The man touched his chest. "Men once called me Tallal." Holding the back of his robe against the back of his knees, he dropped into a crouch. "If it pleases, you may use that name." "And the others?"
"They are my lamb brothers. Their names are not mine to give." Absently, he made a slight stirring motion with his index fingers, rousing the mist.
"I owe you thanks. For saving me." Tallal thought for a moment and then nodded. "Perhaps." The word troubled Raif. He felt out of his depth, and wished he could see the whole of the man's face not just the slit containing his eyes. "How many are you?" "Eleven."
It took Raif a moment to realize Tallal was including the animals in the count; six mules and the milk ewe. Four then. Yet five tents.
Tallal had tracked Raifs gaze as it moved from the corral to the tents. "In my homeland we have a saying: God will only come if there is room in your house." He smiled; Raif could tell by the crinkling around his eyes. "My lamb brothers and I very much want God to come."
Raif became aware of a light pricking sensation around the small of his back. The mist was receding. For some reason he thought about the small gesture Tallal had made seconds earlier, the finger rousing in the mist. "Are you and your brothers lost?"
"No."
How can you be in the Want and not be lost? Raif wanted to ask yet didn't. A sense of propriety stopped him. It was too early in their acquaintance for such a question. "Where did you find me?"
Tallal shrugged. Anyone who hadn't spent time in the Want might take the gesture as a careless dismissal, but Raif understood it. Anywhere. Nowhere. Who can say?
"And my horse?"
The wind pressed Tallal's facepiece against his lips as he murmured. "The tide carried her away."
Raif nodded once. Now the mist had gone you could see the pumice dunes clearly. The wind was whittling them down, blowing streamers of dust from their crests. He let the icy particles scour his face awhile before turning back to Tallal. "How long have I been here?"
"Four nights as you and I count them." Tallal's voice was quiet. As he spoke he fed pale, barkless driftwood to the fire. "Much ailed you. My brothers and I did what we could to heal your body. We gave you water and tonics so you might sleep. I cleaned your wounds. If this breaks one of your holy laws I ask pardon."
Raif knew nothing of religions that forbade healing. "It does not."
Tallal nodded softly as if Raif were confirming something he had already guessed. "Strong gods guide you. They would not be petty, such gods."
A piece of driftwood hissed as moisture trapped inside it turned to steam. Raif imagined for a moment he could be anywhere: in a distant desert, a foreign shore, the face of the moon. Unfamiliar territory, and it was becoming his domain. Sometimes it seemed as if every step he'd taken since leaving clan had been a step into the unknown.
It was in his mind to say to Tallal that he had no gods, that he had broken an oath and abandoned his clan, and no gods that he knew of would keep faith with such a man. Yet he didn't. Instead he remembered the nightmare. It made him hope Tallal might be right.
"Where do you head?" he asked.
Behind his face mask, Tallal's expression changed. Raising his hand, he touched the dots on the bridge of his nose. Three separate movements. "Where the Maker of Souls leads."
Raif wondered what kind of god would lead his followers here. The Stone Gods had no dealings with the Want; their domain ended in the hard, fixed earth of the Badlands. "Your god claims this territory?"
Tallal lifted his gaze to the Want. "My god claims souls, not land. He commands us to search for souls in need of peace."
A compulsion out of his control, like an involuntary knee jerk made Raif ask, "Dead or alive?"
Tallal looked at him, his dark eyes filled with knowledge. "We are lamb brothers. We care for the dead."
The wind moaned, skinning the dunes. Raif shivered deeply, his neck bones clicking. For an instant he had an image of himself as a carcass and the four hooded men as ravens picking at his dead flesh. He shook himself. You had to guard yourself against the distortions of the Want. All of them. Tallal and his lamb brothers had nothing to do with him, and to imagine otherwise was some kind of vain and crazy blasphemy. They were here to do the work of their gods. He was here because he couldn't find a way out.
Observing Raif's disorientation, Tallal said, The buffalo women and the bird priests deal with ayah, the souls of the living. Their numbers are many. It is said that there is a herd of buffalo for every sheep." Tallal smiled gently; Raif could hear it in his voice. "It is not wise to get in their way. They can be fearsome when it comes to saving souls. When a man hears the rumble of many hooves and turns to see the buffalo stampeding it is not unlikely he will change his course."
Raif grinned. He was beginning to feel better, but he had a hunch it wouldn't last. "And the souls of the dead?"
A smoke ring of breath blew from Tallal's mouth. "Morah." The word had power. Raif felt it pump against his eardrums. Slowly, rhythmically, Tallal began to rock back and forth on the balls of his feet. "Morah is the flesh of God. Every man, woman and child who passes through this mortal world grows a portion of God within them. This we call the soul. When someone dies their soul rises to the heavens and God claims it and sets it in place. The Book of Trials foretells the day when the Maker's body is whole and he will walk amongst us and we might look upon his face. We, the Sand People, await that day with hope and deepest longing. Yet if as much as a single soul is lost God's body will remain incomplete and he will be forever unknowable.
"The Book of Trials commands the lamb brothers to seek out the lost souls of the dead. All must be counted and released. They are precious to us beyond reckoning, for they contain the substance of God.
Raif stared into the flames whilst Tallal spoke. The wood burned green and white and gave off the cold and empty smell of high places.
Listening to the lamb brother made him feel sad. Tallal had been set a task that would never be completed. His god would never come There were too many men and women out there who had lost their way and died without peace or salvation. Generations of bodies had disappeared; flesh eaten by maggots, bones dried to husks then ground into sand. How could they be saved when there was no record of their existence?
And who would save the souls of the Unmade?
Heritas Cant had said that every thousand years the creatures of the Blirflride forth to claim more men for their armies. "When a man or woman is touched by them they become Unmade. Not dead, never dead, but something different cold and craving. The shadows enter them snuffing the light from their eyes and the warmth from their hearts. Everything is lost."
Without thinking, Raif raised his hand to his shoulder. The wound, had begun to sting. If Heritas Cant was right, then countless people over thousands of centuries had been lost, their souls claimed by the Endlords. Raif glanced at Tallal. Did he know this? Was he aware of the impossibility of his task?
Tallal's gaze was level. "Once a year in the hottest month of summer, when the sand snakes grow bold and even the blister beetles search for shade, the storms come. Day falls dark as night. Rain crashes from the sky and lightning strikes. Once in a very long while when lightning touches sand it turns to glass. This glass is very rare. A thousand thunderstorms may pass overhead yet everything—the sand, the wind, the moons and the stars—must be in accordance before lightning can transform sand into glass. Stormglass is a powerful talisman. Kings and shamans covet it. It is said that when you look into it you see other storms; storms that are gathering and may come to be, storms of thunder and storms of men. My people sweep the sands for it when we travel. Like gingerroot it lies beneath the surface, out of sight, and we use acacia branches to comb the dunes as we walk the cattle. We dream of finding the perfect unbroken piece, long as a sword and clear as water. In my lifetime I have never known anyone to find such a piece. Yet still we sweep."