The sands shift. I squint; must be a trick of the light.
The sands shift more, and then an animal, the largest I have ever seen, as large as Lucan’s Tree, breaches out of the sand, as if it were water. I yelp, stumbling back.
It breaches again, a low tittering noise.
The cliff gives out.
I scrabble back, but the cliff dissolves, spilling down, taking me with it. Suddenly there is no bedrock beneath me; I am below the remaining cliff, the sand sucking up my legs. I scrabble and wave my arms but only sink deeper.
I am drowning in sand.
I scratch and claw, the desert swallowing up my waist, then my chest. Rumbling, and I wonder if I can feel Maxian’s power from out here. A hard shelf rises from the sand, grains streaming off its edge, and I grab hold. The edge keeps rising, pulling my body out of the earth.
My feet land on something soft and I look down.
Scales.
I am standing on a carpet of scales. My heart almost gives out, but I clutch the surface above me. It is like a round, hard stump of some kind. A shell.
My gaze takes in the giant beast, my feet on one of its front legs, its shell offering shade and protection. I force myself not to panic, do not panic—for what do we do with a stinging insect? We swat it away. We kill it. And this might eat me. Don’t they eat faeries?
A giant sand turtle.
The creature swings its neck, its enormous reptilian eye meeting mine. My heart picks up, but I don’t dare move. The slitted pupil expands, encompassing the dark silhouette of a faerie.
Death said they only bother you if you bother them.Standing on the creature would count as bothering it, right?
I am mad, truly mad, for the only thing I can think to do is reach for my genius.
It is alive and full and flourishing, and it pushes my message along the plane.
Hello,I think.How are you?
The creature bellows, the scales vibrating beneath my soles. I cling on for life.
My foot grazes something rough, sharp.
So deeply embedded I thought it part of the animal’s skin is a thick piece of twine tangled around its leg. I bend down, and the twine bites into my hands. Still, I work my fingers under the rope and lift it just enough to stick the knife under.
The creature bellows again, vibrating. But I cut, gently, slowly, until something snaps free. The twine springs away, leaving a deep indent behind.
The creature titters, then starts spinning around.
“Whoa, wait—”
I reach for the shell, hauling myself over its edge. Broad and domed, the turtle’s shell is ringed in black. But it is not thick, heavy, disruptive like my tattoos. It has the ripples of age, and walking to its center, I gawk at the pattern—like a dozen tree stumps bound together.
It’s beautiful. So beautiful to see traces of years conquered, a life being lived.
The creature slides toward the fading sun, the great expanse of desert I am supposed to walk.
“Oh!” As it begins its journey, I wonder if it will keep its shell above sand. I hope it does. Bracing on bare feet, I ask: “Is this all right?”
It doesn’t reply.
Slowly, finally, I sit on the center of the shell, leaning against my rucksack. The sun slips away, and as the air cools, I take out that torn cloth. With little choice, I sip the wine, preserving it as much as possible. I nibble on the bread, but my throat is already scratchy.
When the sun comes up, I use the measly umbrella to avoid burning. It does little. Still, the turtle swims, and I wait, and the wind blows and the sun drops again. The turtle swims for days, I think, while I eat stale bread and drink fae wine. When thecanteen is done, I collect and choke down my urine. I lose count of the moons and sun, and even figures seem to flit across my vision in the searing heat and deadly cold. Although it is not a Walk, I feel like I am dying.
