As she began to walk away, Makami hurried to follow. He did not doubt the sincerity of the woman’s insults, or her threats. But fortune to him was rare in these times, and he was grateful for whatever form it took.
*
Three days passed. Then six. Then more than thrice that number. And Makami remained. The work was tiresome. He hauled heavy goods, combed the tangled mats from the baushanga’s thick fur, and toiled at varied tasks from morning until the sun set. It was the kind of work he had shunned in favor of a life as a skilled thief. But after all his recent troubles, there was something about the simplicity of it all that brought a brief moment of ease.
Master Dawan was true to his word, providing food and drink—and endless stories—for his labor. And he had provided clothing and as well as shelter. Makami now dressed in loose trousers and a long white shirt. He covered himself in the blue robes familiar to the desert people, and had even taken to donning the afiyah veil, especially concealing himself when they went into town. He did not allow himself to be lulled into complacency by this small reprieve. Somewhere out there, were men who hunted him for dark purposes. And as long as he had to remain here, he hoped to put them off his trail.
In fact, he had done a great deal to change his look. He had shaved his bushy hair, leaving his scalp bare—opting instead for a beard which he wished would hurry and grow thicker. Reliable meals and hard work had filled him out some, bringing back his slender but muscular body. Cleaned up, he looked a world apart from the vagrant that had first been brought to Master Dawan’s tents. And the old man’s daughters had taken notice. Now and then he caught them glancing at him as he worked, and whispering to each other before breaking into laughter. At first, he had thought he was the object of one of their jokes, until one of the young women had blushingly slipped a bracelet of threaded blue stones onto his wrist—a signal of courtship. He didn’t delude himself into thinking any of them actually thought of him as worthy of marriage; the daughters of even a poor trader could do much better. But he had proven himself at least attractive enough in their eyes to play in the game of mock courtship young Amazi indulged in.
Of course, he had hidden away the blue stones quickly. He did not want Master Dawan to believe he had any foul intent upon his daughters. And Kahya’s threats still lingered in his ears. If the eldest daughter was impressed at his having lasted so long, she never showed it. The most she ever spoke to him were new orders and work tasks, ignoring flatly any of his attempts at conversation. Still, the days among the trader and his daughters were the most peaceful he had known for some time. The nights, however, were another matter.
The markings on his chest never ceased their movements. And at night they seemed to become worse, a burning weight that lay upon him. They writhed about so furiously at times, he could not drift away to sleep. And when slumber did finally claim him, only terrible visions came. Some of them were from the past—like the angry drunk who had followed him after a night of gambling, intent on fighting or doing worse, torn apart by the winged monstrosity that had flown from within the strange markings. Or the cutthroats that had attempted to rob him, slashed to pieces by the claws of a beast he had unwittingly unleashed. And of course, Kesse was always there, sweet Kesse who he could not save from the evil that lived inside him. Other visions were of his fears, where vile things with dozens of legs and endless mouths crawled out of him like an army of insects, devouring Master Dawan and his daughters as they slept. Those dreams more than any sent him awake, and he would lay there, eyes wide open, waiting for the dawn
It was some twenty-eight days later that they finally picked up and began their trek into the vast, hot sands. With the baushanga laden with goods they set upon a path Master Dawan claimed had been used by the Amazi for generations beyond measure. Makami had never seen so much sand, like an endless ocean that Master Dawan aptly called the Desert Sea. He himself could discern no path. Each way looked much like the next. But the old man seemed to know his way, putting names to sand dunes, and tracking their movements by the sun in the day and the stars by night.
For Makami, his first few days had been spent suffering from what the old man called “sun sickness.” The relentless heat of the desert was unlike anything Makami had ever endured, and he had been forced to ride upon the back of a baushanga to keep from passing out. After a few days however, his endurance improved. And soon he was laboring under the scorching sun with surprising ease.
His days followed a familiar routine. He awoke to feed the baushanga, see to their needs, sat down to a meal with Master Dawan and his daughters and then helped
