From about fifteen feet away, I see a rip in the side tarp that hangs down. We pull it open and peer into the dim space. “Looks like a field of plants in there,” I mutter to Thorn. “I thought plants only survived in sand caves,” I add. Anything else would perish under this heat. Thorn and I exchange glances. His eyes, even in this murky light, burn with something indefinable.
Already, he’s sliding under the tarp. Following him I reach over to a plant beyond the inner, more formidable barbed wire barricade and rub a leaf between my fingers. It’s Fireagar, a whole crop of wrinkly green leaves branching into ruddy rust. Before I can stop him, Thorn has bent up a section of barbed wire with his boot and wriggled under that too.
I lie on my back and shimmy under that same section. I try not to catch my red cloak on one of its many barbed hooks, but I nick the fabric more than once.
Thorn starts to run into the thicket leading to the compound. Losing sight of him, I panic. Depot Man described these folks out here as violent. The desert seems to bring out the scary in people. “Stop! It’s not safe,” I yell. Thorn must hear me yet he keeps going. Does he see something I don’t?
“Thorn!” I yell. “Where are you?” The Fireagar’s bunchy leaves crunch underfoot as I run, straining my eyes through the leaves for a blur of movement. I hate to crush them, but I need to find Thorn. In a couple of minutes I reach a line of sandy dirt where the Fireagar ends. It’s too murky to see much, so I fire up one of the precious mini-torches I brought. Hopefully, it’ll last an hour or so. Under its glow, I see narrow tubing set along the line—an embedded water system? Pretty fancy, if so.
Beyond that, I see impossibilities.
Aiming the flickering light on a taller crop beyond the line, I study a field of red plants as tall as me, and tightly packed. Topped by star-shaped flowers, their branches wind down gracefully the same way they do on our compound’s sandstone statues at home. Fireseed? This must be a poison mirage. That’s it. Depot Man told me that tonight’s air is especially toxic. My brain is feasting on carbon dioxide and other poison vapors. My heart stuttering, I shine the torch on another section.
Wonders! It’s all still there, and ten paces ahead Thorn is on his knees, bowing to one of the plants.
“Fireseed! The gods are alive, Thorn,” I exclaim. He looks up just for a moment and grins. Or are we already up in the clouds with the Fireseed? “Are we dead?” I whisper under my breath so Thorn can’t hear. Did we crash in that glider? I touch my arms and reach out for the firm red stalk in front of me. The stalk and my arms are solid, not spirit.
Dropping to my knees near my brother, I hug the plant’s trunk and place my forehead on it. Cool to the touch, how is that possible in this desert heat? Swaying to an unseen wind, it arches down and brushes me with its tendrils, reaching for my shoulder almost in a gesture of affection, like my mother used to do when I was little. My mother, she would wonder over what I see here.
“You’re here, starflower,” I murmur, overcome with hot tears that spill onto the sand. “How can I serve you? Will you protect us from hungry nomads?” I glance to my left, at Thorn, who’s rocking back and forth, head to the roots.
Something moves in the corner of my right eye. I angle the torch up. This desert is eerie, especially under this crackled, sagging tarp that slumps down like an old lizard’s belly.
A rustle. Startling up, I squint into the jungle of red, and search for a repeat movement. Another sound of brushing against leaves, again to my upper right. Every nerve in me alerts. Is a Dragon Lizard skittering along the branches of a Fireseed plant? No, it sounds like something bigger, from about four feet up. I’m sure of it. I sniff the air. Only the heat of the sand and the mineral-sweet liqueur of veined leaves fill me.
Thorn isn’t visibly upset. He glanced up once, with mild curiosity, only to return to his rocking. My muscles relax as I lower my own head again to the pliable roots. If those sounds signaled something dangerous, Thorn would’ve known. He senses things my eyes can’t see.
Hard crunches explode by my right ear—a wild beast charging? I snap upright. And see it. A large human in an iguana skin suit with an arrow pointed straight at my heart.
“Hey!” I cry. No!”
The owner of the arrow steps forward. He grazes the sharp tip against my forehead above my molded burn mask. The guy’s dark eyes blaze out at me from his own mask. The little I see of his exposed skin is bronze and his long black hair gleams even under this dank tarp. Despite his fierce gaze, he doesn’t shoot the arrow. “Lift your mask,” he orders.
Thorn is up and clutching at my cloak. Am I this man’s dinner now, my brother his dessert? Why didn’t Thorn give me a sign earlier? My heart pounds through my ribs.
When the man sees my face and my electric haze of hair, his eyes soften. That spark of wonder that men get whenever they gaze at me is in his eyes. That spark I almost always hate. Somehow with this stranger, it fills me with unexpected lightening. “You’re from that desert cult,” he remarks, as if he knows everything about anything.