SandRider

by Angie Sage

  Mysor waited silently while Karamander turned and gazed back at Kaznim’s footprints, which walked toward her from the tent. He saw her watching them grow ever fainter as the early-morning breeze blew away the last precious echoes of her child. When the footprints were gone, Karamander slumped to the ground and broke into cries so loud that even in the midst of his panic, Subhan-Subhan had to stuff his fingers into his ears.

  PTOLEMY

  Ptolemy was not as stupid as Subhan-Subhan thought. From the moment the Egg Boy had snatched him from his favorite patch of milk thistle and thrown him up into the air like a ball, the tortoise had understood that the boy wished him ill. And when the boy had shoved him into his pocket—during which Ptolemy had had the satisfaction of biting his finger—the tortoise knew that something bad was going to happen. He heard Subhan-Subhan check that Kaznim was still busy at her lessons and then felt him hurrying away from the encampment. Tortoises have been around long enough to understand that not all human beings are well intentioned, and Ptolemy also knew that human beings find tortoises very good to eat, especially when cooked slowly in a deep sand oven. He knew that Subhan-Subhan was always hungry, and the tortoise gloomily expected this was going to be his fate. When at last Subhan-Subhan took him out of his sticky pocket, Ptolemy sighed and the air whistled into his nostrils like a tiny desert squall. So when he had found himself flying through the air once more and heading downward toward the Pit of the Singing Sands, the tortoise felt a sense of relief. He landed hard and sank deep into the loose sand. By the time he had worked his way up to the surface, his tormentor was gone and the sun was sinking fast toward the horizon. Ptolemy decided to stay put for the night. He buried himself so that he was hidden from the night eagles (whose joy was to snatch up a tortoise, fly high into the air with it and drop it from a great height onto a rock) and settled down to sleep. He would set off back to the star tent as soon as the sun rose.

  When Ptolemy awoke the next morning he saw Kaznim hovering beside the circle of treacherous sand. Ptolemy understood that the pit was dangerous for humans and he had tried to lead her away from the edge. He had very nearly succeeded, but humans do not have the patience of a tortoise. They are new and quick and the young ones in particular seem to act without any thought. And so, when the sands began to move and Kaznim jumped into them to rescue him, Ptolemy was not surprised. But he doubted it would do either of them any good.

  Ptolemy felt Kaznim’s hands close around his shell; he sensed their warmth and their strength—so different from the Egg Boy’s spiteful grasp—and he felt safe. But it was short-lived. As tortoise and girl tumbled down through the sand, grit and the dust filled their ears, eyes and noses, and they began to choke.

  Kaznim was too pleased to have her tortoise in her arms to realize her danger, and by the time she did, they had crashed to the ground. Kaznim pulled the tortoise close and rolled with the fall, just as she practiced in her dune-diving lessons. But the sand that had spiraled up and opened to let them fall was now coming back to earth, and the cloud was getting so thick that Kaznim knew that soon she would no longer be able to breathe. She staggered to her feet, tucked the tortoise under her arm and pushed her way through the falling sand. She thought she could see the shape of an archway ahead. If only she could reach that, she would be out of this falling thickness; she would be able to breathe again.

  But her breath was full of dust, her nose plugged with sand. Her head felt light and sparkles began to dance before her eyes. Kaznim knew she was about to pass out. And when she did, the sand would bury her and Ptolemy and they would be dead—and what would Ammaa do then? Kaznim took one last sand-filled breath and staggered toward the arch. Suddenly she saw two shadows appear. Four arms reached out, took hold of her and swept Kaznim and her tortoise into the darkness.

  MARWICK AND SAM

  Kaznim had the strangest sensation of traveling at breakneck speed. For a moment she thought that she and Ptolemy had fallen into another pit, and she braced herself for the landing. But the strong arms still held her tight and Kaznim realized that she was not falling, but moving rapidly forward. She began to slow down, and moments later, she was in a tunnel walking toward dappled green light framed by the shape of an archway. The arms still held her tightly and Kaznim risked a glance at her captors. She saw two young men towering over her: one with dark matted hair and a wild look in his eyes; one—whose grip, Kaznim noticed, was much weaker—had fair, tangled curls and a deathly pallor to his skin.

  Kaznim had heard many stories of desert children being taken for slaves, and her fear of falling was quickly replaced by the fear that she had been kidnapped. She readied herself to make a break for it as soon as she could. As they emerged into a circular garden with arches in its walls, the young men let go of her arms. Immediately Kaznim shot off, heading toward another arch.

  “Hey!” yelled the young man with the matted hair. “Not that one! Jeez!” He raced after her and the next thing Kaznim knew, there was a hand snatching the back of her tunic and pulling her away. Kaznim kicked out. They weren’t going to get her that easily.

  “Whoa!” said her captor. “Ouch! Steady on. I’m only trying to help.” There was something about the voice that made Kaznim stop struggling. It sounded genuine, like Mysor did when he was explaining something.

  “Hey, that’s better. If you run into that one you’ll end up somewhere not nice at all. Here, sit down. You look rough, kiddo.”

  Kaznim thought the young man looked pretty rough himself. His clothes were bloodstained, ragged and filthy, but his brown eyes seemed friendly and she allowed herself to be led to a patch of soft grass where the other young man was already slumped. He did not look good. His tangled, straw-colored curly hair was sticky with blood; his wispy beard was full of grit, but even so his bright green eyes had a faint smile in them. His companion hung back a little now, his dark brown eyes flicking to and fro restlessly, checking out the arches as if he were on guard. Both young men looked as though they had been in a fight and now Kaznim saw that the fair-haired one had a wide, heavily bloodstained bandage wrapped around his middle and a long gash on the outside of his right arm, which was bound with strips of twine, as if to keep the edges together. The dark-haired one seemed to have fared better. His face was bruised and there was blood on his tunic, but he had no dramatic bandages.

  “You’re hurt,” Kaznim said shyly to the fair-haired young man.

  He nodded and winced in pain at the movement.

  “Would you like my tortoise?” she asked.

  The young man managed a wan smile and slowly shook his head.

  Kaznim did not feel brave enough to explain about Ptolemy. She put the tortoise down on the grass and all three fell silent as they watched him slowly uncurl and poke his head out into the sun.

  Kaznim began to relax and take in her surroundings. The garden had obviously been neglected for many years, for it was very overgrown with creepers climbing up the walls and long, rough grass sprouting up from what was once thick paving. The walls rose high—about twenty feet—into the air and within them were many more arches like the one they had come out of, each with one or two letters inscribed into its keystone. Kaznim counted twelve altogether. It was a beautiful, peaceful place and had the air of somewhere that had once been much loved. The only slightly disconcerting thing was a regular rumble that came up through the ground every few seconds. It felt to Kaznim as though a great monster were breathing beneath them. But the breath was slow, so, she told herself, the monster must be sleeping.

  In the middle of the circular garden was a small spring. It bubbled up into an old copper bowl around which were paving stones worn smooth by centuries of footfall. Kaznim was watching the dark-haired young man kneel down at the spring and fill a battered metal bottle with cool water, when suddenly a husky voice spoke beside her.

  “Nice tortoise.”

  “He is called Ptolemy,” Kaznim said.

  “Good name . . . for a . . . tortoise. I’m . . . Sam. Hea
p.”

  “Hello, Sam Heap,” Kaznim said, slowly trying out the unfamiliar words.

  “And I am called Marwick,” said the young man with the water bottle, joining them.

  “I am Kaznim Na-Draa.” Kaznim smiled. She remembered how her mother would always tell her to make polite conversation after being introduced to people, but all she could think of to say was, “Where are we?”

  “Good question,” Marwick said. “Right now, I have no idea.” He pulled a flimsy, much-folded piece of paper from his tunic and spread it out upon the blanket. On it was drawn a network of fine lines and tiny circles that made no sense at all to Kaznim. Marwick stabbed a long, dirty finger with a bloodied knuckle onto one of the circles. “We are here, I think,” he said.

  Kaznim peered at the paper. “But where is that?” she asked. “Where in the world, I mean.”

  “A small island far off the long coast of the Blue Mountains,” Marwick said. “With any luck.” He looked at Sam. “And if it is, there’s no way they can get us.”

  Sam grimaced. “Let’s hope . . . not,” he murmured.

  Kaznim was puzzled. “But how can we be on an island?” she asked. “We haven’t gone across the sea.”

  Marwick smiled. “Ah,” he said. “But we have. We have traveled through an Ancient Way. You see, Kaznim, the Ancient Ways are—” The cry of a gull broke into Marwick’s explanation, and he grinned. “Looks like I’m right, Sammo,” he said. “And listen . . . I can hear . . . Yes, I can hear surf.”

  “What is surf?” Kaznim asked.

  “It is the waves of the ocean pounding on a beach,” Marwick told her.

  Kaznim now understood what the sleeping monster really was. She took a deep breath in and realized she tasted salt. Suddenly she felt a long way from home. She thought of her mother waking up to find she was not in her bed—which would, she thought, be happening just about now. Kaznim thought of Ammaa staring at two empty beds with both her daughters gone, and she could not bear to stay in the garden a moment longer. She snatched up Ptolemy—much to the tortoise’s disgust, for he was halfway through a tasty yellow flower—and jumped to her feet. “Sam Heap and Marwick, thank you very much for rescuing me,” Kaznim said rather formally. “I would like to go home now. I would be very grateful if you could show me which Ancient Way to take.”

  Sam’s and Marwick’s expressions told Kaznim that she had not asked for something easy. Or even possible. Marwick got to his feet. “I’m sorry, Kaznim,” he said. “But you came through what we call an unstable Hub.”

  Kaznim frowned. “A what?” she asked.

  Marwick waved his arm around their sunken garden. “This,” he said, “is a stable Hub. It is in a place where people may come and go at all times. But not all are like this. Some Hubs have sunk beneath the ocean. Some are ice-bound, some are deep in snow and some, like yours, are full of sand. Of course, Hubs of ice or in the ocean can never be used, but those full of sand or snow will, in a wild Way wind, occasionally clear. But they soon fill up again. The Hub you fell into is an especially deep one. There is no way we can get back up through all that sand.” Marwick shook his head. “No way at all.”

  Kaznim stared at him, trying to understand. “You mean I can’t go home?”

  “Well, of course you can go home. But we would have to figure out which Hub is nearest to you, and then you could travel overland from there. Where do you live, Kaznim?”

  “In the star tent beside the Moon Pool, beneath the long dune.”

  Marwick looked puzzled. “So, where’s that?” he asked.

  “Um. In the desert,” said Kaznim. “The Desert of the Singing Sands.”

  “Okay . . . and whereabouts is that?”

  Kaznim shook her head. “I . . . I don’t know.”

  GOING HOME

  Kaznim sat clutching Ptolemy tightly. The tortoise’s sharp-clawed legs churned powerfully against her stomach, but Kaznim took no notice. She was desolate—and mortified. How could she not know where she lived? What a baby she was. She had spent all her life that she could remember in the star-spangled tent at the foot of the long dune but she had no idea where in the world it was. Kaznim looked down at Ptolemy, who had now withdrawn peevishly into his shell. It’s all right for you, she thought. You have your home with you. I’ve lost mine. And I have no idea how to find it.

  Sam watched the tears spring into Kaznim’s eyes—such a dark blue that they were nearly purple—and he sat up and put his good arm around her slight shoulders. She reminded him of his little sister at that age. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Me . . . and Marwick will look after you. We’re . . . trying to find our way home too.”

  Kaznim was shocked. “Don’t you know where you live either?” she asked Sam.

  Sam lay back, exhausted by his effort. Marwick looked at him with concern.

  “I’m okay,” said Sam.

  “No, you’re not,” Marwick retorted. “You need to rest, Sammo.” He turned to Kaznim. “We’re like you,” he said. “We know where we live, but we’re not sure how to get there. We got lost a few years ago now.”

  “Years?” asked Kaznim, dismayed. It seemed that Sam and Marwick were as silly as she was. The thought that it might be years before she saw her mother again made the tears silently overflow and run down her cheeks.

  “But it’s only been years because we got stuck in a prison,” Marwick explained hurriedly.

  Kaznim stared at Marwick. “In prison?”

  Marwick grinned. “Hey, don’t worry, you’re not stuck with a couple of murderers. We were prisoners of war. Got caught up in someone’s battle. Never did understand what it was about, did we, Sam?”

  “Nah,” Sam muttered. “They were both . . . as bad as each other.”

  “They were,” Marwick agreed. “But it didn’t help when you told them that.”

  Sam looked sheepish.

  Kaznim smiled shyly. “It’s good they let you go,” she said.

  Marwick grimaced. “They didn’t. We escaped. Had a bit of a fight on the way out.” He changed the subject. “Right, we need to get Sammo home. Let’s have a proper look at that map.”

  Ptolemy stuck his two back legs hard into Kaznim’s stomach. “Ouch!” she gasped, and put the tortoise back among the yellow flowers.

  Marwick laid his flimsy map on the grass in front of Kaznim, then pulled a very battered, small notebook from his pocket and opened it. Kaznim saw that it was full of lists of letters, rather like the ones inscribed above the arches that led from the garden. She watched Marwick trace his finger along the lines on the map, stopping at each circle and writing down a number in his notebook. At last, when the list seemed very long, he stopped, sat up and said to Sam, “Fifteen Hubs. Can’t do it in any less, Sammo. Sorry.”

  “No . . . problem,” Sam said.

  Marwick frowned. Kaznim could see he thought fifteen Hubs was a problem. She guessed it meant that Sam would have to walk a long way. Marwick turned to her and said, “We’re going back to the Castle. Sam needs to get proper help, fast.” Kaznim nodded. She understood that. “Someone there will be sure to know where your home is,” Marwick said. “And when we find out, I’ll take you there. That’s a promise, okay?”

  Kaznim smiled. Marwick was a good person, she thought. If the Castle was full of people as nice as Marwick, it would be a lovely place to visit—but another time. Right now all she wanted to do was to get back home to her mother. She couldn’t bear to think how upset she must be. “How long will it take to get to the Castle?” she asked anxiously.

  Marwick sighed. “It’s a tricky journey. The Castle lies on the edge of the system. And a lot of the Ways near there don’t work anymore. So let’s get going. The sooner we go, the sooner we get there.”

  With some difficulty, Marwick helped Sam to his feet. The small amount of color in Sam’s face drained away, and he swayed precariously.

  “You can lean on me,” Kaznim offered.

  Sam managed a smile. “Thanks . . . but I’m fine.”


  “No, you’re not,” Marwick told Sam. “You lean on Kaznim like she said.”

  Once again Ptolemy was whisked away from his flowers and tucked under an arm. The tortoise drew in his head with a sharp hiss of annoyance. With Sam leaning on Kaznim’s right shoulder and Marwick’s left arm holding him up, they made their way slowly across the grass toward another of the strangely dark arches. Marwick stopped at its mouth and smiled at Kaznim. “Ready?” he asked.

  Kaznim nodded nervously.

  “We’ll walk in together, just as we are now. We will go along a short tunnel and step into a weird misty patch. It will feel a bit strange, as though you are moving very fast, which of course you are, because you are traveling along an Ancient Way. But all you have to do is keep walking steadily, and hang on to Sam. Then we’ll come out into another Hub—a place a bit like this, with twelve more arches. And then we’ll go into another arch. We just carry on like that and if all my numbers work out we’ll end up in the Castle. Okay?”

  Kaznim smiled. “Okay,” she said.

  “I just hope that all the Hubs are navigable,” Marwick muttered to himself, looking anxiously at Sam.

  The trio walked beneath the arch and headed into the chill of a dank tunnel, moving slowly toward the strange white mist that hovered ahead.

  “Here we go,” said Marwick. They stepped into the mist and entered the Ancient Way.

  Kaznim lost count of the number of Hubs they walked, waded, slipped and slid across. Marwick had to take them on two detours and it felt like hours later when he said, “Nearly there. Only one more Hub to go.” But it was in the very last Hub that they hit their final and biggest obstacle. As they emerged from the mist and walked down the tunnel, the weight of Sam heavy on them both, they saw at the end of the tunnel a bright, shimmering purple light. As they drew close, Kaznim saw that the light was stretched over the arch like a skin. She thought she could hear a faint buzzing coming from it, like a fly trapped in a jar.