A/N
This was originally done for a writing competition (didn't even make the longlist), but it was written in a way that it could fit into the setting of The Big Dry as well, albeit long after the events of the novel. So, with that said, um, enjoy, I guess.
Dust
It was raining.
Snow stuck out her tongue, receiving the tears of Mother Sky. So faint was the rain that it barely mattered. Mother Sky could only weep so much, and for so long. Her sons, Lightning and Thunder, had fallen silent many lifetimes ago. She had no cause to cry, bar what mercy she gave to the children of Father Earth. But still, out came her tongue, like one of the crawling lizards that roamed the land. She would take Mother Sky's blessing. And perhaps, if the bone mother deemed it so, take solace that her tears were a sign of her favour on this day.
This most important of days.
"Your tongue will drop off if you keep it out."
She withdrew it. She remained put, however, as her gaze lingered eastward. Down from the mountains, from where Father Earth was still green, to the lowlands that ranged from here to the sea. Dust and desolation were all that awaited her down there. Desolation that she and her brother would have to pass through.
"It's raining," her brother said, as he walked up to join her.
"Really?" Snow asked. "What gave you the first clue?"
"It grew colder. The sky opened. I can feel it on my skin. I-"
"I jest, brother."
Murray shot her a glance. She smiled, but the gesture wasn't returned. Silence lingered for a moment.
"So," Snow said. "This is it." She returned her gaze to the valley. To the east, and the domain of the sun. "Feel like saying anything?"
"That it's stupid, and a waste of time, and that if we're going down through that wasteland, that there are far better ways to die?"
"We won't die," Snow protested.
"Don't you remember last year? Katoomba died. One of the Dusters-"
"We won't die," Snow repeated. She shot her brother a look. "So don't say such things."
"How do you know?"
"Faith."
Murray snorted. "Faith. Right. If faith counted for anything, Mother Sky would have returned all her tears to Father Earth, and the land would be green again."
"I believe that will happen."
"Good," Murray said. "Because when you're rotting in the ground, or being raped by Dusters, or you contract the water sickness, I hope that gives you some level of comfort."
"Go to dust," Snow shot back.
He didn't answer. Instead he turned and began walking back down the hill. Down to where the Catare, and the tribe's bone mother, would be waiting. Where she would soon have to follow.
Yet for now she stayed. Mother Sky was still giving her tears.
However bitter they tasted.
"Snow and Murray, children of Lachlan and Darling – fourteen years have you walked Father Earth. Fourteen years have you walked under Mother Sky. Do you now, on this day, accept the rite of pilgrimage, as all Catare have done before you, and all Catare shall until the Day of Plenty?"
"I do," the twins replied.
"You do, do you?" the bone mother asked. She turned to the younger of the two siblings. "Snow," she said. "You bear the name of tears long gone. Your name is rooted deep in the history of this land, when Mother Sky's tears fell more readily, and with more force. When Thunder and Lightning had not yet fallen silent, and when her tears would be white and pure, on the highest tops of Father Earth. Do you, Snow, believe that your namesake will return? That your rite of passage will hasten the Day of Plenty?"
"I do," Snow replied softly.
"Hmm." The bone mother looked towards her brother. "You, Murray, named after one of the great rivers of the south, long dry, its tears harvested in ages past. It flowed east to the sea, where you too must go." Her gaze narrowed. "Will you head towards the sun as well, my child? Will you hasten the coming of the Day of Plenty, so that the rivers may flow as they once did?"
Murray didn't answer. He didn't even seem to be listening.
"My child?" the bone mother repeated.
"Hmm?" Murray asked. "Oh, yeah, sure. Rivers. Seas. Fine."
Snow tried to catch the bone mother's eye, to reassure her that her brother wasn't a lost cause. But no reciprocation came from the tribe's spiritual leader. Only indifference.
"Then rise," said the bone mother suddenly. "And rejoice. For the signs are good. Mother Sky has blessed you. Your journey to the sea will be one of good fortune."
Snow smiled as she watched the bone mother chew on a twig while picking at the bones of a mynah. Snow watched on with rapt attention, while Murray did not. From the ten or so tribesfolk came the sound of quiet applause. So many had made the rite of passage to the sea. More than the tribe could bear had not returned. So much so that Snow knew that they would only be spared one guardian.
"Glenbrook," declared the bone mother. "Step forward."
Their guardian obliged - Glenbrook. Six years their senior. A tall, thin man, who was without wife or child. A good guardian, Snow reflected, for if he fell, only friends would mourn him.
"Do you accept your guardian?" the bone mother asked.
"We do," Snow answered. "Murray remained silent.
"Guardian," the bone mother asked. "Do you accept your wards?"
"Sure," Glenbrook grunted.
"Then rest and be merry," the bone mother declared. "You leave on the morrow. Mother Sky willing, her blessings would continue.
Snow tried to smile, but failed. She believed in the bone mother. Loved her even. Had looked up to her even before she had lost her parents to the water sickness.
But her words rang hollow.
It had already stopped raining.
They walked down the Emfour, the great road that led to the sea, and the great village that had been built on its shores. The greatest village in all the land, before Mother Sky's tears had stopped. Before the sea rose to swallow the east. Before the dust had come, turning the land barren. Down they walked, its black stone nearly completely covered by the dust itself. The dust covered everything. In time, some said, it would reach Father Earth's highest peaks.
"So," Murray said. Snow saw him look up at Glenbrook. "Was it like this when you did the pilgrimage?"
"No."
"Really? What was different?"
"There were more people. And less talking."
Snow didn't smirk. The words had humour in them, but no joy. Glenbrook had survived his rite. Many in the Catare didn't. Father Earth could be cruel, not to mention the Dusters.
"So, this pilgrimage," Murray said after awhile. "We, like, reach the village, and meet the Quay? By the Great Arch? Where we drink from the great cup, in hope that the tears of the sea will be fresh?"
"Yes," Glenbrook said. "The Quay are our cousins, they who remained in the east while our peoples fled west. They will honour our arrival."
"But not help us," Murray said.
Glenbrook remained silent. Snow tightened her pace, though not without taking a sip from her water bottle – one of the sacred gourds, made of iron, passed down by her family of a time long gone. Made by the Steelers, the ones who had made the great village to the east, who had made villages in the west long taken by the dust. The steel kept the water in. Good water, free from the sickness that sometimes took those who drank the blessings of Mother Sky.
"How much longer?" Murray asked.
"A day. Maybe two."
"Isn't that what you said two days ago?"
"No."
Snow sighed. One day, the tears of Mother Sky would come back, freeing Father Earth from the dust. She'd do her rite of pilgrimage, hasten that day, return to the Catare, and then never speak to Murray again. Because-
"Get down."
Snow found herself being pushed down into the dust, alongside her brother. Her brother, who opened his mouth to protest, but was covered by Glenbrook's hand.
"Dusters. To the north."
Snow squinted through the afternoon haze. She could barely see-
"Their chariot nears."
So it did – her eyes told her the truth, and her heart protested against reality. But no matter how hard it pumped, reality, and the Dusters, bore down on them. A single chariot, belching smoke into the air. A relic of the old times, when the Steelers linked the land with roads like the Emfour, over which their chariots could ride. Tradition held that it was these chariots that had displeased Mother Sky, that in her wrath, she had caused the seas to rise, and her tears to cease. Seeing this monstrosity, she could believe it.
"They've seen us," said Glenbrook.
"No shit," Murray grunted. "So what now?"
"Now you two get up."
"What?" the twins asked.
"Get up and greet them," Glenbrook said. "It's only one chariot. They will get out of it to converse."
"And take us, enslave us, rape us, and-"
"They won't." Snow watched Glenbrook pat something under his fur clothing. "A guardian does not go unprepared."
Snow understood immediately. She stood up.
"Snow, what the dust are you-"
"Trust him," Snow said, extending an arm to her brother while giving him a smile. "You have your knife, right?"
"A knife? You think that'll do any good against a Duster?"
"After Glenbrook helps us, it will."
The chariot pulled up in front of them.
Mother Sky, protect us.
Two Dusters walked out from their chariot. They were tall, wearing strange black clothing, and carried themselves with the arrogance and depravity that waited all those who dwelt too long in the dust. They were pillagers, scavengers, raiders. The ones who offended both Father Sky and Mother Earth with their mere existence. Ones who had taken the lives of many Catare and those of other tribes.
"Bit young for a walkabout eh?" one of them asked. "Mummy and daddy gone, mate?"
"We don't wish you any harm," Snow said.
"Oh, I got that." One of the Dusters nodded towards Glenbrook, who was lying down on the road, as if passed out. "What's up with your friend?"
"Heatstroke," Snow answered.
"Right," the other Duster said, grinning through broken teeth. "Well, we've got enough room for you three in the back. Bit cramped, and a bit hot, but hey, who's complaining?"
"I am," Murray said.
"Are you?" the first Duster asked. "Well, you little wanker, you can-"
Glenbrook fired.
It was a firestick, a weapon of old, and one of great and terrible power. Enough to down the first Duster with a single blow.
"Shit!"
Snow dived down onto the fallen Duster and plunged her knife into his chest repeatedly. A blow for every Catare. Of everyone who had died in the dust and death they relished. Again and again, not seeing the second Duster draw his own firestick. Not seeing Murray charge him. Only turning as a pair of shots rang out.
"Murray!"
It was Glenbrook's voice, not her own. But as she turned-
"Murray!"
Her voice was added to the requiem. The second Duster had been hit in the forehead. Her brother had been shot in the stomach.
"Murray!" she exclaimed once more, holding his hand while putting another hand to where the firestick had impaled him. "It…it'll be fine."
"It hurts…" he whispered. "Water. Water…"
"Water? Right, water." Snow unfasted the tip of her waterskin. "Here. Here's some water. It-"
"No."
It was Glenbrook's voice. It was his hand on the waterskin. It was his eyes that impaled her like a spear.
"The fire hit his stomach. We shouldn't waste water on the dying."
"You…you can't…"
"He will die, no matter what we do. Firesticks are powerful. Not all wounds can be treated."
"You…you're our guardian!" Snow exclaimed. She got to her feet. "Our guardian! You're meant to protect us!"
"I tried," Glenbrook said. "With you, I succeeded."
"Water…" Murray whispered.
"You…you have to save him!" Snow yelled. Glenbrook said nothing, even as she pounded his chest. "You have to!"
"I would, if I could," Glenbrook said. "But I can't. No more than I could stop the sun setting."
Snow wept. Why were Mother Sky's tears so few, when hers were so many, she wondered? Why did the Dusters do this? Why was her brother lying on the great road, his stomach red, his lips pale? Why did this have to happen?
"Snow," he whispered. "I can't feel my legs, Snow…"
"I'm here Murray," she answered, taking his hand in hers. "I'm here."
So she wept. Wept for her brother, the tears falling into the dust.
She wept for a long time.
Night had come by the time they had buried Murray. They would not take the Dusters' chariot, and its former drivers' bodies would be left to the blackbirds. Glenbrook told her they would head for the village come morning.
Snow remained silent as the fire crackled. As the wind sung, as the dust danced, as the stars above bore witness to the passing of time. Silence was all that remained. Silence, despair, and death.
"Will it work?" Snow asked eventually. "Will it ever help?"
Glenbrook said nothing.
"Did you taste the water?"
No answer. But she knew the words that would have been spoken.
"Is there hope?"
No answer but the wind, and the crackle of a dying fire.
They had been greeted by the Quay at the end of the Emfour. It had taken them days to exit the plains where Dusters roamed, followed by hours to walk through the city of the east. Until finally, they saw the Great Arch, and the Wave – the great stone temple their ancestors had built, where they had offered songs to the sea. The places where voices had fallen silent as the sea rose, tears stopped, and dust consumed all. There had been little talk between the Quay, and the two travellers from the Catare. They were cousins, not brothers. Quay would fish from the sea, and scavenge in the ruins of their city, where animals small roamed and filled their bellies. Catare would live in the highlands, offering prayer to Mother Sky to heal Father Earth. Quay would greet and guide them to the Wave. But they would not be their guardians. Snow and Glenbrook would make the return trip alone. All in the hope that the Day of Plenty would come. Such were Snow's thoughts as she knelt at the steps of the Wave, the water of the sea lapping around her.
"Rise," said the Circular.
Snow rose. Glenbrook stood behind her, silent. The Circular, Lord of the Quay, stood above her. No-one else watched. What little words had been exchanged had been enough to show her that the Quay were far more interested in meeting the needs of the material rather than the spiritual.
"Snow, daughter of the Catare. You have travelled far, as many have done before you. You seek to bring the Day of Plenty, when the rivers flow and the rain drops once more?"
"I do," she said, reciting the words that all pilgrims had done before her.
"Then approach," declared the Circular. He held out a cup of silver to her. "Drink from the great cup, and hope that it tastes sweet. That the sea no longer rises, and the Sky Mother will give us her blessings."
Snow walked up the stone stairs, one foot at a time.
Faith. Right. If faith counted for anything, Mother Sky would have returned all her tears to Father Earth, and the land would be green again.
Walked as her brother's words echoed in her mind.
I believe that will happen.
As did her own. Right up to when she took the cup from the Quay – he wasn't an old man. Older than Glenbrook, but not nearly as old as the bone mother. Yet the look in his eyes, the sound of his voice – it told her that this man had seen everything he believed there was to see. And was weighed down in the knowledge of how little was left.
"Drink," he said, "and let the sea bless you."
Snow nodded and brought the cup to her lips. Whatever the taste, she knew she couldn't spit it out. Even if the sea did not bless her, she had to still be humble.
Because when you're rotting in the ground, or being raped by Dusters, or you contract the water sickness, I hope that gives you some level of comfort.
No Catare had died from drinking the water of the sea. They had only said that drinking it made them want water from the sky that filled the rivers. Still she drank, before handing the cup back to the Circular. Fought the dry…foulness in her throat, as the bitterness of the water flowed out with her tears. Fought, and tried to speak, her mouth opening, but no words getting past the bitter taste of ritual.
"I know," said the Circular softly. He laid a hand on her shoulder. "Return now, daughter of the Catare. And be merry. The Quay know that it will be millennia before the sea ceases its rage. We shall wait. We shall be here. May the Catare be there as well."
Snow nodded and walked back down the steps. One after another. Each step closer to home. Each step closer to shame.
"Tasted bitter?" Glenbrook asked.
Snow said nothing.
"He consoled me likewise. When I protested, he even suggested that our entire ritual was based on an effort to purify the water of the sea by our ancestors, before their great works broke down. Told me we were wasting our time."
"And did you believe him?" Snow whispered.
"I believe that soon I'll be in the dust, and my own beliefs won't matter."
She nodded as they walked away from the Wave, the sea lapping at their feet. Taunting her. Mocking her. Making her wish for the water of Mother Sky.
One day, she told herself, the water of the sea would be sweet. One day, the faith of the Catare would pay off. The land would be green, the dust gone, and Mother Sky and Father Earth would be in harmony.
That had to be true.