“Kur,” I said.
He laughed. “You, too,” be said, “are mad.”
I scanned the dunes about us, silvered in the light of the moons. I shifted the water bag slung over my shoulders. Hassan stood nearby. He moved the bag of water he carried to his left shoulder, it falling before and behind.
“There is nothing,” he said. “Let us proceed.”
“It is with us,” I said. “You were not mistaken, days ago, when you saw it.”
“No Kur can live in the desert,” he said.
I looked about. “It is with us, somewhere, out there,” I said. Somewhere.”
“Come,” said Hassan. “Soon it will be morning.”
“Very well,” I said to him.
“Why do you hesitate?” he asked.
I looked about. “We do not trek alone,” I told him. “There is another who treks with us.”
Hassan scanned the dunes. “I see nothing,” he said.
“We are not alone,” I told him. “Out there, somewhere, there is another, one who treks with us.”
We continued our march.
The march of Hassan had as its object not Red Rock, northwest of Klima, but Four Palms, a Kavar outpost known to him, which lay far to the south of Red Rock.
Unfortunately Four Palms was farther from Klima than Red Rock. On the other hand, his decision seemed to me a sound one. Red Rock was a Tashid oasis under the hegemony of the Aretai, enemies of the Kavars. Furthermore, between Klima and Red Rock lay the regions patrolled by the men of Abdul, the Salt Ubar, who had been known to me as Ibn Saran. Beyond this, though Four Palms lay farther from Klima than Red Rock, its route, it seemed, would bring one sooner out of the dune country than the route to Red Rock, and into the typical Tahari terrain of rock and scrub, where some game might be found, occasional water and possible nomadic groups not disposed to hostility toward Kavars. All things considered, the decision to attempt to reach Four Palms seemed the most rational decision in the circumstances. There was much risk, of course, attendant on either decision.
We had no choice but to gamble. Hassan had gambled wisely; whether or not he had also gambled well would remain to be seen.
I followed Hassan, he orienting himself by the sun and the flights of certain birds, migrating. We-bad, of course, no instruments at our disposal, no marked trails, and we did not know the exact location of Klima with respect to either Red Rock or Four Palms.
We gambled. We continued to trek. The alternative to the gamble was not security but certain death.
A consequence of Hassan’s plan was that we were actually moving, generally, south and west of Klima, in short, for a time, deeper into the most desolate, untraveled portions of the dune country, far even from the salt routes.
I realize now that this was why the beast was pacing us.
“We have water,” I said to Hassan, “for only four more days.”
“Six,” he said. “We may live two days without water.”
We had come to the edge of the dune country. I looked out on the rugged hills, the cuts, the rocks, the brush.
“How far is it now?” I asked.
“I do not know,” said Hassan. “Perhaps five days, perhaps ten.” We did not know where we had emerged from the dunes.
“We have come far,” I said.
“Have you not noticed the wind?” said Hassan.
“No,” I said. I had not thought of it.
“From what direction does it come?” asked Hassan.
“From the east,” I said.
“It is spring,” said Hassan.
“Is this meaningful?” I asked, The wind felt much the same as the constant, whipping Tahari wind to me, no different, save for its direction.
We had been fourteen days on the desert when the wind had shifted to the east.
“Yes,” said Hassan. “It is meaningful.”
Two Ahn earlier the sun’s rim had thrust over the horizon, illuminating the crests of the thinning dunes. An Ahn earlier Hassan had said, “It is now time to dig the shelter trench.” On our hands and knees, with our hands, we dug in the parched earth. The trench was about four feet deep, narrow, not hard to dig. It is oriented in such a way that the passing sun bisects it. It affords shade in the morning and late afternoon; it is fully exposed only in the hours of high sun.
Hassan and I stood at the edge of the ditch, looking eastward. “Yes,” said Hassan. “It is meaningful.”
“I see nothing,” I said. Flecks of sand struck against my face.
“We had come so far,” said Hassan.
“Is there nothing we can do?” I asked.
“I will sleep,” said Hassan. “I am weary.”
I watched, while Hassan slept. It began in the east, like a tiny line on the margin of the desert. It was only as it approached that I understood it to be hundreds of feet in height, perhaps a hundred pasangs in width; the sky above it was gray, then black like smoke; then I could watch it no longer that I might be blinded; I shielded my eyes with my hands; I turned my back to it; I crouched in the ditch; the wind tore past above me; there was sand imbedded in the backs of my hands; in places, where I dislodged it, there was blood. I looked up. The sky was black with sand; brush, like startled, bounding tabuk, leaped, driven, over my head; the wind howled. I sat in the ditch. I put my head on my arms, my head down, my arms on my knees. I listened to the storm. Then I slept.
Toward night Hassan and I awoke. We drank. The storm raged unabating. We could not see the stars.
“How long does such a storm last?” I asked.
“It is spring,” he said, shrugging, in the manner of the Tahari. “Who knows?”
“Am I not your brother?” I asked.
He lifted his head. “It is not known how long such a storm may last,” he said.
“It may last many days.” “It is spring,” he said. “The wind is from the east.”
Then he again put down his head.
He slept. In time, I, too, slept.
Suddenly, shortly before dawn, I awakened.
It was standing there, in the pelting sand, looming, looking down upon us.
“Hassan,” I cried.
He awakened immediately. We struggled to our feet, our feet buried in sand, swept into the ditch, our backs suddenly cut by the lash of the storm.
It opened its great mouth, turning its head to the side. It was seven feet in height, bracing itself against the wind. Sand clung in its fur. It looked upon me. It raised one long arm. It pointed to the dune country.
“Run!” cried Hassan. We leaped from the ditch, rolling from it into the storm, scrambling to our feet. We crouched down, trying to keep our balance, the ditch between us and the standing beast. It swayed in the wind, leaning into it, but did not attempt to approach us. It regarded me. It pointed to the dune country.
“The water,” said Hassan. “The water!”
He stood over the ditch, to protect me as he could. I slipped into the ditch and slowly, in order not to provoke the beast to attack, lifted the two bags to the surface. Hassan took them and, when I was clear of the ditch, we backed away from the beast, watching it. The wind and sand whipped about us. The beast did not move but remained, its eyes, half-shut, rimmed with sand, fixed upon me, its great arm pointing toward the dune country.
Hassan and I turned and, stumbling, carrying the water, fled into the desert.
Once, briefly, I lost sight of Hassan, then again saw him, no more than a yard from me in the darkness, in the pelting, driven sand. Together we fled. The beast did not pursue us.
20 The Kur Will Re-Enter the Dune Country; I Accompany Him
“It is there,” said Hassan. “But you are mad to approach it.”
“It could have killed us in the trench,” I said. “It did not.”
The storm, surprisingly, had abated. It had lasted only a bit less than one day.
The landscape seemed rearranged, but we had little difficulty in finding our way back to the trench. We had not been able to move far in the storm. We had gone perhaps less than a pasang when we fell, rolled from our feet, and lay in the sand, protecting our heads and the water. Almost as soon as it had come, it had, with a shifting of wind to the north, disappeared. “There will be other such storms,” said Hassan. “It was too short.” He looked at me. “We must move while we can, before another, a longer, occurs.”
“I am returning to the trench,” I told him.
“I will go with you,” he said.
From a small rise, we saw the remains of the trench, filled with sand, to within six inches of its top. The sun was high. Beside the trench, on its back, half covered with sand, lay the Kur.
When we approached it, it turned its head toward us. “It is not dead,” said Hassan.
“It seems weak,” I said.
“We, too, are weak,” said Hassan. “We have scarcely the strength to carry the water.”
