Isbibarra left the healer at the weapons rack. He made his way through the ridge to the pen, finding Gizzal leaning against the yak post. He was clearly awake, for Appo’s screams had been going on for some time.

Isbibarra climbed up on the ridge, throwing his legs over the side. He pulled out a small wooden pipe from his robe pocket and placed a few blades of Drawstring into it. He struck the pipe twice with a piece of flint, taking it a couple times before lighting. As the Drawstring burned a deep flame the color of amethyst, Isbibarra inhaled long and hard. He released a small violet cloud before returning to the pipe again.

“Even in the plains of death, a Merck finds time to get high,” Gizzal spat. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

Isbibarra ignored him. He spent the next several minutes sitting cross-legged over the ridge, his mind becoming more relaxed. He felt the tension in his muscles vanish. Isbibarra’s senses dulled from a raging fire to a low sizzle, and he allowed himself to bury one of his hands in the sand. Circles began to dance in his mind. Isbibarra had never seen color before, but when he smoked Drawstring he could perceive something bright that wasn’t just light.

As the circles became spinning ovals, he climbed down the ridge towards Gizzal. He held the pipe out to him.

Gizzal eyed the blind man with suspicion. “What is it?”

“Drawstring. Comes from bamboo flower that blooms in the winters of my homeland.” Isbibarra gestured with his hand. “Take it or don’t, I won’t offer it again.”

“Surely you think I won’t debase myself by sucking your dirty plants.”

Isbibarra chuckled. “If I had the brown ash I’d share. But it only works when your balls aren’t shriveled.”

Gizzal frowned. “Must you kick a man while he’s down?”

“Only if a man would stop calling me ‘merck.’”

“Hmph.” Gizzal sat in silence for a moment. “Do me the favor?” He raised his bound hands for emphasis.

Isbibarra crouched next to Gizzal, lighting the pipe again before holding it to his mouth. “Make sure you only inhale once and gently... assuming it is your first time.”

“I was a boy once. I’m sure I’ve tried finer herbs than this.” Gizzal inhaled deep and long, doing so for half of the time Isbibarra had. He immediately began coughing loudly, slumping over on his side.

“Fucking despair, maybe you are trying to kill me.”

Isbibarra couldn’t help but laugh. “Would be an odd time to do it.” Gizzal continued hacking for some time before it faded into grunts. Isbibarra held the pipe at his side, its purple flame sizzling from usage.

“You could have killed them at any time,” Gizzal whimpered, catching his breath. “The raiders.”

“Perhaps,” said Isbibarra. “Yet I was at a disadvantage. I was not sure how many there were, and I did not know what weapons they carried. Even so, we would still be in the desert. They could have killed our animals, or made off with our supplies. And need I remind you how hot it was? I was tired.”

“Bullshit,” replied Gizzal. “You have others fooled by your pale eye, but I saw what you did. You cut down six raiders with a piece of wood. You can shoot a target from a hundred meters. You’re no blind fool.”

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“Heh. I am no fool, Head, but I am blind, despite your skepticism.” Isbibarra curled his toes, scraping the clay beneath them. “Have you ever stood in a puddle? Felt the water caress around your feet, bouncing away before the ripples return to your ankles? That is how I see, but the puddle is solid ground. For as long as I can remember.”

Gizzal laughed. “You assume Ashfolk have puddles to stand in. There are some luxuries even a gemstone merchant can’t afford.” He had stopped coughing, but his volume was taken away. He leaned against the yak post. “I’ve been told men from Merkamensa inherit strange abilities. Take your Soturi, for example: strong warriors, without question, but they speak to gods without priests. I hear they walk through woods conversing with voices that aren’t there, just… talking to themselves. Do they tell you exactly where to place your knife?”

“Many Soturi do. I do not.”

“Ha. Utter nonsense, that is. Only the dead and insane do that.”

Isbibarra brought his pipe back to his lips. “Or the inebriated.” Gizzal chuckled. Isbibarra offered his pipe again, which Gizzal accepted without question. Once again he coughed, though these subsided faster than his first.

“It’s not a piece of wood if you must know,” Isbibarra spoke. He held his dagger, caressing the side of the blade. “This is sharper than the strongest of metal. Only a sword of diamond could best it in strength.”

“Ah, must be a Bonsai Dagger. Smithed from plants, are they not?”

“Not like you think, but yes. Cultivation of the Bonsai is difficult, and many spend their entire lives caring for the trees, trimming the petrified wood until it becomes stronger than steel. It takes generations to make a blade as sharp as mine.” Isbibarra held out his blade. Gizzal had never taken a good look at it before, but up close he could see how thin its edge truly was. It vanished into nothing. “This blade was grown for eight hundred and eighty-nine years, centuries older than the Republic of Jyväsk. My people have fought entire wars over the possession of weapons like these.”

Gizzal nodded. “I saw a dead tree once, many years ago. Before it was cut into pieces. Nasty, twisted thing. Tentacles spilling out both ends. Can’t imagine herds of the things.”

Isbibarra chuckled. “You speak of ‘roots’ and ‘branches,’ and they do not move! They exist in forests, not herds. I grew up in forests. When the gust blows through, their branches sway and their leaves bristle and fly through the air. And the smell… it is truly serene.”

Gizzal tried his best to imagine it, but he found his thoughts difficult to track. They wandered from place to place. “Are… the dunes moving?” he asked.

“Moving?”

“The dunes, they are… shifting. Like… river waves of molten bronze. Am I dreaming?” Gizzal’s eyes were glazed over.

Isbibarra laughed. “You should have listened when I said only smoke once.”

“What does the Drawstring conjure for you? What does a blind man see?”

“My countenance is stronger than yours. I’m not seeing much of anything, except for a few shapes. I’m seeing something bright. A color maybe, though… I’m not sure what I would call it.”

“Well that depends,” mumbled Gizzal, his breathing slowed. “How does the color make you feel? Happy? Sad? Aroused?”

“Haha… I guess you could say… tranquil. At peace, though with melancholy.”

“Ahh. Must be blue, then.” Gizzal leaned back. He took a deep breath. “I don’t know why I say this. Perhaps it is the grass. I am tied to a post and my mind is lost to me, but I still wish to tell you that I am… sorry. I know what happened to your friend. I know you were close.”

Isbibarra sighed. “We were.” The circles in his vision became jagged, and a stronger, more intense color. It reminded him of the sun, now. “You didn’t kill him.”

“Do you plan to kill me?”

“No.”

“Then why am I here? You don’t want my gemstones, and you don’t want me for ransom. Why must you take me from my home?”

Isbibarra sat in silence. “If only you knew what will become of Ash, Digram. You would be thanking me.”

Gizzal continued asking questions, but his voice became slowed and slurred. He leaned back against the post, his eyes drooping. Before too long, he was asleep. Isbibarra sat for not much longer. He walked back to the campfire, extinguishing it with sand. The healer’s heartbeat had slowed, but not dangerously so. The heat emanating from him had cooled. Isbibarra covered the healer with a yak blanket, satisfied that his efforts meant the healer would need to not pass overnight. Isbibarra then returned to the tent for his night’s rest.