. Squeezing the tear shut with one hand, she readied her knife with the other. She’d heard no weapon could kill a sand wolf. She guessed no one had tried a sky serpent blade before. “Come and get me,” she said. “Come and try.”

She listened hard, every muscle tense. Slowly the howls retreated. The tent walls shook less. The sand inside the tent began to settle, and the world lightened as the blackness of the storm receded.

Her arm throbbed. She released the tarp and tucked away the knife. Her throat felt raw from the sand that she’d inhaled. Unwrapping the cloth around her face, she vomited on the floor of her tent. The sandy bile tore the inside of her throat. She wiped her mouth with a sand-crusted sleeve.

She felt sand clinging to her hair and sticking to her sweaty skin. Piece by piece, she peeled her clothes off her body and shook them out. Searching the pack, she found a clean cloth and wiped away as much of the sand as she could. Left alone, the sand would rub her skin raw. She poured a little water on the cloth and washed her face. Her fingers shook, but she forced herself to attend to one task at a time, and she avoided thinking.

Unable to delay any longer, she examined her arm. The rock-hard sand claws had raked through her skin, leaving four deep gashes. Sandy blood clumped around the wounds. She washed them out as best she could, which caused more blood to run down her arm and stain the sand. She pressed some of Mother’s herbs onto the gashes, and she hissed through her teeth as the herbs stung. Leaving the herbs in place as she’d seen Mother do, she wrapped a clean cloth around the wounds and tied it. Blood stained the cloth.

One day alone and she was wounded. Oh, goddess, if it becomes infected . . . Liyana told herself firmly that she’d been lucky. If the wolf had broken through the tent behind her or if more wolves had followed, then all the herbs in the desert would not help. Quit complaining, she told herself. She’d use the herbs, and she’d keep her wounds as clean as she could.

Deliberately ignoring her aching arm, Liyana turned her attention to the tear in the tent, her next problem. If she couldn’t seal the hole, then she wouldn’t be safe from the next sandstorm. Or from ordinary wind. Or from any snake, scorpion, or spider that wanted to visit her for warmth. Liyana could patch it up. Yet another task to help her avoid thinking about her future. Between fixing her shelter, finding food, and fetching water—

Water! The well! She’d left the lid off! Liyana burst out of her tent. Outside, the oasis had been wiped clean. All the indents from the Goat Clan’s camp had been smoothed away, and all the trees were coated in a layer of reddish tan. Sand choked the air, billowing and blowing. Afternoon sunlight filtered through, scattering off the particles so the oasis seemed to glow with an eerie light that appeared to come from everywhere at once. In this hazy half light, Liyana stumbled across the oasis for several minutes before determining the location of the well. She hurried toward it, and she tripped over the edge of the lid and sprawled. Her knee hit the stone, and pain shot through her. Tears pricked her eyes as she clutched her knee, and she whimpered.

After a moment, the pain receded to a throb that matched the throb in her arm. She tested her leg. She could stand, thank the goddess. Leaning over the edge of the well, she looked down. She saw only blackness. Hands shaking, she found the rope and bucket. The knot had held, which was one bit of good luck. She lowered the bucket. It hit bottom. Had it hit sooner than before, or had she just lowered it faster? She didn’t know.

Please, Bayla, she silently begged. She couldn’t survive without water, and dehydration was a terrible way to die. Please.

Liyana pulled the rope. She tried to pull steady and slow to avoid spilling. If she jerked the bucket up and spilled all the water, then she’d panic for no reason. But with each slow pull, the pain in her arm spiked until she felt dizzy. As the bucket got close to the top, she had to stop. She lowered her arm. It hurt so badly that her head swam. Gritting her teeth, she pulled the bucket up the rest of the way.

Wet sand.

It was full of wet sand.

She dug her fingers into it, and the sand clung to her skin. She made a fist, squeezing it, and then she flung it across the camp and screamed. Tears raged down her cheeks. She grabbed another clump and threw it. Continuing to scream, she hurled wet sand until the bucket was empty. She then fell to her knees and pummeled the sand that had piled up beside the well.

“I did everything right!” she screamed at it. “I worked. I trained. I did everything that was asked of me. I dedicated my life! I was pure! I was fit! I was worthy! You betrayed me! You . . .” Unable to find more words, she threw fistfuls of dry sand with her unhurt arm.

Her eyes were so blinded by tears and sand that she did not see the man walking toward her through the hazy air until he was only a few feet away. Hand raised with a fist full of sand, Liyana froze. She panted, her rib cage heaving. Her arm began to shake. She stared at the silhouette of the man—boy, really.

He came closer, and she saw he was beautiful: sculpted face, shadow-dark skin, haunting eyes. He’s not real, she thought. He had to be a dream that her addled brain had produced.

Dropping her arm, she rose to her feet.

He didn’t vanish.

He spoke. “I have been looking for you.”