Pools of Yarah Read online

  Hramack gazed across the canyon. A long, wooden suspension bridge spanned the canyon, providing access to the grain storehouses, the pens for the animals, the workshops, and his home, which also served as his father’s infirmary. A narrow path led along the cliff face to the small crevice from which the springs normally emerged. Now, the springs were dry. Where sparkling waters once tumbled into the pools below, dust blew. A broad, winding path led down to the bottom of the canyon, where the animals foraged on the wild plants growing there or ate the fodder provided to them. Stacked-stone walls kept the animals from the newly planted crops. It was the middle of the day, and the animals were in their pens protected from the sun’s full fury.

  Hramack looked up expectantly toward the cliff top and the path down which his father would come on his return, but saw no sign of his long-overdue father. He prayed Kena was all right. Fourteen days and nights was a long time to be alone in the Burning Lands, even for one as inured to the harsh landscape as Kena. His father could carry enough water for only six days, and the water caches that they had previously established held only enough for three or four days more. His father knew which plants held water hidden in their roots. Even so, two weeks was much too long a time to be gone. Many of the villagers made the Sign of the Bereaved as Hramack passed, believing Kena surely dead.

  The village could ill afford to lose its only Healer. Try as he might, Hramack did not have the knack for healing that his father possessed. True, he knew the herbs and ointments and how to find the plants that rendered them, but he did not have the gift of empathy that allowed his father to discern the source of his patient’s ailments or to ease their troubled minds. Perhaps it was because he had never felt pain. Not knowing pain, he was unable to cure it. The only pain he had ever faced was the loss of his mother, a pain of the heart and mind, not of the body. Kena was indispensable to the village; Hramack knew he was not. He sighed, realizing that he had made his decision.

  Later, when the sun had set, he would venture into the Burning

  Lands in search of his father. He knew what areas his father frequented to forage for pei and leche root. He would try there first. If, as Kaffa believed, Kena had left to search for the ruined city, Hramack might never find him. His father worked only from small clues, which he had gleaned over the years. The Burning Lands presented a vast area to search, a seemingly impossible task. He drove that negative thought from his mind.

  Thoughts create reality. Kena was alive. Hramack knew it. He did not know how he knew this thing, but the bond between father and son was very strong. He often knew Kena’s words before he spoke them, or knew where in the village Kena was, though he had not seen him go there. Such bonds were a gift from Yarah, Kaffa had said. It meant father and son were destined for great things together. Hramack was not as certain, not if greatness meant popularity.

  His mother had died ten years earlier when she had fallen from the wooden bridge spanning the canyon during a sudden summer sandstorm, a haboob. Though custom dictated that Kena remarry, he had chosen not to. Hramack held his father in high esteem but never more than when he had chosen to honor the memory of Allana, his deceased wife, over custom. This action had turned many of the people against Kena, especially Chu Li, whose daughter Megan would have been Kena’s new bride. Chu Li, the High Priest of Yarah, now spoke out openly against Kena and his attempts to find the ruined city, calling it a blasphemy against Yarah. Most villagers ignored the High Priest because Kena was necessary to the welfare of the village. More to the point, they did not want a return to the old, harsh religious laws that Chu Li advocated.

  Now, with Kena’s prolonged absence and the springs so late in their return, many were beginning to heed the High Priest’s words more closely. They felt abandoned by both their Healer and by their God. A return to the old ways seemed a likely solution to those seeking Yarah’s approval.

  Hramack knew he must go in search of his father. Though many of the villagers his own age would gladly accompany him, it would only draw down upon them the wrath of the Council. He would go alone. It would be better to expose only himself to the risks of the Burning Lands. He would carry only enough water for three days. The village could spare no more. He too knew how to find the water root plants if necessary. He would leave that night after dark, when the moon had risen above the canyon rim, telling no one lest they attempt to stop him. Inept as he was, he was the only other Healer the village had, and they would challenge his leaving. He could not even tell Teela, for she would insist on going with him, and he would not risk her safety.

  Teela! Hramack’s heart skipped a beat when he thought of her. Teela’s parents had been lost in a great sandstorm when she was a little girl, leaving Kaffa, her maternal grandfather, to raise her. Hramack’s parents had arranged his marriage to Teela in early childhood. Unlike many such arranged marriages, both he and Teela were delighted at the prospect. To Hramack’s young, lovesick eyes, she was the most beautiful girl in the village. However, she did not let her beauty overshadow her exuberant personality or hide her intelligence. Her nimble mind grasped things he could not fathom, and her selfless devotion to the village amazed him. She saw things in him he found difficult to believe. Her faith in him frightened him sometimes. She had once confided to him that she sensed greatness in him, like her grandfather. He sensed only a gnawing fear in the pit of his stomach.

  He feared the Burning Lands, even with his father beside him. They were wild and relentless, hungry, like the creatures that stalked their sun-parched sands. Death waited patiently for the slightest misstep, a moment of weakness. To go alone into the desert … He chilled at the very thought, but he feared worse to admit his fear to Teela. Perhaps, he mused, facing fear is one of the rights of passage into adulthood. There seemed to be too many such rites to keep track of. It sometimes became confusing. He wished Kena were there now to talk to when he needed him most.

  As night settled upon the village, and the oppressive heat of the day released its death grip on the land, the people began to stir. Hramack gathered his small bundle of food and water, his staff, and his hunting knife, and set out for the Burning Lands. He remembered one of his father’s maps and tucked it safely in his pack. Many paths were dangerous, and Kena had charted most of them. He walked quietly up the path towards the canyon rim, stealthily bypassing the motion detectors placed on the path to warn of the approach of any large predatory beasts. He paused for a short while to look back out over the canyon and the comforting glow of the lights in the houses below. He felt a brief pang of anguish for leaving them with no Healer, but he had to find his father. Time was running out.

  Readjusting his pack, he tried to summon the courage to continue. He had never before gone into the Burning Lands alone, and in spite of his youthful blustering, he was afraid. Unlike his father, he saw no beauty in the Burning Lands, only the many dangers that lurked there. Before, Kena always had been there with his trusty bow and keen eye. Now, he would be alone. His survival would rely on his limited skills and his decisions. He swallowed his fears, reached down to touch the hunting knife in his belt reassuringly, and started forward. He wished he had a bow, but sadly, the skill of its use, like Healing, still eluded him. It would have been useless weight for the journey.

  He had taken no more than a dozen steps when a rustling of something large in the brush nearby startled him. He quietly pulled his knife from his belt and laid his staff on the ground at his feet. Trembling with fear, he braced himself for an attack. Puma were a constant threat to the flocks. Even the larger nightstalkers sometimes haunted the canyon rim hoping for a stray animal. They were the deadliest of creatures. He prayed no nightstalker was stalking him.

  To his relief, the branches of the mesquite thicket parted, and Teela stepped suddenly from the brush. She stood staring at him, hands on her hips. “Boo!” she shouted, laughing laughed when she saw his knife out and ready. Then she noticed his startled expression and asked, “Did I scare you?” “It’s not funny,” he stammered.
“You could have been hurt.” Hramack replaced his knife and picked up his staff. “What are you doing here, anyway?” He tried to sound angry but was secretly pleased to see her.

  “Why, following you, stupid. Did you think you could leave without me? I know you’re worried about your father. I figured you would go after him.” She walked back into the brush and re-emerged carrying a large water skin and a bundle of food. She held them up for his inspection. “See. I came prepared. I notice you carry very little. Will you drink sand and eat lizard meat?” Then, more seriously, she pleaded, “Please let me go with you, Hramack. I can walk as fast as you can, and I, too, am worried about Kena. I don’t want you to go alone into those accursed lands. Don’t leave me here to weep if you don’t return.”

  Hramack knew at that moment, more than at any other time, that he truly loved Teela. She feared for his life, was willing to share the danger with him, and he treasured her concern for him. He swept her into his arms and kissed her long and hard on her soft lips. She melted into his embrace, became a part of him. Holding her, his fears evaporated. Her long brown hair still bore traces of the scent of the jojoba shampoo she used to wash it, though it had been many days since she had done so. He inhaled her sweet scent hungrily, knowing it would be quite some time before he would see her again.

  They embraced for thirty heartbeats before Hramack reluctantly broke away. He held her soft hands in his and stared into her eyes. Her pupils, enlarged by the darkness, were twin, deep voids into which he tumbled. Unable to distinguish the color of her eyes in the dark, his memory provided their bright sky blue color for him, searing them into his brain so that he would not forget.

  “I love you very much, Teela, but you cannot go with me. The way is dangerous, and I risk the wrath of the Council by leaving. If you go, your grandfather will be in a bad position as Village Precept and member of the Council. Chu Li will use it as an excuse to excommunicate my father and me, maybe even you. If I can return with my father, he can do nothing but grumble.”

  A voice came out of the darkness in answer. “You are very wise for one so young, Hramack, and I thank you for your concern for my granddaughter’s safety, as well as for my position.”

  Hramack recognized the voice of Kaffa before the old man stepped out into the moonlight. He moved assuredly in spite of his age, gliding across the crusted earth with hardly a sound. His white hair and beard glowed in the moon’s pallid light, reinforcing his aura of authority. He carried his staff in one hand and a small leather pouch in the other. He softly admonished his granddaughter.

  “Teela, Hramack is right. You must return with me. It is far too dangerous out there for you. Hramack cannot watch your back and his own. This task falls to him alone.” Seeing Hramack’s small pack, he added, “Carry both water skins and all the food. You will need them.” Hramack began a protest, but Kaffa stopped him with the wave of his staff. “We have saved this water for you over the past few days. Teela was certain you would attempt this journey eventually.” He glanced at his granddaughter and winked. “Teela knows you better than you think, my son. You will need this also.” He handed Hramack the pouch. “If your father has truly gone in search of the ruined city, this map will help. Here, also, is a compass in case the sands blow and you cannot see the stars.”

  Hramack gratefully accepted the gift of the compass. He opened the pouch, removed the compass in its carved ebony case inlaid with bits of turquoise, and watched the silver needle slowly spin, and then return to point to true north. His own crude homemade device resembled a child’s toy in comparison to the fine craftsmanship of the centuries-old navigation tool. He placed it back into the pouch and tied it to his belt.

  “I thank you, Kaffa, both for your gifts and for your discretion. I’m afraid I didn’t plan my secret sojourn as well as you have planned it for me.” He stood silent for a moment trying to curb the emotion in his voice. “I will return with my father. This I pledge to Yarah.” He kissed the tips of his pointer and index fingers and placed them to his forehead as a sign of his pledge.

  He turned to Teela, who had begun to sob quietly. “Don’t weep, Teela. If I haven’t returned in seven days, then you can sing the Song of Bereavement.” He smiled to show her that he was jesting. “I will return to you. This, too, I pledge.”

  She wiped her tears and forced a half-smile to her lips. He picked up the extra water skin and food and walked straight into the night, resisting the urge to turn and look back at her, knowing that the sight of her receding would slow his steps. In the silence, Hramack could hear the Teela and her grandfather’s footsteps as they picked their way down the rocky path to the village below. He sighed and marched boldly and alone into the Burning Lands.

  2

  The Burning Lands

  Like a fiery Sword of Damocles, the glaring yellow sun dangled high above the Burning Lands, taunting the tormented earth with its awesome power to deliver death and destruction. Its fierce heat had long ago stripped the land until only parched sand and hard-baked earth remained. Kena lifted his arm to shield his eyes from the burning glare, his eyeshades and hat long lost somewhere behind him. The skin of his forehead and his cheeks was blistered and peeling, burning as if from the sting of a scorpion. The distant horizon ebbed and flowed like the long-vanished ocean’s waves, mocking him with its promise of liquid relief. However, there was no respite from the ever-present wrath of the sun.

  As a Healer, Kena knew he was slowly succumbing to heat exhaustion. With every fiber of his being, he could feel the symptoms he knew all too well – extreme thirst, weakness, fatigue, anxiety, and the tingling of the limbs. His poor judgment had spurred him to press on when he should have rested until sunset, and now he was stumbling and falling more often, a sure sign of incoordination. If he checked his blood, he was sure he would find a high concentration of nitrogen wastes as his kidneys began to shut down. Add to that mixture a nagging thirst, his gnawing hunger, and physical exhaustion, and he knew he would make a very bad patient with a poor probability of recovery.

  Next came psychosis, if indeed it was not now already upon him. The whispering would not leave him be. The relentless power of the blazing sun above him had wrung all traces of life-giving moisture from his body. He tried to lick his parched, swollen lips but felt only searing pain as his dry tongue rasped across the blisters clustered there. The heat-shimmering landscape danced endless and unmerciful before him, his path blurred by tearless eyes, leaving him stumbling onward.

  Heedless of the agony each slow step produced, ignorant of the damage he was inflicting on his ravaged body, a single thought drove Kena – to reach Ningcha. His overwhelming fatigue scoured all other thoughts from his mind. He attempted to focus on this one last task with the blind determination he once thought his greatest asset. His resolve had served him well in the past. He had survived shorter encounters with the Burning Lands. At each of those times, he had also thought each moment would be his last, but he had made it home.

  He had survived the death of Allana, his wife. Surely, the pain that had consumed him then paled to this mere physical agony where only muscle, bone, flesh, and sinew were involved. The agony that had struck him then, at her death, had threatened his soul as well as his mind. Only the infinite love and care of his son had enabled his survival. He had come to terms with the will of Yarah then, though he professed no great understanding of His ways. Yarah had not forsaken him during those times. He would not forsake him now.

  Kena moved his body forward one small step at a time.

  “Hramack!” he cried hoarsely into the empty wastes, though the effort caused his punished lips to crack and bleed. He willed his voice to carry the many leagues to Ningcha, to his son. His water long gone, he longed for one single drop of moisture with which to wet his parched lips. Only by sucking out the precious moisture hoarded in the roots of scarce water root plants had he survived this long. Now, he could find no more of those remarkable desert plants. Even his vast store of desert knowledge was of
no use. The grilling orb of searing gases overhead that had ultimately given life to this very desert was slowly draining the last of his strength and killing him. The muscles in his legs protested with each awkward step, and his head ached with each fragmented thought. His breath came in ragged gasps that brought pains to his chest.

  He must get back to Ningcha and Hramack. He must.

  Summoning what strength and will remained in his parched and broken body, Kena plodded forward, step by grueling step. His tall frame bowed by his effort, he clung to his bow as if it alone could bring him home. By his fevered reckoning, he was still three days’ march from the village, but he would never make it in the full heat of the sun. It was doubtful he could have made it even in the relative coolness of night in his drained and battered condition. His feet were raw and bleeding, blistered by the hot sand filling his boots, and his lungs were full of fine particles of burning alkali dust, making each breath a battle.

  For all he knew, his body had absorbed more radiation than he could possibly survive. It had been many years since a large solar flare had illuminated the skies of the desert southwest in a display of the aurora borealis. By his measurements, as crude as they were, the solar radiation levels had been steadily declining for many years, but that did not mean it was safe for prolonged exposure.

  “Foolish to worry about radiation now,” he laughed. “I have a host of choices in dying.”

  He doubted that Chu Li would regret his failure to return. As if opposite poles of a magnet, the two men, Healer and High Priest, were markedly different in manner and deed. Reconciliation seemed impossible. The enmity between the two had divided the small village at a time when unity was essential. The Pools of Yarah were empty. His people could no longer survive on their meager supply of hoarded water. Chu Li, as High Priest, dutifully prayed to Yarah, and the people wailed out their fears and concerns, but Kena knew the water would not return unless someone ventured north to locate the source of the water. He had found information that could help. If only he could get back with his find.