His hair is in one long braid woven through with a red twine. It slaps against his sturdy back when he walks. Limps, I should say, as it’s painfully clear the limp is getting worse. Still, his mood is good. His frequent smile reveals perfect white teeth against touchable, magnificent mahogany skin. I blush inside to have these thoughts, and to be keyed up to spend time with him, as he steers the vessel out of the hanger and guides it to the runway. It reminds me of when my dad and I went on hunting junkets, of how precious our time was together.
Soaring over Skull’s Wrath, we survey the desolation of craters and stark red rock formations that rise from the sand like monstrous beings. Some, like the ones Thorn and I saw on that first night, are shaped like glowing skulls. Others are cabbage-headed ogres and sunken-eyed hunchbacks. There’s beauty too: dunes in gently sloping pyramid shapes, and arching crescents facing windward like a hundred rusty scabbards. After a sandstorm it always seems the world is reformed.
We fly over yurts, where nomads have stopped to rest on their way westward. Armonk explains to me that for a yurt, people dig a wide hole in the ground and then erect a tent above it using heavy solar-cell fabric. The fact that the living area is underground helps it stay cooler.
As Armonk’s talking, we begin to hear a persistent thwack, thwacking from just outside the cockpit. “Is our glider making that awful noise?” I ask him.
He cranes his neck forward, and then to each side to assess the damage. “I think it’s one of the propellers.” He points to the yurts. “Might be interesting to talk to the nomads after we look at the glider.”
Before I can tell him I’d rather not, that I can’t risk any more strangers telling my old compound where I am, Armonk galumphs down, the propeller bang-banging, and lands near the circle of yurts. While we’re out inspecting the bent propeller, three men step out of a tent and venture cautiously toward us. One of them is shouldering a rifle.
“They’re armed,” I hiss at Armonk. Not sure he’s heard me. He has his quiver and bow but he’s preoccupied in forcing the propeller blade back with a wrench from where it was scraping against the glider body.
The man with the gun aims it at us as he grows near. They’re dressed in cloaks bound together by rags cinched like belts, and with clumsy handmade masks. They’re surely poor and hungry. Oh, Save us, Fireseed! All of my earlier, paranoid fears of cannibals flood into consciousness, as I picture the two of us being roasted over a spit.
The man’s eyes are bloodshot and his beard is unkempt. Is he the one I had coma nightmares about? He levels the rifle at my forehead. “Who goes there?” he calls. “What is your business?”
“We’re only here a minute,” I promise as I slowly raise my arms skyward. “We’ll be gone as soon as we fix our ship.”
“Remove your masks!” He swings the gun in a loop to indicate that Armonk should wheel around and remove his as well.
Armonk lifts his head from the repairs. He drops the wrench, raises his mask and arms. “No need for the gun,” he reassures, “we’re not here to harm you.”
The man’s grip stays firm on the rifle. “Where are you from?”
“A school in Skull’s Wrath,” I say, avoiding its name.
“We’re headed to the depot,” Armonk explains. “We’re not here to cause trouble.”
Finally the man lowers his gun and nods to the others to stand down. A woman emerges from the yurt. She stares out from a weatherworn, sallow face. “They’re just two overgrown kids,” she murmurs to her husband and then nods at us. “You two thirsty?”
“A little,” Armonk admits as he wipes his brow.
Wonder of wonders, they invite us in for a sip of homemade mead.
The inside is cozy, much more so than I would’ve ever thought. A colorful wall hanging decorates the yurt and even a framed photo of the family—in happier days? We tell them a little about the school, and how the students go out to the depot to help with chores.
The woman’s small girl leans against her side as she strokes her cheek. The girl looks puffy and red with fever. Her parents must notice me staring at her, because as soon as we’re out of the girl’s earshot, the father reveals their concerns.
“We’ve given little Moori teas,” he says. “We’ve kept her out of the heat, she sleeps as much as she needs, yet she only gets worse. She has a strange virus. We don’t know what else to do for her.”
“A doctor’s coming to this area soon,” Armonk reveals. “I could let you know when he gets here.”
“We’d like that. It’s very nice of you,” the man takes Armonk’s hands in his and gives them an appreciative shake.
“I can bring you my healing tea,” I offer. “I’m … an herbalist.” He nods gratefully.
People literally scurry from the sand like spiders, because before we fly off, two more yurt dwellers approach us to describe their own medical woes. One has a recurrent bellyache from eating rancid meat. Another man has infected, oozing insect bites. I realize there must be dozens of people in need, in Skull’s Wrath and beyond that only at first glance seems devoid of people.
We fly off with a repaired propeller that the yurt guy helped us bend back to its proper position. About twenty-five miles east of Skull’s Wrath depot we see another large structure jutting from the sand.
“An old-fashioned house. Look!” I point down at it.