Goldeye rubbed the fine white grains between his fingers. So fine, like a powder. A whole desert of it, before his eyes. He dabbed a finger on his tongue.
‘Ash,’ he said, to the girl. He frowned. ‘And bone.’
Hawk That Runs narrowed her eyes at the vast, pale expanse, as if to threaten it. That’s what we do when we’re scared. Fight. Or flee. The girl appeared to favour the former. But there’s scant chance of winning a battle with a desert.
‘Ain’t nothing living out there,’ he said.
‘Small comfort,’ she mumbled.
‘Aye. Better to get it done, while we can.’
Hawk That Runs glared at him. ‘I’m not scared.’
‘Really?’ Goldeye winced as he stood, his legs a touch too stiff. Then he winced at the desert. It’s enormity. It’s paleness. It’s aura of death. ‘I am,’ he said.
Paddy Dobson
14th October 2020