Amongst the Dunes

[Inmah]

10th day of 510 Winter A.V. The desert climate possessed many dualities: the unrelenting heat of the day to the frigid temperatures of night; the unbearably still and suffocating air to the tumultuous fervor of the desert winds in sandstorms. To some it was formidable, but to Inmah it was home. She traversed these arid lands with a trained ease. The calloused heels on her feet and her windswept copper complexion were a testament to her conditioning under the elements. In Inmah’s nomadic life she was always moving, never still. Yet, as darkness fell over the The Burning Lands, she found herself grappling with the strange chilled silence of the desert at night. The sizzling heat of the day and the crunch of hooves and footsteps against the flaky sand disappeared once the sun fell. The dry air retained no warmth, and the temperature dropped rapidly, forcing Inmah to draw thick furs and a shawl around her frame. The open dunes were no place to rest at night so the Chaktawe woman settled on setting camp under an isolated coppice of acacia trees growing stubbornly along a dried up gully. She tied the reins of Abda, her desertbred mount, to the thin branches of one of the trees and lit a fire for warmth. The indigenous desert woman sat cross-legged within the dim circle of firelight, fiddling idly with the strands of beads dangling from her shawl. The frosted sheen of the moon half-shrouded by clouds painted the shifting dunes in a ghostly pallor. The fire cast long shadows against the sand, pooling in dark wells and rippling against the curves in the terrain. The herds of bowbacked goats were moving with the season, drawing the hunter away from the Kalanue tribe’s temporary settlement near the Redstone Cliffs. She was not as familiar with the territory outside of the Kalanue’s migration paths, and was beginning to regret making this trip alone. Once dawn broke, she would resume tracking the herds, but at the moment all she needed was rest. Inmah found herself dipping in and out of consciousness, only to be abruptly awoken by the distant howl of a wolf or the soft scuttling of insects' legs over grains of sand. She was restless, roused by any minute sounds. She could not shake the feeling that something was near. The Chaktawe woman extended a hand from the folds of her shawl and flexed her fingers before touching them lightly to the ground. The sand was cool to the touch. The woman closed both lids over her dark eyes, concentrating. Placing a hand to the ground she could focus on any movement, any rush of wind or beat of a heart. A few seconds expired before Inmah opened her eyes once more and withdrew her hand. There was nothing. All was still. At least for now, she was alone in the barren desert.

[Inmah]

Inmah found herself hanging between a place of consciousness and unconsciousness; latched onto the topmost layer of sleep. The sudden rush of cool air against the Chaktawe’s fingertips was unmistakable. The gel-like substance on her fingers picked up subtle movement. It was like dipping her fingertips into the sweeping chill of a stream. It was an instinctual calibration—to physically feel when someone or something was near—but that was the best way she could describe it. Inmah’s eyes snapped open. She tried to discern what presence had infiltrated her senses. This was no animal. The movement she sensed had been chopped, pointed, unerringly intentional. The woman grabbed the bow and arrow at her side, pulled it taut, and aimed toward the opaque darkness. “Show yourself.” Inmah hissed. “Easy, easy.” Inmah was surprised to hear a response spoken in unbroken Tawna. Could it be another Chaktawe? The woman’s bow quivered as she hesitated and lowered the tip of her arrow. A man stepped into the ring of firelight, the flame illuminating the contours of his face. Leathery skin and the beginnings of a black beard were beginning to conceal a long scar stretching from his ear to his jaw, but Inmah could see the distinctive markings in white paint slathered across his eyelids and temples. The markings of the Suli. Another woman and her horse closely trailed him, both decorated in ornately carved bone and white Suli markings. “Don’t fear.” The man noted in deep gravelly tones and cracked a broad smile, “We sensed you before you sensed us.” Begrudgingly, Inmah lowered her weapon and bowed her head in acknowledgement, “Greetings. Though it is unwise to come up to a stranger at night so quickly.” She ran a calming hand over Abda’s nose and added with a sense of wryness, “And to startle my horse.” The man placed a humbled hand to his chest in seeming apology, “Of course. Apologies. My name is Napoor, and this is my daughter Weyma. We are trackers from the Suli clan” He gestured to the darkly colored younger woman behind him and she gave a stony grunt in greeting. “I am Inmah, hailing from the Kalanue. You are far from your territory.” “As are you.” Napoor responded solemnly, “The herds are restless this year. Matsuki draws them to more bountiful oases. Inmah, may we share your camp for the night?” The woman cast a long gaze and the man and his young daughter. In cautious agreement, she slowly nodded, “I have limited rations, but you are welcome to share the protection of the acacia and the warmth of the fire with me.” Though they were strangers, Inmah had a kinship with her fellow Chaktawe. Whatever reservations she had for other cultures were countered by the faith she had in her own race. The Suli father and daughter moved swiftly, setting up a minimalistic camp around the dimming fire. Inmah helped Weyma fasten her horse’s reins around the trunk of one of the sparse trees and then went to prod the fire. There was no need to make a dent in the ruddy landscape. They would all be gone by morning.