“Yeah, you know, put those alpha muscles to some use,” Omar teases. “Since Tomas here is in charge of the project and knows a lot about your mother, we thought it was a great win-win.”
“We’ll be glad of the assistance,” Tomas says. “This school is exactly the type of project your mother would have shepherded when she was still with us.”
“You want me to help build a school?” Jasper asks, still incredulous.
At that moment a handful of kids come running by, screaming and laughing and almost knocking Jasper right off his feet. Jasper watches them like bugs he’d rather squish.
“Jasper is actually great with kids,” I say, catching the concerned expression on Tomas’s face. “He and his little sister get on like nobody’s business.”
“Max,” Jasper says through gritted teeth.
“What? It’s true!”
“Of course, if hard labor isn’t your thing we’re also short of a teacher or two. You could help out with the children’s lessons?”
Jasper looks over at the mass of kids, their hands shooting eagerly into the air to answer a question, shouting for attention, getting into scuffles, pulling hair, picking noses. Eventually he sighs.
“Pass me a hammer.”
“Wonderful,” Tomas says, gesturing for Jasper to follow. “Let’s get you all set up.”
“See ya,” Omar says in the most patronizing tone. “I’ll take care of Max.”
Jasper is hesitant to move.
“I’ll see you later,” I say, rubbing his shoulder. “I’ll be fine.”
Eventually, he follows Tomas toward the half-built school tent, but not without looking back, all worried and uncomfortable, to give me a reluctant wave.
“He’ll fit right in with the other builders,” Omar says. “They hate unnecessary conversation.”
I roll my eyes but smile a little. It’s sort of fun the way he makes Jasper squirm. I just hope Jasper can learn a little bit about his mom while also hammering away.
“Okay,” Omar continues. “You ready to meet Yoki?”
“Is this it?” I ask.
Omar has taken me to the very edge of the settlement. All the other tents sit behind us, and in front is a lopsided shelter that looks about ready to topple over. The fabric walls are aged and dusty and look as though they’re almost wearing through in places. Some weed or shrublike bush grows around the base of the poles and climbs up one side of the structure. The doorway is a tattered flap, being frisked about by the breeze. It looks small and dirty, but at the same time homely. It’s like the desert equivalent of a witch’s cottage you’d find in the woods in some fairy tale. Beyond Yoki’s tent the desert seems to stretch on forever.
“This is it,” Omar says and moves to the shelter, lifting aside the flapping door and entering without announcing himself.
Tremulously, I follow.
The entrance is so low I have to duck but inside things open up in a weirdDoctor Who–type way. The tent is long and narrow, with two large sheets of fabric pulled back at the far end to reveal the view—or more like the walls have been peeled away so that the inside and the outside are one and the same. The floor is dusty but covered in rugs that seem to move under my feet. Ferns and succulents grow in pots and in baskets hanging from the vaulted ceiling. Antique-looking cabinets and stools are dotted around the perimeter of the room, along with old wooden shelves housing jars of powders, herbs, and strangely colored liquids. In the middle of the room, floor cushions surround a circular table with rocks and—are those…? Yep, bones in a pile in the center.
“Yoki?” Omar calls out to the seemingly absent guru.
He turns and gestures for me to come farther in. It’s cool and dry in the tent, and a pleasant, faintly floral aroma fills the air. I join Omar by the central table.
“Right on time,” Yoki—or who I assume is Yoki—says as they appear at the opening on the far end, draped in flowing white fabrics, their silver hair long and held back from their face with a braided leather headband.
They’re younger than I imagined. For some reason I was picturing some hunched-over nanna type. But Yoki can’t be much older than Omar. Their skin is flawless, russet but freckled slightly. Their eyes are startling gray.
Omar heads to greet Yoki, taking their hands in his and bowing his head. “Lunar greetings.”
“Moon gods’ blessings,” Yoki says in return, their voice smooth and dulcet, as though they possess wisdom well beyond their years.
Omar and Yoki nod to each other before Yoki looks up at me and smiles. My breath catches in my throat. Who is this strange ethereal person? Where did they come from? I’ve never met anyone like them before.
