Chronicles of Gilderam: Book One: Sunset by Kevin Kelleher

tracks of a wanderer striding dutifully over the dunes. He was dressed from head to toe in a layered variety of tattered robes, which were beaten nearly to rags by years of use in harsh conditions like these. In one hand a warped branch offered him support, while the other held a heavy sack over his shoulder, murky with bloodstains. He surpassed hill after hill of powdery sand while the breeze tugged at him relentlessly.
    Ascending one of the bigger dunes, the wanderer’s destination became visible: a cluster of simple clay shelters, formed into round imitations of the dunes themselves, lying together on a flat patch of desert floor just ahead. It was home to a few hundred people, known as the Esh Wura , or dune dwellers. The dwindling tribesmen packed up their wares from bazaars in the center of the village. The dangerous cold of night would soon be upon them.
    Children played between the clay huts of the village, and as the wanderer approached a little girl ran out to meet him.
    “Father!” she called.
    The man knelt to hug her.
    “How is my dear Qali?” he asked.
    “You’ve been gone all day.”
    “Food is growing scarce. I had to travel a long way to find it. But I am here now. Come, let’s go home.”
     
     
    Inside the one-room adobe house, a solitary lamp hung from the ceiling to provide a scant half-light. A tiny fire smoldered in an oven built into the wall. Qali burst through the rug door, bouncing around with excitement as her father followed her in. His wife, grinding meal with mortar and pestle, rose to greet him.
    “Jerahd,” she said, helping him remove his outer cloak. “We’ve missed you.”
    Jerahd unraveled his shemagh and let wavy black locks fall free across his sun-browned skin. He had sharp, brown eyes and faded tattoos scrawled on his cheekbones. A short beard of black and grey stubble speckled his face and neck.
    He kissed her.
    “And I you, Bazah.”
    She took the sack from him and brought it to the table to unwrap. Its contents, a thick-skinned desert lizard called a corthac , thumped heavily when she set it down. Already field dressed, she began to skin it.
    “Where is Havlah?” asked Jerahd.
    “He is praying,” said Bazah. “The Agnari has come.”
    Jerahd paused.
    “Then I must go.” He threw his cloak back on and headed swiftly outside.
     
     
    It was already quite dark when Jerahd reached the prayer hut beside the bazaar, and pushed back its rug door. Nearly everyone had left. Several candelabra cast ample light around the largest room in the village, which was decorated red and gold with ornate tapestries and carpets. A thick haze of burning incense piqued his nostrils.
    Pillowy mats lay across the floor, and Jerahd’s son Havlah was bent over one, praying. The rest were vacant. At the fore of the room there was a meager shrine, and just in front of it sat the Agnari – the elder.
    The ancient man faced the lonely congregation motionlessly and with eyes closed. He might have been in a trance. Wispy hair draped from his head and a long, scraggy white beard clung to his chin. Deep wrinkles cut trenches around his eyes and through his forehead.
    Jerahd doffed his cloak and took up position next to his son, kneeling on a prayer mat. He closed his eyes and expelled all the air from his lungs. Slowly, he drew in a deep, practiced breath through his nose. When the exhale came, Jerahd muttered something inaudibly, like a quiet chant. He drew in another long breath. During the next exhale, Havlah and the Agnari chanted with him in perfect unison, their breathing synchronized. At its conclusion Jerahd bent forward and touched his forehead to the floor.
    Then he was upright again, facing the Agnari . Looking past him, Jerahd eyed the statue of the god Votoc in the shrine. Standing erect in regal robes, the idol held aloft a quill in one hand, while the other pressed a scroll to his chest.
    Votoc, one of the twelve gods, was the son of Geithoron and the patron deity of wisdom,