“What all did you pack in here?” Rob asked, his voice muffled by his ker and his voice’s upwind march.

Conner waited for his brother to catch up. “The usual,” he lied. He saw that Rob was practically bent over from the weight of the pack. Conner had planned on carrying it himself so no one would grow suspicious. Which would’ve left Palmer to carry the tent and Rob the lantern and his own bedroll. Fucking Palmer, Conner thought to himself. And for the first time, he considered what his brother’s absence would mean for their father’s tent. Rob would get back to town easily enough, the wind at his back, but the tent would probably be left to flap to tatters, with no one to help him break it down or haul it home.

“Can we stop for water?” Rob asked.

“Sure.” Conner lowered his large bag to the sand, and Rob nearly fell over backward as he shucked the other pack. Conner could hear the extra canteens of water sloshing in there. Enough for eight nights of marching out and back, as far as he told himself he would go.

“Twelve years,” Rob said. He sat on the gear bag and pulled his ker down, used it to wipe his neck. The cloth had sandworn holes in it and was tattered along the edge. Conner felt like a shitty brother.

“Yeah, twelve years.” Conner pushed his goggles up onto his forehead and wiped the gunk[10] from the corners of his eyes. “I can’t believe it’s been that long.”

“It has. It means I’ll be twelve this year.”

“Yeah.” And Conner wondered if he’d waited this long for any other reason than to know his brother would be okay without him. And he would. At twelve, Rob could officially apprentice in a dive shop. He could get room and board for what he now did anyway on the side. Graham would take him in. And Conner knew Gloralai would watch after him like he was her own little brother—

“Why’d we bring so much jerky?” Rob asked.

Conner turned from the horizon and saw his brother rummaging in the rucksack. “Close that up,” he said. “You’re letting sag[11] in.”

“But I’m hungry.”

Conner reached into his pocket. “I’ve got food for the hike here. Now seal that flap.”

His brother did as he was told, didn’t seem to have seen all else in the bag. Rob sat with his back to the wind and chewed on a heel of bread. In the far distance, carried on the breeze, the drums and thunder of No Man’s Land could be heard, sounding nearer than last year and nearer still than the year before that. Soon, Conner thought, those drums would be beating in Springston. Soon they would be beating in all their chests, driving them mad.

The sun beat down as the clouds of sand abated. It was one or the other during the day. At night, it was the cold and the howling beasts. The various torments of life worked in shifts so that one was always on duty. Thus was human misery extracted day and night like water and oil are pulled from the earth. Thus was the toll inflicted, the price one paid for being unwittingly born.

“Let’s go,” Conner said, getting to his feet and adjusting his ker. He pulled his goggles down over his eyes. “We’ll be making camp in the dark if we keep lingering like this.”

His brother rose without complaint, and Conner helped him with the pack. He lifted the heavy tent with its lantern and bedding and stakes and sandfly, and the two of them left the great wall behind and marched to the thunder. They marched to the thunder, if not in step with it.

17 • The Bull and the Boy

Legend had it that the great god Colorado and the white bull Sand had not always been at war. The constellations that hung in the heavens were not always thus, for the stars that outlined man and beast moved like planets, albeit more slowly.

In the olden days, the stars that marked the great warrior had been more closely arranged, the man a mere boy and not fully grown. But even when young he had shown promise as a hunter and a warrior. He and the bull whose tail always pointed north had been great friends in those days. They rode across the sky in defiance of the firmament, laughing and howling, playing and hunting. Together, they ruled all, for the spear and hoof were a keener measure of power than land or title. The world beneath them stood quiet, and water ran everywhere like the softest of sands.

But the white bull belonged not to the boy but to his chief, the One Clansman. Sand was the Royal Bull, protected from the hunt and sacred. So when Sand returned from a long absence with a nick in his hide, it was Colorado’s spear that was blamed. Sand moaned and moaned and said this was not so, but none save for Colorado could understand the bull’s laments. The others heard only the pain, which stoked their anger.

The One Clansman was pulled from his tent and was asked to make a judgment. He approached his injured bull and studied the wound. When his hand came away red, it painted the sky at dusk. “It was the boy’s spear,” he said.

Outraged, the people of the tribe drove the boy out. They cast stones at him, which broke into smaller and smaller rocks. And still they threw them, until there was stone no more. The boy Colorado wintered by himself beyond the jagged peaks where no rock could reach him. And so began the winter of ten thousand ages. During this time, the belt of the great warrior Colorado never rose above the horizon, as was common in the cold months. The months stayed cold for a very long time.

Rain froze and gathered. The ice grew so heavy, it made valleys where once there were plains. The rocks used to drive the boy out now covered the old world. Sand and ice took turns burying the clan.

Countless moons and a thousand winds passed. Now a man, Colorado chased a cayote up the mountains, following his tracks, which led him over the peaks and down to his people. He had been absent so long, no one recognized him. Not even the great bull Sand, who had grown old, his hide and eyes gray, the scar on his flank a black and jagged mark. Nor did Colorado recognize his old friend of the hunt. The years had been too many. The world was upside down. Ancient maps had been redrawn and relearned.

The only reminder of what had happened was that black scar on Sand’s hide, and all the old bull knew of the wound was that the spear in Colorado’s hand had made it, and so the bull and the grown boy began to war with one another. Man and Sand were now at odds, could no longer find harmony. A fiction had become truth. Lost was the true story of how Colorado had saved the bull’s life. No one remembered the pack of cayotes clinging to Sand’s hide, how they’d been felled with a mighty blow from Colorado’s spear, a nick made in the bull’s flesh as the point caught him as well. The truth had vanished like the sheets of ice. A hide bore a great gash, just as the plains where Colorado hunted held a jagged line in the crust of the earth that marked the boundary of No Man’s Land.

Conner knew these legends, but he didn’t trust them. He was old enough to know more than one version of these stories. The tales he had learned as a youth had changed, and he imagined they’d been changing for as long as they’d been told. Back when the legends began, the sand that made the dunes had probably been solid rock.

But there stood the valley out of which no man returned. It lay before their campsite as he and Rob staked the tent a dozen paces from its jagged border. It was a hard line, this. The desert floor was cracked, the hide of the bull an open wound. And across this blew the sand. Out of No Man’s Land blew the sand. It blew across an injury that would never heal.

No Man’s Land. Despite the name, Conner didn’t know of a single boy his age who hadn’t ventured out to the rift just to jump across and back. It was a dare undertaken in trembling packs of youth, the taboos whispered on long hikes, the false tales each year of a boy who had slipped and had fallen into the chasm and whose screams could still be heard. “That’s how deep it is,” an older boy would invariably warn with a sinister smile. “You fall in and you fall forever, screaming and screaming, until you grow old and die.”