He’s got a lit le ring of smooth green glass in his beak. My heart stops.
Ohmigawd, I says. I drop to my knees beside him. Hold out my hand. He places the ring on it. Gently.
It’s Lugh’s. From the necklace I made him fer our birthday. It’s stil threaded onto a short piece of the leather thong, snapped at both ends.
He must of yanked it from his neck when they warn’t lookin.
Nero croaks.
I know, I says. He’s leavin a trail fer us to fol ow.
I’l find you. Wherever they take you, I swear I’l find you.
You cain’t, it’s too dangerous. You got a keep yerself safe. You an Emmi. Promise me you wil .
He knows me. He knew I’d come after him.
We’re on the right track, I says. I scoop Nero into my arms an kiss his head. He smel s of dusty warm feathers. Yer the smartest bird ever lived. You know that, don’t you?
He gives the lit le chuck chuck chuck that means he’s pleased with hisself. Then he squirms fer me to let him go. Nero ain’t much of a one fer huggin an such.
The wind starts howlin at me to move on, liftin up handfuls of desert an throwin it at my face.
Time to move, I says.
Time to move, I says.
When I’ve gone half a league or so, I turn an look back.
The set lement’s gone. Vanished.
Swal owed by the sands once more.
I see the tabletop plateau in the far distance around mid mornin. Dusty red rock, high an bare of trees. From the top of it, there should be a clear view in every direction. Maybe I’l even be able to see Hopetown and the Black Mountains from there.
Nero ies to the top of the plateau an down agin, tryin to hurry me along. He cain’t ever believe how slow I am, how long it takes me to git places. I think he feels sorry fer me with my two legs.
I reach the plateau as the day starts to wane. I start to make my way to the top, weavin my way around rocks an over scree. Nero goes on ahead, hoppin from rock to rock nice an easy, then comin back to croak an caw at me to hurry along.
Show of , I says to him.
I pul myself the last bit an op on my bel y onto the top. I git my breath, then stand up. It’s narrower than I thought it ’ud be, no more’n fifty paces across at the widest point.
I’m on th’other side in no time. I gasp.
As far as the eye can see, to the horizon an beyond, it’s sand. Great crests of it, great sweeps of golden sand carved into waves an hil s an peaks an val eys. Smooth on one side, ridged on th’other side. Vast. Endless.
No sign of any town. No sign of any mountains.
I cain’t believe it. I thought I’d bin crossin Sandsea fer two days. But what I jest done was nuthin. That was only the beginnin. Here. Now.
This is where the crossin starts.
My heart sinks into my boots. My bel y clenches. I lick my dry lips.
Nero flut ers down an lands on my shoulder.
It’s big, I says. Whaddya think?
He croaks an bobs up an down.
No problem, eh? Easy fer you to say. I look out over Sandsea agin. It’s too big, I says. Too damn big.
Don’t give in to fear, Saba. Be strong, like I know you are.
I ain’t no quit er, Pa.
If I’m careful, what water an food I got should last me another three days. After that, I got my bow an my wits.
Nero launches hisself over the edge of the plateau. He soars above the desert floor an caws, impatient fer me to git movin.
Okay, I says. I’m comin. You bet er be right about this.
An I start down.
Dusk. I’l need to stop soon to make camp fer the night.
Al of a sudden, the wind picks up. It comes out a nowhere, wailin an moanin. It plucks at the sand on the top of a nearby dune an ings it away. What was it Mercy said?
Take care crossin Sandsea. It’s one of the wild places. Listen to the winds.
I take another step up the dune I’m climbin. I stop. Look around me. Al around, the dunes is startin to shift, change shape.
Holy crap, I says. I wrap my sheema good an tight around my nose an mouth.
The wind’s growin stronger. Bolder. It tugs at me, tries to pul me over. It wants me. Sand ies in my eyes, stings ’em. My cloak whips around my legs an snaps in the wind.
Nero! I yel . Nero! Where are you! The words git torn from my lips.
Nero swoops an dives, cawin frantical y. I scream over the roar of the wind. Git out a here! I flap my hands at him. Go on! I’l be okay!
He disappears.
The world howls its rage around me. It’s too big. I’m too smal . The sand unner my feet starts to slide, starts to shift—like it don’t want me on it no more.
Panic claws at my throat. My eyes is grit y. The sand’s blindin me. It’l make me blind. Do somethin. Quick. I pul my sheema down over my eyes. Now I cain’t see a thing.
What should I do? What do I do?
Feel the way. Go down. An git buried alive? Keep goin then, keep goin! An git swept away?
What should I do? What do I do?
The sand dune col apses unner me. An that’s it. No choice.
I’m swept away.
Dark.
Hot.
Cain’t breathe. Oh gawd, I cain’t breathe.
Weight. On my chest.
I’m movin. Slidin. Cain’t stop. Cain’t stop.
Cain’t-breathe-must-breathe-must-breathe-cain’t-breathe-cain’t—
I’m out. I’m thrown out a the sand.
I y through the air face rst an thump down, land hard on the ground. I gasp. I breathe. I cough. I rol to my side an yank my sheema down. I cough an cough an take in great, deep gulps of air. I breathe it in, drink it in, I cain’t git enough.
Then I grab my waterskin, rinse my mouth, spit out the sand.
After a bit, I start to calm down. I lie there, starin up at the pink dusky sky. I cain’t believe I’m alive.
Then I realize. I’m lookin at the sky. I can see the sky. The rst faint twinkle of stars. I ain’t breathin in sand no more. The wind’s gone. It
Then I realize. I’m lookin at the sky. I can see the sky. The rst faint twinkle of stars. I ain’t breathin in sand no more. The wind’s gone. It must of left as quick as it came.
Slowly I stand, pul myself to my feet. I brush myself down, make sure I stil got al my gear. Then I look.
I’m on a wide flat plain. The sand dunes is gone. Not a trace of ’em left. Like they was never there. Like I dreamed ’em.
An standin al around me is flyin machines.
Flyin machines. Flyers.
Hidden away. Sleepin unner the wanderin dunes of Sandsea fer who knows how long. Could of bin fer any amount of time—a day, a week, a year. Maybe even hunnerds of years. Maybe ever since they was left here by the Wreckers.
They’re al laid out in neat rows on the sand. Like somebody planted ’em, thinkin they might grow.
They stretch out, on an on across the plain. So many rows, so many flyin machines that I couldn’t even begin to count.
I walk in between ’em.
They’re al sizes. Big, smal an everythin in between. They stand quiet, patient, like they’re waitin fer somethin.
They’re al rusted, with their glass windows smashed an their tires slashed an their bodies cut up to be took away by salvagers. The holes in their sides gape open like wounds.
A flyin machine graveyard.
I know about flyers. I even seen parts of ’em before.
Once Pa brought home a curved metal sheet he picked out a the land l that he said was most likely part of a yer. He used it to mend our roof. But the funny thing was, not two days later a big hotwind blasted through Silverlake an that sheet jest lifted up an ew away. Like it couldn’t wait to git out a there. The rest of the roof stayed put, jest that one bit went. Pa said that proved fer sure it was from a flyer.