SandRider by Angie Sage
Outside, the desert air held its breath and Spit Fyre watched, still as stone.
KAZNIM NA-DRAA
Inside the star tent the stillness was broken by the gentle rise and fall of a large mound of furs, beneath which Karamander Draa, the Apothecary, was sleeping. The only other occupant, the Apothecary’s elder daughter, Kaznim Na-Draa, lay wide-awake. Her gaze wandered around the peaceful space she knew as home. A single candle burned in a dish of scented water set in the middle of the rug-strewn floor. Its soft light showed books piled along the sides of the tent, a scattering of cushions around a low table on which a bowl of dates and a jug were set ready for breakfast. The jewel-like glass of blue and green potion bottles in neatly stacked boxes near the door glinted in the light of the steady flame and looked just like the jelly sweets from the Red City that Kaznim loved so much. She watched her mother’s soft breathing for a while but avoided looking at the empty cot set at the foot of her mother’s bed. Whenever she thought about her half-sister, Bubba, Kaznim felt as though she had swallowed a small cactus. It hurt.
After some minutes gathering her courage, Kaznim sat up, and, with several covert glances at her mother to check that she was still sleeping, she dressed quietly.
As a sliver of orange sun tipped above the distant horizon, Spit Fyre saw a movement in the wall of the star-strewn tent. He saw a small, dark-haired girl in a long red coat wriggling out from underneath the canvas and hopping awkwardly as she pulled on a pair of leather sandals. She set off toward the Egg tent, stopped outside and stood with her head tilted in thought. She slipped off her sandals and then, to the dragon’s surprise, she simply faded away. Spit Fyre blinked, wondering if he had just woken from a dream. But the sandals outside the tent told him otherwise.
In her hand Kaznim clutched the UnSeen Charm that the sorcerer who had brought the Egg and stolen her little sister had given her. It was beautifully wrapped inside a pale blue origami bird so that the opal pebble Charm formed the fat little belly of the bird. Kaznim loved the bird almost more than the Charm, even though she knew the sorcerer had made the bird himself with his own long, thin fingers and sharp, pointed nails. Kaznim knew it was a bribe to get her to spy on her mother. There was no way she would ever do that, but even so, she had accepted it because she had loved the little blue bird so much. Kaznim remembered how the sorcerer had presented it to her with the words: “For you, my dear. You can hide from anyone with this—except from me.” She had taken the bird and stuffed it deep into her pocket where her mother would never find it.
Kaznim was looking for her tortoise. The Egg Boy had stolen it—she knew he had. She did not hold out much hope of finding the tortoise in the Egg tent, but she had to check. Kaznim stood UnSeen in the dim hush of the tent and listened to the Egg Boy’s snuffles and the slow breathing of the Apprentice. She had never been inside the Egg tent before. Subhan-Subhan had sneeringly said that girls were bad luck inside a hatching tent and besides, her terrified mother had forbidden her from going in.
Now that she was inside, Kaznim did not see what all the fuss was about. The tent was hot and stuffy in order to keep the Egg warm through the cold desert night. All she could see of the Egg was a bump covered in a black fur with the Egg Boy curled around it like a fat white maggot. Her mother’s apprentice, Mysor—whose thankless task was to wake the Egg Boy every three hours and bring him anything he wanted whenever he wanted it—was hidden beneath a pile of thick blankets beside the door. Kaznim tiptoed past him and looked at the fur pelt that covered the Egg. She longed to lift it and see the beautiful gold-streaked blue of the Egg’s lapis skin, but she did not dare. She reminded herself that she had come for her tortoise, nothing else.
Kaznim dropped to her hands and knees and crawled across the rugs, patting them gently to see if there were any tortoise-shaped lumps. As she had expected, there were none. She got slowly to her feet and looked down at the Egg Boy, thinking that no one would ever guess how spiteful he was when he was awake. As if aware that he was being watched, the Egg Boy stirred and Kaznim stepped hurriedly back—onto something hard. She nearly screamed—she had trodden on her tortoise.
Kaznim dropped to her knees with a soft thump and Mysor opened his eyes. She froze, hoping that her UnSeen was still working. Mysor stared straight at her and did not react. Kaznim shivered; it was a strange feeling to have someone look through you. She waited until Mysor closed his eyes again and then, terrified of finding a crushed tortoise, she gingerly pushed her hand beneath the rug toward the lump, which was worryingly flat. Her fingers closed around something cold and sharp-edged, and she pulled out a beautiful gold box. Kaznim smiled with relief—it was not a squashed tortoise. The Egg Boy mumbled something in his sleep and Kaznim hurriedly shoved the box into the pocket of her tunic and slipped out of the tent. It served the Egg Boy right, she thought. She knew he had taken her tortoise, and so she would take his precious box.
Spit Fyre saw a square of gold float out of the tent and then one of the sandals rise into the air, quickly followed by the other. He watched the sandals walk away as if they had got tired of waiting for their owner, while a lone golden box hovered above them. The dragon closed his eyes for a few seconds and when he opened them the girl had appeared. The sandals were now covered by her feet and the gold box was hidden in a pocket in her long red coat. Spit Fyre watched the small, slight figure walk away from the encampment and head out into the emptiness of the desert and the sunrise beyond.
TORTOISE HUNT
Kaznim hurried on, looking carefully for any telltale mounds of sand, which the long, slanting shadows of the sunrise would show. “Ptolemy . . .” she whispered, pronouncing her tortoise’s name: Tollemy. “Ptolemy, where are you?” Kaznim knew she had to be very alert to have any chance of finding the tortoise. Ptolemy was not big—he fit comfortably in two cupped hands—and he moved fast. Once the sun had warmed the sand he would be awake and off for another day’s hike. By the end of the day he would be miles away and lost forever.
Kaznim had looked for the tortoise all the previous afternoon, but when at dusk she had returned tortoise-less to find the Egg Boy putting up the Egg tent for the night, his smirk told her that he had something to do with Ptolemy’s disappearance. When Kaznim accused him of stealing her tortoise he had told her that that he had seen Ptolemy out by “the singing pit.” Kaznim knew at once that the only reason Ptolemy would be so far away and in such a dangerous place was if Subhan-Subhan had actually taken him there. Or was the Egg Boy bluffing—was it a ruse to get her trapped in the sinking sands of the Pit of the Singing Sands? Either way there had been nothing she could do that evening. By now the tortoise would, in his own small way, be doing the same thing as the setting sun—digging himself into the sand for the night. She would never find him, and besides, it was far too dangerous with the sand lions waking for their nighttime hunting. All Kaznim could do was to retreat into the star tent and plan Ptolemy’s rescue and her revenge.
And now, she thought as her hand closed around the gold box, she had her revenge. Now the Egg Boy, too, would know how it felt to lose something precious. It served him right.
Kaznim walked quickly across the sand, leaving an unwavering line of footprints in her wake. On the far horizon she saw tall dunes rising like a swelling sea before a storm, dark against the strip of bright dawn sky. A little spooked by the vastness that lay before her, Kaznim turned to look back at her tent and saw the first rays of the rising sun catch its silver stars, sending them shimmering against the faded blue. She caught her breath. Her home looked beautiful. She thought of the hateful Egg Boy and she wished the Egg would hurry up and hatch so that her little sister would return and he would go away and leave her in peace with her mother, her tortoise, Bubba and Mysor.
Kaznim thought of her mother asleep in her bed of furs. She had left a note using the name she called her mother when no one was listening:
Dear Ammaa,
I have gone to find my tortoise. I will be home soon.
&nb
Kaznim
Kaznim hoped that she would be back with her tortoise well before Ammaa read it. Ever since Bubba had been taken, her mother panicked if Kaznim went anywhere on her own.
The sun was rising fast now and Kaznim broke into a run. She knew she must reach the Pit of the Singing Sands before the warmth of the sun woke Ptolemy. The tortoise moved surprisingly fast, and soon he would look like just another distant rock shimmering in the heat haze. Ten minutes later, Kaznim had reached the pit. Once again, she looked back at the star tent; it seemed so far away that she felt a twinge of homesickness. She longed to be pulling back the door hangings, stepping into its cool shadows with her tortoise in her arms. But first, Kaznim, she told herself firmly, you have to find him.
THE PIT OF THE SINGING SANDS
The Pit of the Singing Sands was a large circle of unstable sand—a treacherous place where no one trod for fear of falling through to who knew where. But the early-morning sun made it relatively safe, for the slanting shadows showed where the solid ground beneath the sand abruptly stopped. That morning, the circle of the sand inside was quite a few inches lower than the solid rim and as Kaznim looked at it—hoping that Ptolemy had not decided to bed down there for the night—she saw the grains undulating as though some great beast was stirring below. It took all Kaznim’s courage not to turn and run for the safety of the star tent. Heart pounding, she stood back from the edge and scanned the sand, watching for the telltale upward push of sand that would herald a tortoise greeting a new day.
A sudden flurry no more than a few feet away caught Kaznim’s eye and her heart leaped—something in the Pit was moving. A waft of fine dust puffed up into the gentle morning breeze and landed softly. There was another, more purposeful movement and at last Kaznim saw what she had been waiting for. A scaly, flat brown head with a perfectly round, bright black eye poked up from the white sand.
“Ptolemy!” Kaznim called out with relief.
Slow and deliberate in the cool of the morning, the tortoise pushed his way up and sat blinking in the sunlight. Kaznim squatted down and held out a small sliver of coconut, which she knew Ptolemy could not resist. “Ptolemy,” she whispered encouragingly. “Ptolemy, come here. Come on, Ptolemy. Over here.”
The tortoise stuck his head out and regarded Kaznim with a quizzical air. Then, very deliberately, he turned and stomped away—farther into the circle.
Kaznim jumped up in frustration. “Ptolemy!” she called out. “This way. Ptolemy!” But the tortoise continued his onward trundle.
Carefully keeping firm sand below her feet, Kaznim circled the pit, heading for the other side, toward which Ptolemy was advancing at some speed. Tortoise and girl were converging when the singing began. A high-pitched keen drifted out of the pit: “Aaaaaiiiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaeeeeeeee . . .” And like dancers whose tune had at last begun, the grains of sand on the top began to swirl.
Kaznim stopped dead. The hairs on the back of her neck rose. Late-night campfire stories of nightmare creatures emerging from the pit came back to her, and had it not been for Ptolemy, she would have turned and run. But the tortoise was still doggedly making its way to the edge of the pit. And so, going against all her instincts, Kaznim ran toward the Pit of the Singing Sands—away from her home, away from the place where she was safe, toward danger. She was not leaving without that stupid, pig-headed tortoise.
Dust rose in a fine mist, catching in her throat. Kaznim wound her long red cotton scarf around her mouth and nose, and crouching on the very edge of the firm sand, she willed Ptolemy to speed up and get near enough for her to reach.
The tortoise was almost there when he suddenly dropped, as if into a hole. It was no more than a few inches down, but it spooked him. He pulled in his head and feet and sat like a stubborn rock. Desperately, Kaznim threw the piece of coconut at him. Its only effect was to make the tortoise gather himself more tightly into his shell. A soft sussssisssisssssisssussssisss of sand began and to her horror Kaznim saw the sand within the pit begin to slowly swirl, like water going down a drain. Ptolemy began to sink.
Kaznim could bear it no longer. She threw herself forward as though she were diving for a ball. She sank deep into the soft sand but her outstretched hands caught hold of Ptolemy’s cool, hard shell and did not let go. Snakelike, Kaznim began to shuffle backward toward the safety of the edge of the pit, but as her feet touched the rim, the sand shifted beneath her and became as thin as water. Kaznim tumbled down, down, down through the sand, into the depths of the Pit of the Singing Sands.
THE APOTHECARY’S TENT
The Apothecary was woken by the Aaaaaiiiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaeeeeeeee . . . of the singing sands. She sat up fast, convinced that a mischievous Sand Spirit had slipped into the tent. But as the traces of sleep left her, Karamander Draa realized that this was no Spirit. She had heard the sands once before and knew what she must do—keep still and silent so that whatever emerged from the pit heard no sign of human life.
“Kaznim,” she whispered across to the mound of blankets piled onto her daughter’s bed. “Do not be afraid. Keep very quiet. Lie still. It will soon pass.” The blankets stayed obediently quiet and still. A soft smile touched the Apothecary’s face. Kaznim was so brave, so calm in the face of danger—no one would know she was there.
Some ten minutes later the wailing of the sands at last subsided. “Kaznim,” Karamander whispered in a low voice. “All is well. You can come out of your burrow now.”
But Kaznim’s burrow was unresponsive. A worm of worry twisted in Karamander’s stomach—the bedclothes looked wrong somehow. She got up and began to walk over to her daughter’s bed. By the time she was halfway across the rug-strewn floor, Karamander was running. She already knew the truth—Kaznim was not there.
“Kaznim! Kaznim!” Karamander pulled the blankets from the bed, threw them to the floor and raced to the door. With trembling hands she unlaced the door flap and stumbled outside into the early-morning sun. Karamander ran from tent to tent, throwing open the door flaps, shouting for her daughter. She left the Egg tent until last.
Two figures, bleary in the stuffy atmosphere, sat up. “Wharr?” asked Mysor, his husky voice breaking as he spoke. The smaller figure jumped up guiltily. Mistakenly thinking he had overslept and was late for the first turn of the day, Subhan-Subhan leaned against the Egg and expertly twisted it through a quarter-turn.
“Mysor!” Karamander barked. “Out! Now!”
In seconds the disheveled Apothecary Apprentice was blinking in the sunlight. Mysor was thin and tall with short, dark curly hair, clear blue eyes and a dislike for waking up.
“Kaznim’s gone,” Karamander said. “I need help.”
Mysor was suddenly wide-awake. “Gone?” he asked. “Where?”
“I don’t know where she’s gone,” Karamander said desperately. “But the pit was singing.”
“Oh.” Now Mysor was as worried as his Master.
Karamander began to run. Her long red nightgown flowed out as her bare feet sped across the sand, heading toward the distant dust cloud that hung over the Pit of the Singing Sands. Mysor’s long stride caught up with her easily. “Stop!” he said, in a commanding voice that surprised himself as much as Karamander. “I ask pardon, Apothecary. But we must be mindful. The desert gives signs to those who look. But they do not last long. Let us pause a moment and observe.”
Karamander regarded her Apprentice with something near respect. “Yes. Yes, of course. You are right. Tracks. There will be tracks.”
Mysor half closed his eyes and moved his head from side to side, scanning the sand. It was an old desert trick, designed to blur out the detail and show the structure below. Beneath the freshly blown sand he saw the ghost of a long, straight trail of footprints heading for the pit. He looked at the Apothecary. She had seen them too.
“So. She went to the pit,” Karamander said flatly. She shaded her eyes against the glare. Beyond the dust cloud she saw nothing but empty sands. Her daughter had vanished.
“I . . . I don’t know.” Mysor was not one to tell tales, but he knew that yesterday, Subhan-Subhan had walked to the pit. He had been up to something, Mysor was sure of that. Karamander followed his glance back to the Egg tent.
“If that brat has done anything to my daughter, I will . . .” She trailed off, knowing she was powerless. The safety of her other daughter depended on the Egg Boy doing his job properly, and Karamander dared do nothing to jeopardize the hatching of the tyrannical Egg. With heavy hearts, Karamander and Mysor followed Kaznim’s footprints as they headed toward the Pit of the Singing Sands. They both knew they were walking into emptiness.
Far behind them, a pale moon-face peered out from the Egg tent. The Egg Boy smiled. Stupid tortoise, he thought—so easy to take to the pit and toss in. And stupid girl, too—so easy to fool. The Egg Boy slipped back into the stifling heat of the tent and went over to the beautiful lapis-blue egg that only he, Subhan-Subhan, long-lost son of a tribe of Orm keepers, had the skills to incubate. At least, that was what the sorcerer had told him, and he believed it, even if no one else did. Subhan ran his hand over the Egg’s smooth, warm surface. He was glad that the annoying girl would never see it hatch. She did not deserve to be in the presence of a Great Orm. He wondered how the little Orm inside would be changing today and reached beneath the rug to find his precious box.
It was not there.
Five minutes later all the rugs were heaped outside the Egg tent and Subhan was scrabbling frantically in the sandy floor. Where was the Egg Box?
On the edge of the Pit of the Singing Sands, Karamander Draa stared at the abrupt end of her daughter’s faint, windblown tracks. She gazed at the mass of soft sand and the dust cloud hanging over it that they led into. There were no tracks leading away from the Pit, and the desert beyond was empty. There was no doubt about it. The Pit had taken her daughter.