I would not have found the hut myself except that one of my sheep found it first. The hut was over a cliffside, on a slender outcropping about five meters below the edge. Otherwise, the cliff’s face dropped a sheer seventy meters to a rocky beach pummeled by massive breakers. I found the sheep on the outcropping after a stray rabid dog spooked her from my flock. Even against the harsh wind and waves below, I could hear the frightened animal bleating. So could my flock, and they ran ahead of me to the cliff.

The sheep lay beside a stone structure, circular and domed. She wasn’t kicking her legs. If they were broken, there would be nothing for her. Still, I had to get down to find out.

On a fair day, I would have had two hours or more of workable light in which to bring in the rest of the flock and return for the stranded one. But the island has few fair days—fewer in autumn—and the clouds rolling up the cliff would soon rob me of all visibility. Either all my sheep would leave the cliff, or none would. I led the flock to a small swale where they’d likely stick together, and returned to the cliff.

Shepherds on the island carry rope for just such emergencies. I tied one end of mine to a sturdy tree not far from the edge; the other end I fashioned into a lasso. If I had enough rope, I could rappel down to the sheep, tie the rope around her waist, climb back up, and hoist her to safety.

The rock was already slick with mist when I stepped off the grass and dropped onto the cliffside. I slipped a meter or so down the edge, burning my hands. After a third hop my boots landed on the smooth dome of the hut. From there I slid to the base of the outcropping. I checked my slack—still plenty of rope.

As I turned to circle around the hut to my sheep, I noticed the carvings etched into the hut’s walls. There were other ruins on the island with other glyphs, but none looked like this. Other ruins had crude writing made of straight lines and simple angles. These glyphs were curved and delicate, varying in width as though engraved by a master calligrapher. The hut was old, for certain, but alien to the rest of the island, as though whoever built it remained on this outcropping, never sharing their knowledge with the island’s other people.

One hand stayed on the hut’s wall as I circled around to the sheep. The fog had come in full now. I couldn’t be sure where the outcropping ended and a nasty fall began. I found the sheep by her bleating more than by sight. I knelt down and felt her wool on a hand I could barely make out through the thick gray. Gently, my hands ran up and down her legs. Two fractures, one in the fore, one in the hind. She’d never walk again, and I’d have to put her down once I got her up and home. I know shepherds who would’ve left her. I couldn’t. You own animals, you treat them right, even at their end.

I had more than enough rope, so I doubled the loop around the sheep and moved her closer to the cliff’s face. The line was firm, but not completely taught—enough slack to forgive my weight.

But the rope frayed and snapped on the cliff edge when I was only a meter off the outcropping. I fell on my hands and knees. Loose rock shards sliced into my palms.

After tearing off some of my shirt to wrap my hands, I untied the sheep and picked her up. We would not be getting off the outcropping before the clouds cleared and someone happened upon the flock and the rope.

I found an arched doorway around the front of the hut. We took shelter inside. With those thick clouds, there was no telling if they would bring only mist, or pounding rain.

The hut was dark and smelled of mildew. I could make out glyphs similar to those on the outside running along the inside wall. In the hut’s center was a curved stone chair—seemingly carved out of one boulder—and a large oval table. The floor was as smooth as the walls and ceiling. It felt warmer than the ground outside, so I laid the sheep on her side by the table. Something about the hut disturbed me, and for a moment I could not discern why. Then I turned to look out the door and realized: I could not hear the ocean or the wind. The hut was open to the elements, but none made their way inside. Although I was glad for the reprieve from the wind and water, I no longer felt safe in the hut. But there was nowhere else to be for the moment, so I sat in the smooth chair at the table.

The moment I sat, a bright light shone down from the ceiling. I looked up and could no longer see a stone dome. Instead, the same clouds I would have seen outside the door were over me in the chair. It was as if the dome had turned from stone to glass. I could hear the wind and water once more.

The table changed when I sat as well. Instead of an empty plane, I sat before a miniature model of the island. Every detail was represented in immaculate detail—the northern city, the western ports with ships floating at the harbor, villages in the south. I saw my own cottage.

I leapt up and again the room went dark and silent; the dome turned to stone. In the hush, I could hear my sheep’s labored breathing. I reckoned she had no longer than an hour.

There were stories on the island of magical beings who once lived and ruled here. And this was far from the only ancient structure in the southern leas. Still, I’d never heard of anyone finding something like this, something active.

I had few options, but I figured that whoever built this hut had a way to get back up the cliff. Without any visible passages out, I figured the only possible means of escape had to do with the table. I gingerly sat back down.

The sky and sound returned, as did the island model. This time I placed my hands around the edges of the model. It turned with my gestures. The longer I stared at a region, the larger and more detailed it grew. I found my flock and the hut. I could even look at individual stones on the shore below. They seemed so real, I reached out to grab one. I picked it up, feeling the smooth wet edges against my bandaged hand. In my shock, I tossed it back on the virtual beach. When the rock stopped moving, the glyphs lining the walls briefly glowed white and made a humming sound. The rock remained where I had tossed it.

I had to test further. I once more picked up the rock, but then eased the view back to see the hut’s outcropping. Still holding the rock, I looked closer until I could see the pebbles outside the door. I dropped the rock there. Once more, the glyphs flashed and hummed.

Sure enough, a rock appeared outside the hut’s door.

My heart pounded in my chest. I moved the view into the hut, until I saw a small version of myself and my sheep. I saw myself looking at a small me in the table, who in turn looked at a smaller me on a smaller table. I reached out for the image of the sheep, small enough for one hand to grab it. I gingerly picked it up and rested it in my palm. The real sheep remained on the floor beside me.

I brought the image out again to the whole island, and down to my cottage and barn. I placed the small sheep in front of my cottage door, and with another hum and flash, my own sheep disappeared from the hut. My wife would soon find the injured animal, and begin to nurse her back to health.

I returned the table image to the hut, and plucked up a miniature me. I felt a shiver when my hand grabbed my small facsimile. I brought the view to my flock. I could see each sheep moving and bleating. I dropped my miniature by the tree I had tied the rope to.

The glyphs hummed and flashed, and I stood next to the tree, once again assaulted by wind and rain. The rain had indeed gotten heavier.

I untied the rope from the tree and recoiled it about my shoulder. As I gathered up my flock and headed home, I wondered if the hut could move clouds as well.

]]> http://mttaggart.wordpress.com/2011/11/26/the-cliff-hut/feed/ 0 mttaggart http://mttaggart.wordpress.com/2011/08/29/aftermath/ http://mttaggart.wordpress.com/2011/08/29/aftermath/#comments Mon, 29 Aug 2011 17:44:56 +0000 mttaggart http://mttaggart.wordpress.com/?p=318 ]]> The hurricane left the usual damage—barren milk shelves, tree limbs ripped roughly from trunks, flooded basements. All this I had expected; I had been warned by radio and television to expect minor cataclysms. But this I had forgotten from the storms of my childhood:

The aftermath.

The sky is so tender. Alien oranges and yellows in the evening, innocent blue the next day. Strangers emerge from their homes to survey the damage together. Backyard borders disappear. Fences already bent by giant branches fall completely when we clear them in concert.

It is the hurricane that taught me my neighbors’ names.

My son plays on a tire swing hanging from a desiccated oak. The leaves have singed but are too light to fall, no wind to scatter them. The swing’s ropes have begun to fray—maybe a week before they snap. My boy knows, and swings gently.

In the drought we have lost ourselves. Or perhaps the selves were never ours to lose, only brought and renewed by the rain. Is there some essential me in the vapors hanging over hot asphalt after thundershowers? If so, we are blameless for forgetting how to live.

I kiss you but I do not kiss you. We are missing more than water; not our lips alone are dry. We wake, we eat; we work; we sleep; and this all meant something with clouds rising and gathering. Here under flawless blue, all bereft of water, we have begun to evaporate.

And I am too dry for this to frighten me.

New to Things Lost and Found? Start here.

This happened not very long ago. I have other Stories that came before this one—even the Story that begins all Stories—but remember this one too. It is the first Story of the Last Storyteller.

            We woke, Fess and I, bloody, sweaty, and thirsty. The Clay-People sat around us, humming soft songs to ease us back to the world. Fess had woken first, always the strong Hunter.

            “You’ve been out for a day.”

            “I was tired. I’m not a Hunter.”

            She smiled, maybe a little sadly. “Neither am I.”

            “So what are you?”

            She stood me up. “Same as you now. A Citizen.”

            “But we don’t have Daruhn.”

            “Oh no? Look around.”

            The faces of the Clay-People had not seemed alien for some time, but only now did I feel a sense of belonging with more than just Running Before Sun. We were a tribe now.

            “Daruhn!” I said.

            “Daruhn,” they cried back.

            The empty crater of the mountain stretched even wider than the hollow inner chamber suggested. Thousands of paces in all directions, flat, fertile ground. I turned to Fess.

            “Perfect place for a city.”

            She took my hand, and kissed my cheek. I blushed, I’m sure. “You have no idea.”

 I searched for my friend, and found him looking over the seed in the stream. Walking over, I saw the iridescent seed’s shell had a long crack running along the middle, and from within, delicate rootlets had shot down into the stream’s bed.

            “Will this be another Water Tree?” I asked him.

            For the first time, I heard my friend speak. His voice rolled like the water; his voice was the peace after the maelstrom.

            “It will be a tree. A different kind of tree I think. But it will be ours. Daruhn’s tree. With the Faces returned, all will change.”

            “The Faces are back?” I heard the voices as Storm died, but did not understand.

            “The world is once more at war with itself.” He pointed to the ground. “Fertile ground is a matter of life and death, water and earth and air all fighting for dominance.”

            “Are we in danger?”

            Running Before Sun smiled. “A great deal. The toll for exiting Another Desert, I fear.”

            I nodded. “I’ll gladly pay it.”

“How do you feel?”

            “You know, I am so thirsty.” I knelt in the water and brought cupped hands to my lips. I had never had so much water run down my throat before. But the water quenched more than thirst. I felt the voice of the Still stir in my head, a thousand years of Stories’ truths flowing into my thoughts. “I’m Home,” I said.

            Fess came up behind me. “How’s the water taste?”

            “Amazing.”

            She took a sip and nodded. “I’m Home.”

            “Did you feel that explosion in your head when you drank it? Like you suddenly knew a lot more than you had?”

            “No. Just happy to be drinking water.”

            “Huh.” I supposed the Still only needed one voice Today. Another would come Tomorrow. I laughed, thinking of Tomorrow’s voice telling this Story. Not a Storyteller, but a stream for all times to bring truth to now. I swam in truth, as the Still must.

            “Fess, do you want to know what the words to the Walking Song mean?”

            “Not really. I already have an idea of what it means on my own.”

            “What’s that?”

            She shrugged. “Here we are. There we were. We’re going there. We go together.”

            I never told her she was right. It didn’t matter in the end. We all sang it together anyhow, as a family, as Citizens.

Amun,

vaijah voroh, voruhn

Amun,

vaijah vori, vorohn

Amun,

vaijah voroh, voruhn

Amun,

vaijah vori, vorohn

Amun,

            Gatta bai so.

Child,

For the final leg of the journey, Kin and Fess take the rear of the traveling line so Kin can tell Fess what passes through hand-traces. They have been walking for a day, perhaps more, since Storm came. In all that time, not a word has passed between Kin and Fess; they say all that need be said in firm grips on each other’s hand. The Clay-People, however, have not stopped tracing the same words over and over. Home Song, Home Song, again and again. Kin has tried to ask Running Before Sun what this means, but no answers have come.

Now the pace increases twofold so the traveling line is at a near run. No more traces—they run fast and silent. Only a shiver of energy and anticipation ripple through the linked hands of the Clay-People.

“I think we’re almost there, Fess.”

“Almost where?”

“Home.”

“Daruhn?”

“I don’t know. Old Song said we were going Home.”

“I don’t even know what Home really means.”

“An end to Walking. Peace.”

Fess grimaces. And why is that such a good thing, she thinks? Storm aside, she loves her life as a Hunter.

Daylight slips onto the tunnel ceiling from a large chamber ahead, almost blinding Kin and Fess. The Clay-People squint even more. Kin almost leaps from step to step, his heart racing.

A wet smell rushes over Fess—different than the moldy smell of the tunnel. It’s fresher somehow, and stronger. Something is alive in this cave, and something big. She hears the sound of running water a thousand times stronger than the trickle from the tunnel stream. Now her heart begins to race as well.

As they emerge into the final chamber, the end of the tunnel, Kin stands only with help from Fess and Running Before Sun.

“Oh…oh.”

The last Walkers stand before the largest plant they have ever known; not even Vel could throw a spear to the top. Fess has no idea its name. If only Peet were here to see this, she thinks.

The chamber is a hollow mountain—hundreds of paces high, hundreds of paces wide at the base, holes in the side of the chamber let rays of light in upon the tremendous plant. Thick, fibrous veins reach out from the center stem, sipping at the stream from the tunnel. Arms reach up to the chamber ceiling, where water falls from the limbs’ ends in great downpours, which splash on a thick mat of grass. Fess kneels down and grabs a handful of the damp stuff. She brings it to her nose, inhaling deep. The smell shivers through her. “Is this Home?” she asks.

Kin’s eyes do not move from the great plant. “I know this thing.”

“What is it?” Fess licks the dew off the grass, intoxicated.

“I should have kept the Storybook. If I remember though, this is an old Picker legend. The Water Tree. The Story goes that even water has roots, and they begin in a giant plant that runs rich with water flowing from the tips. They say the world began at the Water Tree.”

Fess whispers to herself, “Peet, you would have loved this.”

Old Song comes to the Walkers, smiling. Kin stands, offering his hands to her.

“There is no more need for silence, Kin.” Old Song’s voice quavers like Egretsong. It sounds as though it comes from over the horizon—distant, and so unimaginable delicate as to be untouchable.

“Oh. Oh wow. Your voice is beautiful.”

“All our voices are. You will find out soon.”

Fess comes to stand by Kin. “Kin says your name is Old Song?”

“Yes, child. You are Hunter Fess?”

 “Just Fess. I…I have to apologize to you.”

“Oh?”

“I killed a Clay-Person. I thought he was my enemy. I’m sorry.” Fess hangs her head a moment, sniffing back tears, but quickly shakes them away and resumes her solid gaze.

“I thank you, but it was not my brother whom you killed. Stone Singing was his sister.”

The young Clay-Person turns her head towards the Walkers at the sound of her name. Old Song gestures for her to come over. The young girl’s eyes are angry, her jaw sneering.

“Stone Singing is our best singer. But ever since Quiet Stepping died, she has remained silent in mourning.”

Fess adopts the military demeanor she has so long trained. She marches over to Stone Singing. “I am the one who killed your brother. I was trained to hunt Clay-People. You were our enemy, or we were told that anyway.” She rips the trophy teeth from around her neck, and kneels before Stone Singing. “I was wrong. If you want to have my life as payment, take it.”

Stone Singing’s sneer breaks. She stands Fess back up. “Murder will not heal murder.”

“What do you want then? I owe you a debt.”

“Tell your children what you did wrong.”

“If I ever have any, I will.”

Stone Singing looks to Kin, then to Old Song. They laugh as Stone Singing runs back to join the other Clay-People in a circle around the Tree. The members of the circle process in the solemn gait used in the Moon song.

“What was that children stuff about?” says Kin.

Old Song shrugs. “You have bigger questions, I hope.”

“Yes. Is this the Water Tree?”

“It is. All water runs somewhere; it runs to the Water Tree. Here it grows, waiting to drop its seed and renew the world.”

“What happens then?”

“We’ll be Home.”

“Old Song,” asks Fess, “How are you going to get the seed down from there? The Tree’s covered with moss—too slippery to climb.”

“We will sing it down.”

“Hang on,” says Kin. “I’ve seen your voices at work before. If you sing loudly enough to shake the Tree, you’ll bring down the mountain. We’ll all die.”

“The seed will protect us.”

Kin throws his hands up. “Alright. I give up. I am so tired of mysticism.”

Fess steps forward. “What can we do?”

“You have to catch the seed and put it in the water together.”

“We have to?”

“The seed is for Tomorrow. Only those who will be there for Tomorrow can grow the seed.”

“But why us?”

“The lessons of Yesterday and Today lie with the Last Storyteller.” Old Song smiles. “And the Last Hunter.”

“The Last Hunter?”

“The days of such names are over. The Walkers are gone, and so now will the Clay-People be. Tomorrow, only Citizens. Only Daruhn.”

Kin laughs to himself. Cair gets his wish. “Alright,” he says. “We’ll catch the seed.” He takes Kin’s hand, and they walk beneath the Water Tree. The seed rests nestled in a nook in the trunk, where the limbs spread apart. The Water Tree cradles the enormous seed—big a young Egret.

Old Song joins hands with the rest of the circle around the Water Tree. Her eyes shut, and she begins to hum. The rest of the tribe joins in—softly at first, gradually growing into a shaking resonance that echoes hard around the mountain walls. Pebbles begin to fall from the ceiling—small ones first, then larger, until more and more rays of daylight streak the Water Tree’s branches. Kin and Fess wince and the power of the song, their chests vibrating along with the mountain.

In the trance of the song, none notice the sweaty, bloody old man and angry Hunter emerge from the tunnel. Hahnd has lost all the youthful energy, the aura of power that made him such a strong leader. Beady eyes focus on their last goal; a Hunter’s blade thirsts for a final battle.

“This must be where they control Storm,” shouts Sebir. “The giant plant must give them power over Another Desert.”

Hahnd points to the tree. “They have Kin and Fess in the center. A sacrifice?”

“No. Treason.” Sebir draws his sword, his face gnarled with hate. He sprints off towards the trunk of the tree, head set low for a killing charge.

The motion catches Fess’s eye. “I have to stop him!” Kin grabs her before she leaps away to intercept him.

“No! We have to stay to catch the seed.”

“He’ll kill us!”

“Let’s hope it’s after the seed falls.”

Sebir closes on the circle, on the tree. But as he approaches striking distance, something grabs his leg and throws him to the ground. Stone Stepping stands over the Hunter, her jaw set grimly. The Hunter holds his sword out in defense, shaking from fear and from the sound-filled chamber. The young Clay-Person leans in close, and raises her voice to its greatest strength. The obsidian blade shatters, the shards lodging themselves in his eyes.

Hahnd shakes with rage, with sorrow. Blood runs thick from his ears; he can now only hear the memory of the Walker’s screams. From under his ripped tunic, he takes a smooth piece of red obsidian. A small throwing weapon, passed from Storyteller to Storyteller. It’s another of the ancient weapons of Daruhn—now the last. Kin would have received it after his Trial. Mustering his last strength, he throws true, landing the blade in Stone Singing’s throat.

Her voice halts and her eyes widen. She collapses, gasping, and Hahnd smiles at his throw.

The light outside the mountain disappears. A howling louder than the Clay-People’s song rushes through the chamber, shaking the walls. In a moment the mountain crumbles into the sky, and only black wind surrounds the Water Tree and the Clay-People. The only illumination comes from lightning strikes all around the Tree.

Old Song runs to Stone Singing, but she has already joined her brother. The chieftain’s hands close to fists, and weeping, she walks to Hahnd. Black tendrils of wind and lightning whip about the now-open chamber, first pulling Sebir’s body away from the ground. Old Song strides calmly as Hahnd trembles on his knees before Storm. She raises Hahnd to his feet. Embracing him tightly, she whispers into his ear.

“My child, forgive me, I have not protected you.”

“What are you saying?”

“This is the end of things and the beginning. Kin was right.”

“I don’t care anymore. You killed my people.”

“You killed both our people with your Stories of hate. Now we come to the end of things. Our time is over.”

“Our time?”

The Clay-People’s leader touches her forehead to Hahnd’s, then holds him to her breast. “Child, I hate you. This wind is for us.”

Hahnd closes his eyes in Old Song’s embrace; he could almost fall asleep.

The thunder and song grow to crescendo, the black cloud swirling tighter and tighter, into a thin tornado around Old Song and Hahnd.

In a final burst of song, the seed topples from its nest in the Water Tree. Fess and Kin catch it together. The seed’s skin has no blemish—smooth and untouched as new obsidian. The color shifts with every turn.

“It’s heavy,” says Fess.

“A lot has to grow out of it.”

They splash into the stream and drop the seed. Kin notices Storm’s howl change. It no longer sounds like one angry voice, but several terrified shrieks. Instead of black, the small cloud now has many colors—brown and blue and green and gray. The Clay-People collapse to their knees under the midday sun. They cover their ears, as if a voice assaults them.

Then it overcomes the last Walkers. Kin and Fess fall to the ground, grabbing their heads and shouting, but they can only hear the voices of Storm.

WeareWeareWeareWeareWeare

A white flash explodes from the cloud. Five streaks scream through the Water Tree’s trunk, bursting it to splinters before they shoot to the sky. Kin, Fess, and the Clay-People lay battered and exhausted in a quiet that, for the first time, feels like peace.

Cair,

You will never know how loyal a friend Pathfinder Gel was. He came calling over the western duneridges. “Storm comes!” he cried. It followed him all the way to our city. He burst through the gates, ignoring the calls of his guildmasters. He ran past his own home and his waiting family, stopping at our house. Storm came fast, and not a moment after he handed me your letter, the wind tore him into the sky. As our home’s walls fell to pieces, I ran into the cellar and read your letter. But I could not reach the roofs, love. Our own trapped me before I could run. Then everything was black and screaming.

Yesterday we thought of Sun as kind. Today, those remaining trust nothing; we are even wary of Great Egret and Vel the Hunter. What benevolent overseer would allow such suffering by Storm? And what kind of enemy are the Clay-People? Many of us harbored no ill wishes towards them; not everyone in the city thought as the Hunters did. You know this. The Pickers opposed the war, but Storyteller Ohn and the Hunters held sway.

At least we know that Daruhn will be again, because Daruhn is not today. The walls have returned to sand, and I can only count a handful of survivors from where I sit, writing this with ink and reeds I found in the ruins of our house. This is, like your letter to me, a prayer, only I know for certain you will never read it. I’ll never be able to tell you the news.

I’m with child, Cair. We will be mother and father. I was joyous yesterday when I found out. Today it seems cruel to bring a child into a world without walls—only sand. Then again, we need children if Daruhn is to have a future.

What do you think is good for a name? I thought you might like Gel.

I see Storyteller Ohn. He gathers everyone, but I will not listen. He sent so many to their deaths. Only a handful of Hunters; Storm was hungry for them. Pathfinders too, but some remain, and now take up spears as new Hunters. All must change, I suppose.

Now the Pickers gather supplies from ruined homes. They wrap Berries in cloth and take as much plant fiber as they can. Pathfinders tear through the stores of the wealthy, turning over every piece of rubble in search of supplies. I see no bodies—I expected bodies. Storm devoured its prey whole. One gathers supplies for a journey; I wonder where we are going. Daruhn, I suppose, but where will it be?

You always said you liked how the guild names could define you by your actions. You felt it was honest. What are we now, Cair? Daruhn is gone, so we can’t be Citizens until we rebuild.

Ohn tells everyone to carry blankets to make a tent; he wants travel out into Another Desert. I hear frightened whispers about Jackals. Honestly, I’m worried too. I wish you were here for me. For us. If we start walking, we’ll be walking until we find Daruhn. We shall be Walkers, then. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? The whole city united under one title, one purpose.

I’ll make sure we are Walkers, Cair. For you. We seem to be moving out. I’d best follow.

Until the Stars,

Yia

Child,

Silence always enshrouds the world of Clay-People, but the silence after Storm reaches even deeper. It is as if no Jackal or Egret remains above the tunnel ceiling, as if the sand of Another Desert was sucked all up into the sky with the Walkers.

The Clay-People cannot walk—not yet. They sit fetal, rocking and bobbing their heads. Fess and Kin face each other, but their eyes see only the carnage above. Over and over their minds enact the death sounds, the cloud of reddened feathers. Fess vomits on the floor between them.

Kin grabs her hand. “Are…are you okay?”

She looks up, her mouth still dripping. What can she even say? “I feel sick.”

“Me too.”

“Do you think they’re all gone?”

“Probably. There was no shelter except for the tunnels.”

Fess turns sheepish a moment, afraid of the question. “So we’re—”

“We’re the last.” Kin’s eyes widen. “I’m the Last Storyteller.”

“What?’

“In the tunnels, did you see a pool of water made into a man?”

Fess nods. “It just laughed at us.”

“Well it spoke to me. It was a…a message from the future. It called me the Last Storyteller.”

“What does that mean?”

“I have no Storybook. I can’t pass on any Stories.” Kin turns his head down, his brow furrowed. “Maybe that’s not a bad thing. We can start over. We can have Stories of truth.”

Fess pulls away from Kin. “How can you forget our people so quickly?”

“I remember. I remember our folly too. Storm came because of our hatred—for the Clay-People, and then amongst ourselves. We brought Storm, not the Clay-People.”

“What is Storm?”

“It used to be the different parts of the world. The sky, the ground—even water. But they fought for power, and eventually agreed to a truce where they sacrificed their identities to destroy conflict. They became Storm.”

“Sun and Moon let this happen?”

“The world didn’t belong to them then. And even now, Sun and Moon don’t care enough about us to help.”

Fess rubs her eyes. “Why us? Why hunt us of all things?”

“I don’t know if the world knows a bigger hatred than Walkers have—had—for the Clay-People. We were like children who wanted to kill our parents.”

Fess pulls her cloak tight around her. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

“You heard the song.”

“Could be a trick.”

Kin shrugs. “It doesn’t matter, really.” He stands and walks down the tunnel a short way to Running Before Sun. The Clay-Person sits with his head between his knees. He looks up, hearing footsteps, and Kin sees tear stains shining down his cheeks. Kin takes his hands.

Brother, are you hurt?

My heart mourns so many deaths.

Come mourn with us.

Slowly, Running Before Sun stands. Kin leads him back to Fess. She leans away as they kneel by her.

“Fess, this is my friend. My brother. Running Before Sun.”

Fess nods to the Clay-Person, shaking. Kin feels Running Before Sun trembling too.

“Don’t be afraid.”

Running Before Sun traces shakily into Kin’s hand. She is a Hunter.

She was. Now we are not Walkers.

“Fess, this is a friend.”

She shakes her head. “This is the enemy, Kin. I’ve been taught that my whole life.”

Kin scowls at her. He grabs her hand and puts it on Running Before Sun’s. They both start at the contact, but Kin holds their hands together. “We are family. Get used to it.”

Fess sets her jaw and turns to look Running Before Sun in the eye. She manages a shy smile. The Clay Person gently brushes her palm.

“His hand is warm. I thought it would be cold.”

Kin traces this into Running Before Sun’s hand. He traces back, and Kin laughs.

“He says that Clay-People only live in stone, they’re not made of it.” Fess chuckles too.

Kin huddles them all together. “Today we mourn so many. But we will not mourn the end of the Walkers, or the Clay-People, or Daruhn. I still believe in the city.”

“So do I,” says Fess.

“I believe in a Daruhn not of Clay-People and Walkers, but of Citizens. A city that embraces both Sun and Moon, a city above the sand and under. I believe it lies at the end of this tunnel.”

Running Before Sun nods.

“So let us mourn, but not too long. We have much to do.”

“For Daruhn,” says Fess.

“For Daruhn.”

Running Before Sun looks up to Fess. “Da…roon,” he whispers.

Three friends touch their foreheads in common mourning, all holding hands. Old Song watches from the darkness down the tunnel, but all the Clay-People can see her smile.

Thousands of paces behind Fess and Kin and Running Before Sun, the ground and tunnel ceiling have collapsed. One muscular, bloody form claws through sand and stone, trying to get to the wheezing voice sliding through.

“Can…can anyone hear me?”

“Storyteller, is that you?”

“Sebir?”

“Keep talking Storyteller, so I can hear where you are.”

“How did you survive? How did I?”

“We were all near death. Perhaps Storm though the job was done.”

“Kin said something about Storm attacking us because we went to war. Said Storm destroys war. Maybe…maybe once we started caring about our own survival, once we stopped fighting, it went away.”

“Perhaps, Storyteller.”

Sweaty, exhausted, Sebir finally pulls a battered Hahnd from the rubble with a weak grunt. No cloak for either one, and most of Hand’s decorative robes are now only tatters. Bloody, wrinkled skin shows through Hahnd’s tunic. He coughs the sand out of his lungs. Sebir collapses to the ground. His face and arms are covered with small slices from wind-blown obsidian shards. One eye is swollen nearly shut.

“Are we the last, Sebir?”

“I saw Kin and Fess run off with the Clay-People; maybe they escaped.” He feels to his side; his sword is still hanging. “I still have my sword. Fortunate.”

Hahnd nods, then his eyes widen. “The Storybook! Can you see it? Where is it?” Hahnd glances high and low. Sebir climbs the rubble back up to the surface. Dawn breaks over the duneridge. Feathers fly everywhere, but no bodies litter the ground. Storm took everyone. Then, Sebir spots a pillar of smoke—small, but apparent, not far away. Leaping to the surface, he runs over. The Storybook, struck by lighting. Storm incinerated all but the thick cover and buckles. The Hunter carries them back to Hahnd.

The old Storyteller begins to scream, but Sebir holds his mouth shut. “Be silent, Storyteller!” He looks down the tunnel. “Our enemy lies that way. We should keep following this tunnel.”

Hahnd shakes his head, collapsing to the ground. “What’s the point? You don’t even have anyone to protect. The Walkers are erased from time.” Here is a broken man. Tears run through his face’s leathery wrinkles. He breathes heavy—if only he could stop for a moment. If only he could rest. He is so very tired.

Sebir pulls the Storyteller to his unsteady feet. “Revenge. And if we’re lucky, we can stop whatever they plan to do. Maybe kill their chieftain.”

“I suppose revenge is what we have left. Not even time for mourning.” Hahnd sighs.

Sebir grasps Hahnd’s shoulder. “We will mourn our people with the blood of our enemy.”

The Hunter’s strength reinvigorates the chieftain. He has one fight left in him. Hahnd returns the grasp. “Somehow, Daruhn will be again. I still believe this. And I will not have Daruhn full of Moon-lovers and sympathizers.”

“For Daruhn, Storyteller.”

“For Daruhn.”

As the strange cloud grows larger on the horizon, many have begun to ask me about death with great anxiety. We don’t often think of it unless we are burying family, or a Hunter falls to a Jackal. But this darkness has stirred some old fear in us.

Fear not. Only skin’s journey ends at the last closing of eyes; the self stops no more than one Daruhn. In the recursive path, we find ourselves asking what gives us life, so we know what of us will travel on after we close our eyes for the last. When we came to Another Desert, even before our Daruhn, Storyteller Em would say life was the glint in the eye. When they closed, the stars took the shine and the departed watched from the sky. But many have died, and the stars’ numbers remain unchanged.

Em’s Master Hunter, Vel the Egret-Eyed, said life was in the blood and in the sand. When blood runs, it seeps into the sand, where it rests until taken up by other creatures or plants.

But I side with those who look for less touchable answers. After all, Daruhn has remained Daruhn no matter what her buildings looked like, or where she was. Something greater than things observable with the senses—such must life be.

So I put it to you, children, that life resides in purpose. What role you play in the Story of your generation defines your being. Having played the role, only the vessel perishes. The next generation will require that same role—embodied differently, but fulfilled almost identically. The fighting spirit that inhabited Vel will enter another Hunter, and another, and another. Only the form changes. The Hunter who was Vel will be some other Hunter, and yet the same.
Here we are at the high point of our age. Never have crafts been so finely executed; never have we experienced such plenty, such prosperity. And while we celebrate our achievements—and ought to—if the next change of winds brings disaster, the Citizens born then will have the same essence as those who lived through better times, for the purpose of people will remain unchanging.

The Clay-People are an eternal riddle. But even should this war bring the end of things, we remember our essence will return Tomorrow to Daruhn.

Child,

Smoothly as the Clay-People have been traveling the dark tunnels, so smoothly they pause. Kin realizes he’s motionless only when Running Before Sun breaks the hand-chain. Without the wet warmth of his friend’s hand, the darkness weighs down on Kin. The walls constrict around him, creeping closer each second.

His trembling arms reach for his friend. The glow sand on the walls provides only enough light to make out vague shadows. Running Before Sun seems to reach out to the tunnel ceiling. Kin tries to catch his hand, but Running Before Sun bats him away. Glancing up and down the dim-lit line, Kin sees many shadows reaching to the ceiling. “I suppose I should follow,” thinks Kin, pressing his palms to the top of the tunnel. The stone here feels different than the sides—coarser, grainier. A slight rumble runs down his arms into his spine, becoming an insuppressible chill, the kind of chill a touching song summons.

A hum cascades down the line of Clay-People, neighbor commencing neighbor until the entire tribe performs a multipart harmony to the tunnel ceiling. The tremble in the rock grows stronger, and bits of sediment fall on Kin’s forehead. Louder and louder the hum grows, louder and louder until the tunnel shakes violently. Kin covers his head, crouching down to the floor, but he feels a strong hand grab the back of his tunic and pull him up—up into cool, dry air.

Kin opens his eyes to Vel, Great Egret, and all the constellations. The tunnel’s moldy odor kept his breath shallow, but he now pants greedily. In the west, Kin finds no sign of Storm on the horizon. So far they’ve traveled, he can’t even see the black mountain. So far, and yet he feels no pangs of hunger. Kin laughs to himself. How long until he needs to savor another indigo flower?

The Clay-People step solemnly organize around Old Song, forming an intricate shape—an ellipse inside a circle, with groups of three Clay-People interspersed in the open spaces between. From above, the array appears as the trace for Moon. Kin looks up to the Moon, fully revealed—of course! The Clay-People have stopped to sing. Kin rushes over to the formation, but Running Before Sun breaks rank and intercepts him. He shakes his head.

Not now, brother.

Why?

You do not love Moon. Stay over there. Best not to watch.

But—

Running Before Sun breaks Kin’s grasp before he can finish, returning to the formation.

Scowling, Kin shuffles back to where he sat before, facing west. How can they call him brother, but turn him away? Anger overcomes curiosity as he turns his back on the Moon song. He covers his ears as they begin to sing.

The silence reminds Kin a moment of his old roots, that he is a Walker born. In such a bright moon, it would be a shame not to read. Yes, he hates the lies inside the thick binding he’s carried so long; nevertheless he longs to peer on the old traces again. He opens the Storybook to his favorite tale—the one Hahnd used to teach him to read: Hunter Bael’s raid against a Jackal pack. They howled to the moon and stars, oblivious to the Egret’s Claw approaching behind them. The Jackals perched on hard sandstone and could not feel the ground shake with the Hunter’s approach. Their call was so loud, the marching sounds faded out. The wind carried the Hunter’s scent away.

A pulse travels up Kin’s tailbone. Another. Another. He licks his finger and holds it up: the wind blows from the south, and the Hunters would attack from the west.

Looking up, he sees the feather wave break over the western dunes. He should have known the Hunters would attack on the full moon. The Walkers must have been close behind them in the tunnels, and when they heard the humming, punched their way to the surface.

Kin stands, taking his hands away from his ears. He hears the Moon song for the first time. The Clay-People call:

Amun,

vaijah voroh, voruhn

Amun,

vaijah vori, vorohn

Amun,

vaijah voroh, voruhn

Amun,

vaijah vori, vorohn

Amun,

Gatta bai so.

Kin grips the Storybook tight. Before Stories was the Walking Song; before Daruhn was the Walking Song; Yesterday—the Walking Song. The Pale Children, running away from home, still sang the songs of home.

The children have to remember.

First, Kin looks to the Clay-People, but they remain entranced by the song. Then to the Hunters, hoping for a friendly face. Even from a spear-throw’s distance, he recognizes the cloak of Hunter Sebir, and Fess beside him, wearing full Hunter’s colors. Fess will understand.

He runs towards her. “Fess! Fess! It’s Kin!”

Fess rises from the crouched approach. “Kin? You’re alive?” She beams underneath her headpiece.

As he approaches, Sebir signals for the Claw to halt. He bares his teeth to Kin. “Boy, get behind us! This is a strike.”

“Hunter Sebir, you can’t attack these people.”
“Monsters. They’re monsters. And yes we can.” A strong western wind blows through the Hunters’ feathers.

Kin turns to Fess. “They are our parents. We’re the same people. Or we were, long ago.”

Fess balks. “Impossible!”

“I read the Stories on their walls. It’s true.”

Sebir cackles. “You’ve been duped. They put those Stories up to confuse you.”

“So they decorated their entire dwelling with elaborate stories just to deceive me?” Kin raises an eyebrow. “They didn’t even know I was coming.”

Fess puts her hand on Kin’s shoulder. “Sebir is right to be cautious. They might have tricked you with their magic. We’ve seen its power.” The surrounding Hunters nod assent. “Storm was so powerful it even destroyed the mountain. We escaped into the tunnel just in time.”

“I’m glad nobody was hurt, but the Clay-People didn’t summon Storm. We did.”

“Boy, you’re mad.”

Kin holds up his hands. “Listen! Listen to what they’re singing; it proves what I say.”

Fess and Sebir unfasten their headpieces to clear the way for their ears. After a moment’s listening, Fess shakes her head. “I don’t believe it. They’ve stolen our song.” He eyes wince with betrayal, as though the Clay-People had stolen something from under her cloak.

“It’s their song. And ours. We are their children.”

“We look nothing alike,” says Sebir, refastening his headpiece.

“Long story, but here’s the important part; if you attack them, Storm will kill us all. Another Desert wants us dead. The Clay-People want peace.”

“Animals don’t know what peace is.”

“Fess, please help me here. You saw Running Before Sun. How helpless he was, how scared.”

“Running Before Sun?”

“That’s the name of the Clay-Person we found.”

“They have names?” chorus Fess and Sebir.

Kin nods. “They’re people. Our ancestors. And I think…I think they know the way to Daruhn.”

A wave of whispers reaches through the Hunter ranks. Soon after, the Claw is split by Hahnd, running up to meet Kin. The Storyteller takes the boy into his arms. Kin remains motionless, letting himself be hugged.

“We thought we’d lost you! Did they do anything to you? Are you hurt?”

“No Storyteller, but we cannot attack them. They’re our ancestors.”

“Lies. The Storybook says—”

“I know what the damn Storybook says!” Kin takes the strap from around his shoulders, and slams the book to the ground. He spits on it, feeling suddenly lightheaded. On the ground lies a life’s burden undone. Kin struggles to feel anchored without the thick strap around his shoulder. Sebir and Hahnd gasp at the blasphemy, and Sebir draws his sword.

“Kin, do you know what you’ve done?”

“I had to. We can’t have lies anymore.”

Hahnd shakes his head, his hands folded gravely in front of his chest. “You have forfeited your birthright. This book ties us together, makes us Walkers. The Stories guarantee each Walker a place in Daruhn. You will find no place with us there.”

How quickly this man, once the closest Kin had to a family, can look more alien than the Story-monsters. Kin looks back to the Clay-People. They have ceased their singing, and watch the Walkers, still and dark as obsidian, their great eyes glimmering in the full moon.

This, Kin thinks, must be how Trial feels: the emergence from childhood into ownership of your own steps. Following fewer than you lead, looking at the blank dunes rather than the footprints already made. His thoughts run to Storytellers past, and the control they wielded over the Walkers. Each message of hate a step closer to Storm, a step away from Daruhn. Kin will not follow this path. The Still were right: he is the Last Storyteller. Clenching his fists, grabbing the sand with his toes, he stares hard at Hahnd’s sunken eyes. “I would rather spend my life in Another Desert, always thirsty, than find Daruhn with you and fill it with lies.”

Hahnd steps away from Kin and Fess. He nods to Sebir, who pushes Kin to his knees and steps behind him. Kin feels the biting cold of Sebir’s blade on his neck, and the westerlies growing ever stronger.

Fess moves to Sebir. “You can’t be serious. He’s one of us.”

Sebir’s eyes do not move from his weapon. “He’s a traitor. Traitors die.”

“If you do this, Hunter Sebir, you kill us all. Storm will come.” Kin shuts his eyes tight, and waits.

Sebir pulls his sword back, ready to strike. Kin feels the air preceding the sword’s rush to his head, but no cut. Turning, he finds the sword only a hand’s length away, parried by Fess’s spear.

“This is wrong, Sebir.” Fess’s arms quiver against her teacher’s strength. “I can’t let you do this.”

Sebir seems ready to launch at Fess when a small voice wanders its way up from the Claw. “Kin?”

“Peet?”

“I’m glad you’re okay. Were you really with the Clay-People?”

Still on the ground, Kin nods. “They’re friendly, Peet. Not like the Stories.”

“Do they have plants?”

“They have these delicious indigo flowers. I only had one, but I walked all this way.”

“Do you think they’d let me try one?”

Kin smiles. “I’m sure they would. They were happy to share with me.”

Peet’s warm grin remains even as Sebir’s sword passes through his neck, spilling blood over his tunic.

Sebir growls. “Traitor.”

Kin cries out; the Clay People howl in the distance; the dripping blood turns black upon the sand, rising up in smoke and joining the dark clouds forming overhead.

The Claw breaks. Half rush to Peet’s body, half rush behind Sebir and Hahnd. Kin and Fess stay separate, no longer the focus of the tribe’s attention. They back away slowly from the growing anger. Fess keeps her spear ready, but lacks her usual steadiness. Fighting an enemy is one thing, Walkers…

Kin grabs Fess’s hand. “We have to go. Now.” They dash back towards the Clay-People, and the tunnels.

As they run, Kin shouts to Fess over Storm’s growing thunders. “Drop your spear!”

“Are you insane?” The wind tears Fess’s Egret cloak away.

“No weapons. They’re peaceful. No Hunters. Drop your spear!”

Scowling, Fess drops her new weapon to the ground. It slides instantly back towards the center of Storm, where the Walker fight on.

By the time they reach the Clay-People, they have already opened the tunnel, and pour inside several at a time. Before leaping, Running Before Sun grabs Kin’s hand. Kin reaches for Fess’s, but she looks back at the Walkers. A true fear comes across her face, stark in Storm’s lightning. She screams, but her voice means nothing in the vicious wind.

Black tendrils of air reach down to grab the children first. Storm’s arms pull them away from the core. They reach out for mothers and fathers, who leap to catch the children, but only fall into Storm’s grasp beside their charges. The Hunters throw their spears into the void. For each thrown spear, a lighting bolt strikes another Hunter into nothing—only ash remains, and blows into the air before it touches the sand. The Pathfinders sprint with all their strength, but Storm’s arms reach far, and rip them to pieces as they flail in the air. The Pickers—they know better. They close their eyes, lifting their arms to Storm. The clouds take them quickly, painlessly, as if in mercy for their submission. In moments, the air is thick with Egret feathers. Cloaked Walkers spin up to the sky, wailing in fear. The sand beneath Storm is wet and red, but no bodies touch the ground; Storm devours all.

Kin and Fess reach the Clay-People as they open the desert floor to the tunnels. They leap—the last of the Clay-People inside—as the sand reseals above them.

The Walkers’ screams echo up and down the tunnels.

Yia,

If you read this, then I have not returned from war. My heart is heavy for abandoning you for such a pointless mission. But as my Pathfinder and Hunter companions often say, “Ours is not to choose but to serve.” The Hunters needed a Picker to support the western scouting party. I have served.

But love, do not take solace in my service; I believe it to be vain. From where we camp, I can see Storm looming close on the Horizon. For all the Pathfinders’ speculations, all the Hunters’ boasts, the Clay-People are nowhere to be found.

Of all these soldiers, only I have a meaningful job day-to-day.

Berries are scarce here, but we have found some plants with succulent roots. Reeds sit on the high dunes, and I must be quick about picking them before the Pathfinders see me. They don’t understand why I want to “waste” reeds on paper, root juice on ink. Their ignorance makes me wonder if perhaps the guilds are a wise system. If all Citizens could read, would our people be always so disparate? I wonder. I wonder if Storyteller Ohn has considered this. And if so, why does he not take action?

The greatest lesson I’ve learned on my tour with this dispatch is that, beyond guild lines, we are quite similar. There is a young Pathfinder, Gel, who shares many of my reservations about this mission, and this war. He has a wife at home, and a baby girl. I wish he could see them again before Storm overruns us. I fear neither he nor I will make it home.

For what it’s worth, today is the first day I feel no sorrow for never having a child. Sun did not see fit to grant us that wish, and perhaps it was a blessing in disguise. I would not want my child to suffer in Storm as I know Daruhn will. The sky is full of hate, merciless hate. I’d rather take the brunt of that than have my own innocent suffer.

When Storm comes, do not try to run; the sky will blacken to every horizon. Do not be afraid, because it will come quickly. Climb to the top of the highest house you can find. Let the arms of wind and lightning pull you from Daruhn. I wish I could tell you what it feels like, but I don’t yet know. I know the sound, though: a raging howl, as if the world itself were in throes of agony.

The howling grows, and the Hunters say we must be off. They think Storm hides the Clay-People.

I don’t know how you could ever read this Yia, so I suppose this is more a prayer than a letter. I pray that Sun sees fit to spare you suffering, and that, when the swirling black comes for you, you will remember me, as I will remember you at the final moment.

Until the Stars, love.

Cair