Master Dawan claimed he had sensed it coming, and had ordered them to pitch their tents in a circle, placing the baushanga on the outside. Even as they tied down their dwellings the normally inert desert filled with a brisk wind that only grew fiercer with each passing moment. By the time night had fallen they were in the midst of a raging sand storm that blotted out even the moon, turning the already dark night into an impenetrable blackness.
Outside, his veil wrapped about him to ward off the stinging sand, Makami checked upon the slumbering baushanga. Stripped of their packs, they curled their great shaggy bodies into balls, hiding their heads from the winds and acting as a buffer against the storm. Still, Makami had to go out and check upon them several times, to make sure the beasts were still properly tied down. Master Dawan claimed baushanga had been known to wander off in the middle of sandstorms. Disoriented they could travel so far it would take days to find them again. Making certain their harnesses remained fastened about them he fed each a bit of pinkish fruit Master Dawan had said would keep them peacefully at rest. Barely lifting their heads against the sharp elements, they managed to down the fleshy fruit in noisy wet crunches between their block-like teeth.
Finishing his task, Makami picked up the oil lamp he had set beside him—the only light available in the thick sand-filled gloom. The winds were so strong he had to push hard against them, lest they knock him over. Stopping at his tent he lifted the lamp to look at the large symbol painted on the canvas. Smeared in goat’s blood, it was a ward against evil Master Dawan had insisted placed on all their tents. He claimed that storms often brought out demons that dwelled in the deep desert, things that crept up while you slept and drained all your blood or enticed men to wander from their dwellings to their deaths with haunting songs. Whether the old man was merely superstitious, Makami did not know. But he had accepted the ward all the same. He knew that monsters and demons were all too real.
Rubbing at his chest he walked into his tent, pushing close the flap behind him. Since the storm had begun, the markings on his chest had started to move about—much more than usual. It troubled him. He had long ago decided, were he to lose control again, he would abandon Master Dawan and his family and flee headlong into the desert, hoping to spare them from any danger. If it came to that, he would do so now, even in this storm. Better that than bring these good people harm.
Unveiling, he shook out sand from his afiyah before laying it flat upon the blankets he usually slept upon. He pulled off his shirt, dusting it off and throwing it to the ground. Standing there, with only the flickering lamp for light, he looked down to the arcs and lines which continued their odd movement across his skin. Putting a finger to them he traced their movements, as if touching them would somehow bring him insight. So, engrossed he soon became, that he did not notice the figure entering his tent until too late.
“I wanted to remind you to wake up early, before the dawn, to push away the sand from the baushanga—”
Makami turned in surprise, as Kahya strode through the flap he had left partially open. She carried a lamp and was wrapped in dark cloth. At sight of him she stopped speaking, her eyes going wide. With a silent curse beneath his breath he realized that he was still facing her, bare-chested and wearing only his flowing trousers. It took a moment—too long a moment—for his mind to tell his body to turn his back. And he knew immediately, she had seen. The lamp he had was small, but so was his tent, and it illuminated the space all too well.
“What is that?” he heard her ask breathlessly. Makami closed his eyes, cursing to himself deeply now, praying the woman would go away. Those thoughts were dashed as her hand touched upon his bare back.
“Stop jumping!” she admonished at his reaction. “Those markings on your skin—let me see!” When he did not respond, she released an indignant breath and pulled his shoulder hard, with more strength that he thought her capable. He turned to face her and she lifted her lamp to his chest, bending down to gaze at the markings in wonder.
“They move!” she breathed. Looking up to him, her dark eyes were wide. “How did you come by this? Did you make them yourself?”
“No,” Makami managed to answer. “This wasn’t my doing.” He released a sigh. “It would be too hard to explain.”
She gazed at him oddly, with a look that was different than her usual dismissive demeanor—as if only noticing him for the first time.
“And you can make them move,” she said.
“What?” he asked confused. “No, not me. They move on their own.”
Kahya wrinkled her brow. “Nonsense, the markings never move on their own.”
Setting her lamp upon the floor she turned her back to him. And then, to his surprise, began to disrobe. The dark cloth that covered her slipped past her shoulders, falling about her arms and her waist, revealing her bare back. Pushing her hair to the front, she tilted her head to him slightly.
“Watch,” she said.
Makami looked down to her back. A series of lengthy twisting marks covered its length like vines upon her dark skin. They looked much like the inked designs her sisters wore on their hands, with one remarkable difference. These markings moved.
He almost took a step back in shock,
