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I place my hand on my forehead to block the burning sun. The dusty maroon fingers of the naim plants reach high through the rippling heat. They grow higher than I can reach, but the tender vermillion buds grow close to the sandy soil.
A welcome breeze rattles the naim, cooling the sweat on my skin. I catch sight of a vast dark blot on the horizon. The city is closer than it has ever been before.
I feel Kasis’s eye on my back. Let her stare her fill. She fears I will steal Amet from her. She is welcome to him. Let her become a bent-backed crone, tending his children and the naim plants until she turns to dust.
I will be a dancer.
I stoop to my work again. My hands do not need my thoughts. I let them chase the wind as my fingers seek out the tiny white worms among the blossoms.
The harvest will be good this year. The sun that reddens my neck and shoulders also draws the sweet red petals from their buds. My memory cannot find a hotter summer. Perhaps I will have enough coin to buy bells for my dancing skirt. I have nearly what I need, sewn into my belt. When I have my bells, then I will begin my journey.
I will go to the city, and see with my own eyes if it is true that the city flies as high as a mountain.
But now I crush the white worms between my fingers. My fingers are white and sticky with their paste when our work is done. I join the throng at the well to dip my hands into the trough of water turned milky by those who came before me.
My hands clean, I join the others who have gathered in the Big House for the evening meal. I sit with the other women who are not bound. We do not serve mate and children. We serve only ourselves. We cut our own meat from what the hunters have gathered.
When hunger is sated, the center of the Big House clears, and the drummers create a ring to dance in.
The drums pound in my veins. They call my feet to follow them. The shriek and wail of those who sing spark fire in my blood. I give my body to it. My feet spin and pound a drum rhythm. My arms reach. My body sways and twists. I cast my thoughts free.
I feel eyes burn into me, and the dance is no longer a pleasure. My feet stop. I face Amet. He watches me.
Perhaps Kasis has reason to fear me.
My dance is over. I return to the wall of the Big House and crouch there.
I still feel Amet’s eyes.
When it is my time to night watch the naim, I go. My thoughts crawl like ants.
I step silently between the rows of naim. My eyes soak in the light of the moon. My ears twitch at the thick, hard leaves rattling in the wind. If a sound is out of place, I must find it. We are not alone in our need of the naim plants. There are others, two legged or four, who would gladly reap our fields under the moon’s eye.
I feel a presence behind me. An arm snakes around my chest. I fling it away and spin.
“Be still, woman,” Amet says. His face is set and determined.
“Not here, among the naim,” I say. I think fast. For him to mark me as his own would be to crush me like a white worm.
I turn. His heavy hand falls on my shoulder. He does not trust me not to run.
I walk. There will be a time for swiftness. It has not yet come.
I walk until there are no more naim plants. His hand tightens. He knows my thought. I know his.
“Further,” I say. “Or sekans will seek the heat of our bodies.” Perhaps one could sink its death teeth into Amet’s foot.
“Go,” he says.
I walk. I watch for my chance. My eyes drink in darkness.
“Enough,” he says. “Here.”
My heart begins a drum rhythm. My chance has not yet come. His fingers dig deep into the flesh of my shoulder. He pushes me down. My knees do not want to bend. A new kind of fire sparks in my blood. I will not be his.
I drop and sway, as if in a dance. Amet’s hand slips from my shoulder.
I run. I do not look back.
My head is high, and my feet chase the wind.
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