“How many times do we have to tell you?!” The Village of the Web Weaver is quiet, except for the voice of one woman. The children don’t dare meet her eyes. They stare at the ground, ignoring the porridge spilled in the sand, the bread they stomped flat. “Stop wasting food!”

Uli glares from the front of the group. The adobe homes and the slope of the cliff rise behind her, glowing orange from the sun. Her white tunic hangs just above the knees, and the tan pants she wears sway around her ankles in the wind. They glow in the sunlight, along with her bright teeth.

She’s shorter than most, but so many things about her seem to stretch and loom. Her immense braids gather in a bun atop of her head, large as a watermelon. Her wide mouth, painted pink and pouting, can communicate with twists and tiny movements entire sentences. Right now, their corners are pointed straight down: a frown set so deep in her face she looks like a whole different person.

Her fingers are long and strong. The children say they stretch, that she can catch someone with a slap from across a table, or another room. Her hands sit on Malkia and Uvumi’s shoulders, squeezing so hard even Malkia looks uncomfortable. Uvumi’s hand keeps rising, as if to snatch that grasp away. Uli pinches their nerves again, and they both flinch.

“All this, gone to the hungry sand! What will we do when we run out?” Her words are shouted to the group, but it’s the young women right in front of her that get the glare.

“But we… have food?” Someone mutters, too loud. When Uli’s eyes swing that way, a forest of fingers points out a cringing boy. “We’ve got supplies…” He tries to explain.

“Shut up, boy! In a month, you’ll be crying for porridge and bread.”

“Mama…” Uvumi tries to shrug from under the hand and fails. “We can hunt,” She says.

“Hunt?” Uli’s mouth opens in shock so dramatic, anyone that saw it would think, ‘I’ve never been that surprised in my life.’ She shakes her head, then she presses her lips together and nods. “Hunt… you’d like that wouldn’t you? While we run out of grain. When you return, what will we have? Roast lizard? Snake soup? Ant, broiled in the shell?”

Uli steps away from Uvumi and Malkia, shaking her head while she watches them sigh in relief. When she glances over the rest, they look away, shifting their feet, rubbing the backs of their necks. There’s a boy twiddling his thumbs, a girl picking her nose, a tall teen standing with her arms crossed.

The whole village pauses, waiting for the sentence to drop. What will it be this time? She sees it in their eyes. Uli’s yelling again. Again. They have the nerve to look exasperated with her. Under the fake shame, the masks of guilt, she sees defiance. These fuck ups…

“I’ve had enough of you hunters,” Uli says. “I try to make this village run, but I can only do so much. You’re satisfied eating lean meat, drinking blood, walking around with nappy hair and worn clothes? Alright, then go. You want to play fight in the sand? Head for the desert and don’t come back.”

“Mama-” Uli tries to say.

“Hush! You children are useless!” Many of the older hunters straighten their backs at that. They wear their own glares, their own frowns now. “You’re disappointments!” Uli stops and takes a second to breathe, muttering to herself.

The older hunters share looks. Children? Them? They wander the deadly sands and kill things with horns and spikes, with tough scales and harsh venoms. They keep the village running, bringing back the food everyone else needs. Just a dozen of them feeds a village of almost ninety. Uli complains because she’s tired of what they bring?

“Why doesn’t she go hunt then?” Changa whispers. Other whispers fill the air, soft as drifting sand.

“Quiet.” Hakim says.

“No! That’s not fair! We work hard.”

“I almost died from snake bite yesterday, but I’m useless?”

“She watches the children. Anyone can do that.”

“It’s nothing to do with us if the traders don’t come, if the ground stays dry.”

“Right. How is that our fault?”

“Let her finish.” Aska says.

Uli glances at the group of hunters. She looks ready to drag them down to the sand and beat them. Uvumi and Malkia glance over their shoulders. Uvumi’s hand is in her pants pocket, where she keeps her switchblade. That’s her mother they’re talking about.

“Oi…” Malkia’s the one that breaks the tension, the silence. And that’s all she says. She doesn’t even turn her body, but her hand finds the hilt of the pale, wooden blade, where it’s stabbed into the sand at her feet. She stares and doesn’t blink.

One-by-one, the hunters look away. Aska, standing so much higher than the rest, shakes his head.

“Uli, we’re sorry,” He says.

“Aren’t you always? You…” Uli replies. She snaps her fingers, trying to find the words to say. “Make this right. Bring us something else to eat.”

“What do you want us to bring?”

“I don’t know! Dig yams. Catch some mudfish. Onions. Shroud berries. Hokhum bark. You know how to find food. You just choose not to!”

“Fish is alright?” Uvumi asks. Uli just blinks.

“…Okay…” Uli scoops the air with her hands. “Younglings, clean this shit up. Dump it in the compost pit. You lot!” She points at the hunters. “We’ve enough dried meat for months. No more hunting.” She waves at the sea of sand behind them, and they turn to look at it.

The land rises to the east, where shrubs grow in shades of brown and yellow and green, leading up to Mt. Makali and the Shanga Mountains. The sun burns bright over them. Everywhere else, the deep orange sand dunes stretch as far as the eye can see. Massive rocks rise in the distance, casting seep shadows. Vultures can be seen soaring far, far away.

“Find me some vegetables. Enough for everyone.” Uli says. A groan leaves the children, dragged out of them as if their souls are escaping their bodies. “And water, while you’re at it. Now go. Don’t come back unless you’ve got what I ask for.” Uli turns on her heels and stalks back into a house.

“Mama, how are we to gather so much? To reach the forest, we’d have to run for a week straight…” Uvumi hurries after her. She slips into the cool air and shade, watching her mother kick bedrolls aside on her way through the cluttered room.

“I don’t care how. In the forest, savannah, or endless sands- there’s something you can bring back. Even the young ones chew dandelion from the cracks in rocks. Even they know what to look for.” She waves Uvumi away before picking up a stack of clay bowls big enough she has to wrap her arms around them. She lifts them, grunting, then turns for the door.

Malkia stands there, blocking the sun. She steps aside and watches Uli leave. The woman walks all the way to foot of the totem and begins spreading the bowls around.

“Stop carrying the mess in your hands. Drop it all in these bowls.” She tells the young ones.

“Mama!” Uvumi calls. “How much do you want us to bring?”

“Hunters!” Uli calls, ignoring Uvumi. Around them, the younger children are digging in the sand for bits of food. Half the hunters are marching towards the dunes. “Where are you going without bags? Without baskets or gourds? Get your asses in there and prepare like you know what you’re doing. Hurry up! I don’t want to see your faces again until you’ve done what I told you.”

“Malkia!” Uli says. “Uvumi! Come here.” The young women go to her, stepping around children. Malkia rests her curved sword on her shoulder. Uvumi seems to have pulled her rifle from thin air. She plants the stock in the sand and leans on the long gun. The barrel presses against her cheek and she fiddles with the bolt, sighing heavily.

It feels like they have a long day ahead of them. A day of dry heat and hard work.

“Girls.” Uli says. “Why don’t you listen to me?”

“Mama, we do…”

“Do you? Every day, you hunters get wilder, fighting daily, causing problems, doing things we never would have done. Except maybe your father,” Uli says, eyeing Malkia. Malkia tries not to smile. “You think that’s funny?”

“Sorry, Uli.”

“You’re impossible to control. Half the hunters will try to come back without anything at all. Then we’ll have another fight.” Uli points to herself. “I’m the bad guy.” She points to Malkia. “But you started this. They followed you.”

“Uli, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you to be sorry. You shouldn’t have to be. I raised you girls with more sense than this. Out of all of them, I expect better from you. And I know you start most of the shit they get into.” Uli looks to the sky, searching for words among the scattered clouds.

“I need help.” She finally says. “Take responsibility, both of you. Be leaders. I know you like to have your fun, but someone needs to keep them out of trouble. To keep this village going. The truth is…” Uli grabs them by the shoulders and brings them close. They let their weapons fall to the sand and lean into the hug, bending down to look Uli in the eye.

“The war is over,” She says. “But they still haven’t come back. They might not come back at all.”

“That’s not true.” Malkia says, and Uli squeezes her shoulder hard.

“We don’t know what will happen. We can’t keep waiting for them. Do you think the village can survive the way it is now?” Uvumi and Malkia shake their heads. “Then something needs to change. Malkia, please. You’re the oldest. You and Uvi are like sisters. She looks up to you- they all do.”

Stolen novel; please report.

“Eh?” Uvumi says.

“It’s been a hard couple years, and we’ve gone through a lot. But you can’t play around forever. Go out there and do what you need to, okay?” The corners of Uli’s eyes are lined with wrinkles that weren’t there not long ago. Her hazel irises light up when the sun hits them. They glisten, as if there are tears there. Malkia and Uvumi share a look.

“Yes, Ma’am…”

“Yes, Mama…”

***

They race under the burning sun. Sand clouds the air behind them, following in long trails. Malkia takes the lead. Her heavy steps take her over the crest of a dune, and for a breathless moment, she’s weightless. Her heavy pack, conical hat, baggy pants, loose shirt and wild hair float to the sky. Her legs kick, running on nothing, until gravity pulls her back down.

She hits the ground moving. The others follow, keeping clear of the choking sand she raises with each step. They spread out, like a flock of flying birds. They make the same jump she did, stick the same landing and chase after her.

After the last dune they crossed, the ground begins to rise again, and keeps rising, like an orange wave about to crash on their heads. The first Corpse Stone of the Grave Sands sits at the top of the great dune. The rock, shaped like the clawing hand of a giant, big enough to crush their whole village, sits buried to the wrist. A hole lies halfway up the rock, like the gap between thumb and fingers. This is what they race towards: The Grasping Bluff.

They dig in their toes as the slope grows steeper. They start to use their hands, trying to keep the speed, halfway running, halfway climbing.

Close to the top, in the shadow of the bluff, Malkia slips. The sand beneath her crumbles and she scrambles at nothing. She falls, crashes into the dune, bounces and tumbles out of sight in a cloud of dust.

Shuja takes lead from her. Hands on the straps of his pack, his legs blur, running over sand like running up a wall, until he reaches the bluff and leaps. He latches onto rocky handholds and starts his climb. The others jump on the rock behind him, sinking fingers into cracks and crevices, their movements synchronized.

Malkia lays on her back, on her pack, ignoring the discomfort. The sun is blinding. She blinks in the light and lays there, until Uvumi’s shadow covers her.

“Move,” Malkia says.

“What are you doing?”

“… Minding my business, little sister.” Uvumi kicks Malkia’s shin. “Ow!”

“Get up. At least lose with dignity.” Uvumi holds out a hand and Malkia takes it, and gets hauled to her feet. Malkia dusts herself off, shaking her hair out, sand falling off in waves.

“Come on little sister.” Malkia says. She takes the slope slowly, struggling without the momentum on her side. She unties the wooden blade from her back, driving it deep into the sand for leverage. When she looks up, a wall of orange sand stretches forever. Malkia blinks the grit out of her eyes and starts her climb.

“Malkia!” Uvumi says. “We’re the same age.” It’s true. Their birthdays are only months apart.

“I know? Hurry up, little sister. You’re too slow.”

On they go, slowly pulling themselves upslope. They climb and hope the sand doesn’t break beneath them. When at last they reach the bluff and find stone under their fingers, Malkia struggles to slip the sword onto her back again. Uvumi passes by, sheathing two heavy knives and very carefully ignoring Malkia’s fumbling.

Changa is waiting at the edge of the cave. He sits on the ridge, watching them climb. He laughs when they get close.

“Haha! You need wings next time, Malkia? Uvumi, you gotta leave the nest! Can’t keep following Malkia ar-” He stops when Uvumi slaps a hand on his leg and starts pulling. “Oi! Yat! Stop!” He kicks his leg to shake her off. “Oi… stop! StopstopstAaaaaah!” He slides off the edge with a scream. His fall is cut short when he catches the rock a dozen meters below, swinging on one hand, breathing hard.

Malkia and Uvumi climb over the edge, stepping into the dark and dusty interior of The Grasping Bluff. The walls and ceiling curve like palm and fingers, cupping the floor, which full of sand like an orange pool. The sun shines through the tiny gaps above, leaving bands of light on the walls and the ground.

A pair of wicker chairs sit against the back. Shuja is in one, with his feet up on the other. He lights a cigarette, and the tip glows bright in the shadows. He exhales a mouthful of smoke.

Thin rugs lay on the sand in the middle of the floor, and Aska sits there, legs crossed, leaning back with his hands on the ground. He stares past Malkia and Uvumi, looking concerned, but he says nothing.

Hammocks hang where steel hooks were driven into the walls. Jildun lays in one, tossing a ball all the way to the ceiling, catching it when it falls back down. He glances their way with his eyebrow raised.

“Took you long enough.” Jildun says.

“Uvumi, come here.” Changa adds. He finishes dusting his hands off and gestures to her. “I have something to tell you.”

“I’m good.” She slides farther into the room. Everyone eyes Changa. He’s nodding at her back. Nodding and nodding and nodding- it’s what he does when he plans revenge.

“Where…” Aska glances around. Once, twice, three times he looks at all the faces in the room. Jildun catches his ball and waves at Aska.

“Hey.” He says.

“Where is everybody?” Aska keeps looking around.

“This is everybody…” Uvumi says.

“Hakim?”

“He left.”

“Left? What about Zoeza? Shambu? Uchawi?!”

“They left!” Uvumi says. “I think Hakim asked if he could just gather enough himself. Uli agreed to let us back one-by-one, as long as we get the food we need.”

“So they deserted us…” Shuja says. “Traitors.”

“Wha-!” Aska looks appalled. “It was Hakim’s idea we race to the bluff in the first place! Where did he go?”

“A trick to distract us.” Malkia tells him. She stands by the entrance, blue sky shining behind her. “We don’t need ‘em.”

“Tch… I’m trapped with the idiots. Why did I stay?” Aska wonders, shaking his head at his own foolishness, he wears a sad smile. “I… I’ve gotta-”

“Nope!” Changa latches onto Aska’s arm when he starts to get up. Jildun is out of his hammock and pulling down on the other one. Slowly, Aska sinks back to the ground. Uvumi rests her hands on his shoulders and arches her back in a luxurious stretch.

“Siddown big boy. We’re in this ship to the end.” She says.

“Uvumi, what’s a ship look like?” Changa asks.

“What?”

“I wanna make sure you understand ships before you talk about them. Can’t have my friend looking stupid.

“Shut up! Think I’m dumb? Everybody knows what a boat is.”

“A boat is not a ship. And that doesn’t tell me what it looks like.”

“Stop talking shit and listen.” Malkia says. “Yat! Aska, sit back down! We need to think…” The others look at her, and she points at the desert outside. “We hunt. We don’t forage, not really. I keep thinking of what I’d eat to survive if lost in the sands, but a couple fruit and herbs and flowers isn’t enough to feed the village. I have an idea though. Let’s think about what we do know. This is our desert.”

“The desert is no one’s.” Aska says.

“…We know this place and the creatures in it. So what creature do we know needs a lot of plants to live?” Malkia watches them think. She waits, but gets impatient, watching them say nothing. Right as she’s about to throw out her own suggestion, Jildun starts muttering to himself.

“What is it?” She asks.

“Well… I was just thinking, skull worms eat a ton of bright moss. There’s a whole lot of them in a cave about… an hour to the north?”

“Can we eat it?”

“It’s safe?” Jildun taps the leather ball to his pursed lips, thinking. “The worms are poisonous, and crawl over everything, so we’d need to rinse it well. I mean, it even makes good medicine boiled-”

“Too much work.” Malkia says. “And we’ve got no gloves or anything good for carrying poisoned moss. What else?”

“Locust lemurs get down on some plants.” Aska says.

“Ah- I know what you’re talking about. That nest settled weeks ago.” Shuja shakes his head. “You know how they are. They’re long gone by now, man. All we’ll find is lemur shit and dried fluids, if you know what I mean?”

“Haha!” Changa laughs. “Feasts and orgies. Now that’s a way to live.”

Uvumi gives him a disgusted look.

“Inbreeding and cannibalism?”

“Not so much…”

“Aye,” Shuja says. “They’ve got more tumors than fur.”

“Blunt-bleak rocs fly over the Blasted Badlands.” Malkia says. “They barely mate without Tikiti trees to mark. So there’s gotta be a grove somewhere out there.”

“Tikiti trees?” Aska looks at her.

“Leaves, fruit, roots. Bark boiled in soup. We can eat the whole tree.”

“It’s a tough walk through the badlands.”

“I know. Just an option.”

“Uh…” Changa starts, then looks at the ceiling. “Hm… flat-bloom grows in Manjano fly shit. I hear it tastes good.”

“And I’m not bringing Uli something we pulled out of shit.” Jildun says.

“I won’t tell.” Changa says.

“She’ll know without being told.” Uvumi lays back on a rug and kicks her legs in the air. “I wish she gave us hints.”

“There’s always the southern forest.” Shuja says.

“I’m not going there.” Jildun says.

“Death trap.” Aska adds.

“Track Hakim and we’ll find something.” Shuja punches his fists together and smiles. “Take what he finds.”

“Enough for all of us?”

“We can do it again and again!”

“Pfft!”

“Hakim’s probably headed to the forest anyway. You know he loves it. He’ll come back with a mountain of plants.” Malkia says. “Let him make the trip. I’d rather find something closer.”

“Come on, Malkia.” Changa says. “The sands are endless, and no oasis is easy to find. We aren’t farmers. Yat! We should be heading west to catch some sand runners by now. Yams? Fuck yams!”

“No. Uli is right.” Malkia finally moves deeper into the rocky room. “We can do more than that. Hunting sand runners is easy. That what you want? An easy hunt?”

“I wanna do my job.”

“And we need plants. When we’re out and about, we forage. We pick berries we want to eat when we find them. We grab the fruit we see, but bring nothing back. That’s not right. Do you want the young ones getting sick, eating meat all day? Can they suck on your nipple for milk when their bones get weak?”

“What?! They’re fine!”

“It’s about more than the food. Who are we?!” Malkia shouts. Her voice carries echoes that make the heart speed up, that raise goosebumps. The others sit up straighter. They look to her, and her conical, grass hat. It covers her face when she looks at the ground. No one answers, and they don’t move. When Malkia looks up again, her eyes are intense.

“We are the people of the Web Weaver. We celebrate the creator, and these sands that test us. Hunting. Fighting. Crafting. The weaving of stories. The besting of fate. This is who we are. Did you forget that? We’re stagnant. When was the last time you saw something really impressive in our village? The last great story?”

Malkia takes the wooden sword in her hand and shows it to them. She holds it right under the bar of light falling from the ceiling. It seems to glow. They all lean closer. As they watch, those carved spiders begin to move.

“You know what this means.” Malkia offers the blade to them, but Aska blocks Changa and Shuja from reaching for it.

“Malkia, you shouldn’t have brought that.” Aska says.

“I know our parents used to tell stories about hunting sand runners. Tough as a mountain and fast as a sandstorm. To get through the thick skin, survive its hard-headed charges and trampling legs, chase it if it runs, then finally bring it down. One of the great tests of an archer. I remember when we were younger, a hunter showed off a skull as a trophy. He made a bowl of it. Made clothes of its skin. Made tools of its bones.

I remember… the look on his face. It was Kuajir. He knew what he was worth. He proved he was good, he was strong. They poured stew in his new bowl and he took that first bite with a smile. Papa clapped him on the back. We chanted his name, and he told the story of the hunt while he ate the same creature that nearly took his life. I remember that. I had chills. I dreamed that hunt, as if I was him, as if I was there.

And a few months ago, Changa came into the village, with broken ribs and torn skin. You came back, dragging a half-eaten sand runner by the tail. Your story? You ran it down, Changa. Lost a spear to a fissure in the Badlands and kept to the chase. You followed until it was so tired it collapsed, then you came behind it and broke its neck with your bare hands.”

“Malkia, what’s this got to do-” Aska tries to say.

“It’s important.” Malkia cuts him off. “This is… something we’ve ignored for too long. Before we left, Uli asked if we think the village would survive, and I couldn’t say yes. I couldn’t say what our chances are.

Uli worries for us, because she sees how we act, and it’s not the way our parents were. She thinks we’re growing rebellious without them looking over us. I mean, we’re all taller and stronger. We still look like our parents. She doesn’t know how deep the changes go.”

Malkia takes her finger and runs it along the edge of the blade. A line of blood wells up, drawn by wood as sharp as metal.

“Artefacts. Power. Strangeness spreading all around us. Magic made from nothing. We run up great dunes as if we have wings. We do inhuman things. Don’t pretend you don’t know what that means. But who are we?”

“Aberration…” Shuja says. And everyone lowers their eyes, lost in their own thoughts. Mutants and monsters. Caught in the ancient curse. Losing their minds. Destroying the world.

“No,” Malkia says. She trails her finger down her blade. Blood smears the line of marching spiders. “We are the people of the Web Weaver. This is who our ancestors were and who our parents are, wherever the blighted war took them. Have you forgotten? When the future brings change, we take two things from it.” For a second, she stares into the eyes of her companions.

“Stories. Glory. That is our way.”