Vessel

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