Aur Child

Sand Flea, a wispy street urchin of the village of Gjoa, hid behind the trunk of a towering palm tree. Behind her, the faded facades of village buildings, once-bright colors bleached by countless afternoon suns, now skulked in the pre-dawn gloom. A shadow among shadows, she breathed softly, choosing careful moments to peek one eye around bristled bark towards the ocean.

It was at least two hours before sunrise. At this time in the morning, when the attacks of vermin grew so great that she could no longer sleep, Sand Flea often stood up and stared into the blackness of the sea beneath blinking stars. In that silent stance, she might take inventory of all the events of the previous day, counting them up as so many boats floating in the bay. The boats of the fishermen were organized in perfect precision according to the hierarchy of the families to which they belonged, hempen rodes tugged by the soft sea breeze traced parallel vectors so that the entire fleet swayed in choreographed unison to the rhythm of incoming swells. Sand Flea knew with precise detail about every family, every boat in every family, and every object, secured or not, within each boat. She yearned to structure her thoughts with the same hierarchal precision.

This morning, however, was unusual. Whether it was the atypical movements in the bay that woke her or the persistent gnawing of the nasty little bugs, she had nonetheless immediately noticed the silhouette of a mast about twice the height of the typical fisherman’s boat holding steady at the outer perimeter of the artificial archipelago made by the anchored fleet.

“Hullo!” she said to herself in a guttural croak, “What arrives like that?”

The boat bumped up repeatedly against one of the Kamat’s family over the course of a few minutes. The hull, she thought, was a strange shape; the prow jutted forward sharply like the noses of people from the northlands. But that mattered little. If the breeze continues to blow gently to shore, she estimated, I will have a ship of my own.

“If it’s not here before the fishermen come,” she whispered to herself. “I’ll swim out to it.”

Her neck pulsed with pleasure.

Sand Flea basked in that emotion. Chance. When there were merchant vessels anchored in the bay, Sand Flea would watch from this very location and savor the same thrill as she planned her strategy of befriending the zealous sailors who came ashore in search of services and distractions. Despite being homeless and abandoned by nearly all of humanity, she had plied her profession as personal guide to crews who weighed anchor at her harbor town. Her head was an exhaustive catalogue of all the best restaurants, pubs, tea shops, groceries, herbalists, physicians, dentists, chandleries, tailors, clothiers, shoemakers, clothes washers, smiths, electricians, plasticians, glaziers, mechanics, lawyers, insurers, accountants, and of course, other establishments of diverse ill entertainments for just about any preoccupation. Gjoa, Sand Flea warned her clients as they tumbled into town, was not an innocent village. And Sand Flea, although she neglected to tell them, was not shy to squeeze her share from their curiosity.

“What luck,” she rubbed her begrimed hands together. “Me, a captain!”

Sand Flea’s stomach lurched. The prospects of capturing her own vessel suddenly seemed real. A boat of that size could feed and house her forever. I’ll rent it to the wealthiest fishing families for no less than 30 pieces per week and on the condition that they give me the fattest fish each day! Never again to sleep in the biting sands of the beach. Never again to beg for rice from the back doors of dingy cafeterias. Never again to choose a route through the city to avoid scowls, threats, and pummels. Never again to be forced to read passages of Our Order in exchange for natty, hand-me-down clothing. All she had to do was tie that boat to a cleat on the quay and wait for sunrise. She imagined herself posing proudly upon the bow, hands on hips, chin turned upwards, when the fishermen arrived. Was there a line in the boat with which she could tie up? Would they let her keep it? Would one of the fishermen force her to give it up?

“Bah! Rotting hulls to the lot of ’em!”

As Sand Flea fantasized about the bright future that momentarily awaited her, she kept her eyes on the boat and listened behind her for any hint of another person. She had seen boats drag anchor or slip their lines countless times before. She knew exactly what would happen. Based on its position and the arrangement of the fleet all pointing to windward, she expected it to be blown past the Kamat boat and bounce through the pack until it was stopped by the quay. Any moment now, it should continue its way into her hands.

Her mouth and eyes opened wide. Instead of being carried by the breeze deeper into the fleet, the boat retreated slowly over the horizon under power of neither sail nor oar. Her chest deflated. She watched sullenly until the boat disappeared into the morning gloom beyond her line of sight. The very faint smile that had formed at the edges of her mouth sank back to the passive horizontal position of her dark, thin lips. Sand Flea could have been devastated by this experience, but who would care? Besides, her condition had groomed her for pragmatism, not pity, even for herself. She shrugged her shoulders. Without a promise, there can be only hopes.

Sand Flea had been so preoccupied with the larger boat’s unnatural return to sea directly into the wind, that she didn’t immediately notice the Kamat boat’s movement. However, a bump and a gurgle of water retrained her sights to the outer edge of the fleet.

Now this is something peculiar! A person must have switched boats and now stolen Family Kamat’s boat, rowing it towards the quay. Sand Flea snickered. They will surely be punished by Old Man Kamat. In those brief glimpses, she could see the little fishing vessel zigzag through the maze of moored boats.

The oarsman was pitiful, repeatedly fouling the oars on anchor lines, sometimes even bumping an oar against the hull of another boat with an echoing wooden thud. Sand Flea shook her head disapprovingly. Aside from the clumsy pilot, she counted two other people crouched low.

Hidden behind the tree beside the ragged canvas sack that served as her bed, Sand Flea realized she needed to reposition herself to better see – and receive – the approaching boat. I’m witness to a crime. Old Man Kamat will reward me if I can’t get a larger bribe from the thief.

She timed the moments when the boat passed behind others to creep towards the quay. Once there, a small shed located at half its length shielded her approach, almost exactly where she guessed the oarsman would come alongside to tie up. Sand Flea didn’t dare to peek around the corner now; instead, she used the sloshes of the sea against the wooden hull to gauge the boat’s proximity. At the sound of whispers, her face warmed slightly.

Her coffee bean complexion, naturally supple as the skin of a young girl always is, was confused by the crusty layer of salt and grime that had accumulated since the last time she had bathed in the sea. Shreds of clothing, too large and no longer recognizable as a particular style, hung from her emaciated limbs. Despite smears of dirt, tears in her garments revealed tiny red welts all over her skin where the bites of the creatures from which her street name was earned had been rubbed and scratched.

The Kamat boat bumped against the stone wall between clumps of rags hanging against the quay. Now she clearly heard the seaman’s tongue, but the accents were hard to place. Two women. One man. The man had been at the oars. A woman looped a line to the quay and lent a hand to the others stepping off.

Sand Flea crouched in the shed’s shadow. She crept along its perimeter as they walked away from the boat towards the shore. One woman was shorter than the other, but all were very tall with fair skin and hair. At the foot of the quay, they separated – two walked directly up into town while one of the women seemed to stroll casually past the shuttered stalls along the merchant’s street.

Sand Flea trailed the lone woman. The sky was just starting to glow with the promise of daylight when she stopped a stone’s throw away, concealed by a shop corner, still undetected. From behind, Sand Flea studied her. The woman kept her thick, blonde hair tied up, exposing a sturdy neck fixed upon horizontal shoulders. She wore a cloak of very heavy fabric in an unfamiliar weave with the hood thrown back such that the tip of her ponytail bent down and disappeared within its folds. Her trousers were also made of the same, heavy material. Beneath the hem of the pant legs, Sand Flea recognized the heavy, leather boots worn by northern peoples. Absurd, she thought. In this climate, only sandals would suit. Four of Sand Flea’s feet might fit in each boot.

Stay poised, she told herself. The time will soon come to strike.

As the woman surveyed the merchant street, Sand Flea crept beneath the stalls spaced steps apart, arranged through shuttered apertures in the weathered stone facades of low buildings. Goods or services advertised on roughly hewn boards hung over each stall window or, in some instances, were painted directly onto the building itself. They were written mostly in the local script; only some were subtitled in the merchant tongue. The woman seemed to stop at each one and study the words. A spectrum of colors in contrasting vertical segments further differentiated where each vendor’s space transitioned to the next, giving the street the festive, parade-like look that drew in sailors. But now, in the milky dawn mist, the woman stood alone. Sand Flea peeked from behind some boards leaning against a wall. The soft patter of a feral cat pawing around a corner into the thick shadow of an alley was the only sound to be heard.

Now the woman stopped in front of a small café fixed into the corner of a thick building. A single decorative column suspended the chamfered wedge where the door was hung. Although not yet open, Sand Flea caught wafts of spices, and she could see the woman lift her nose to the air. It seemed like the woman wanted to slip through the flaps and order a plate of curried cauliflower or a skewer of roasted eggplant, but she woman suddenly clutched her stomach as if she were in pain.

At that moment, an old frond weaver turned the corner, burdened with fresh baskets. He looked up at the large woman and veered to avoid meeting her on the narrow street. Ignoring that hint, the woman approached him and presented an awkward mudra in greeting. The man could not reciprocate with his full hands, but he smiled and bowed his head deeply, still keeping his trajectory away from the towering outlander.

“Where find maps?” the woman suddenly asked in what sounded to Sand Flea like an archaic form of the local dialect.

The man stopped momentarily. A scrunched face and twist of the head indicated he was either puzzled by her terrible grammar or surprised a woman of her appearance could speak anything of the language at all. “Charts?” the man replied, suggesting the more probable nautical need for a person of her type and dress.

“Yes, charts,” she said.

“Later,” he said, and then, while walking away, “Not now.”

“But, where?” she called out after him. The man was lost around another corner.

The woman looked around instinctively. Sand Flea crouched down into a fleeting shadow. The harbor lay behind them at the base of the hill. Accumulating daylight glinted off the flat bay causing the water to appear silvery-white. Dashes of colorful fisherman’s boats sprinkled atop its surface transformed the round bay into the celebration of a frosted cupcake. Even the bases of the wind towers, climbing up from the hills at the back of the village, were slathered in a pastel fanfare of colors. Merchants were now bustling about in their shops. She heard them removing small clasps and squeaking open the shuttered windows. From within nearby walls, bangs of objects and the hushed repetition of floors being swept found their way to her ears.

For nearly an hour, Sand Flea had spied on the strange arrival from behind building corners and stacked chairs. She was in a time crunch. On one hand, the more she observed and listened to the woman, the better she could gauge the magnitude of her impending bribe. On the other hand, the longer she waited to pounce and secure the hush money, the higher the risk that someone else might discover the boat and associate its relocation to the group of strangers now moving about the village. In her opinion, the risk of the latter now sufficiently diminished the benefit of the former. Sand Flea took a quick scan of the street to be sure no one else was around and stepped out of the shade. In a proud, condescending voice, using the local dialect she was sure the thief would not understand, she said, “Ahoy, thief! You thought you’d strut into town without paying your tribute to its princess? I expect a large sum to keep my mouth shut!”

The woman straightened up to full height and grew rigid. Sand Flea noticed the lump of hair tied up behind her bounce slightly from the sudden jerk. Turning around slowly, the woman looked down to rest her eyes upon Sand Flea. She exhaled in apparent relief upon identifying the scraggy, grubby source of the voice.

“I, eh, very pardon. What you say me, the small girl … highness?” the tall woman said. She had uttered these words in a shaky voice that might have emboldened Sand Flea; however, she instead felt her tiny spine uncharacteristically stiffen. She hadn’t meant the woman to understand anything she said. It was just a bit of fun she liked to have with newly arrived sailors who never spoke her dialect. From the way the woman responded, it was obvious the woman didn’t understand much. Still, something of the taunt was comprehended. This was not a good way to begin a business relationship.

Reverting to the universal merchant tongue, Sand Flea responded to the pale-faced woman a little more bluntly.

“You will be in big trouble if Old Man Kamat discovers you and your cohorts have cut his anchor line and stolen his favorite boat.”

“Oh,” the woman lifted her eyebrows, “you speak the merchant tongue as well. That’s helpful. I’m afraid I’m not able to communicate so well in your dialect. I thought I might remember more when the time came, but if I try to think of the words, they just disappear.”

They stared at one another for a moment before the tall woman continued. “But where can I meet this Old Man Kamat to thank him for saving our souls and reimburse him for the loss of his anchor?”

Sand Flea placed her hands on her hips. “You weren’t lost. I saw the whole thing. You arrived in a sturdy ship that transferred you to a Kamat boat and then sailed away against the wind without oars. The townsfolk will liken that kind of story to the rumors about ghost ships.” Sand Flea paused, and then quipped, “And with that complexion, they’ll certainly think you’re a ghost.”

“Well,” the woman said with a kind smile and a thoughtful expression, “it would be best to avoid such controversies. Perhaps, I could trust you to keep this between us?”

Sand Flea twisted her mouth to one side. “I’m known in this village as someone who can be both loud and silent. Each comes at a price.” But she didn’t want to negotiate quite yet, because she needed to estimate the full value of the transaction, so she quickly added, “What’s your purpose here anyway?”

Smiling pleasantly again, the woman replied, “I am in need of a sea chart.”

“Ha! A sea chart!” Sand Flea slapped her thigh. “Don’t lie to me! You sneak into town by stealing a fishing boat in the dark of night just to get a sea chart? I don’t believe you, woman.” Sand Flea continued giggling as she spoke. “And what use would you have of a sea chart in a small coastal sailboat that has abandoned you and disappeared to sea?” But, before the woman could answer, she continued in a more patronizing tone, “No,” she said, “I may be a small, homeless street urchin, but I know a thing or two. You have no need for a sea chart. You’re a thief and a liar!” Now having regained the condescending hauteur of her very first words, she continued to chuckle while she added, “I should have followed your two compatriots. You’re a dead end!”

“Well,” the woman replied, “I thought you said you were a princess. Princesses don’t speak like that! What is your name, child?”

“Listen, stranger. You tell me your name first!”

“Very well. My name is Digambar Dharamvaram.”

Sand Flea burst out into raucous laughter, hooting, “Digambar Dharmavaram!” down the street like it was a dearly sought ware for sale. Some of the shopkeepers stopped what they were doing and looked at them. Sand Flea wailed with laughter. She rocked her tiny head back and forth with animation, her eyes glistening with tears. It would seem nearly impossible for that miniscule frame to produce such loud laughter and make whoops and slapping noises against her threadlike legs so powerfully, but there she was enjoying herself freely and merrily.

“You? You northern sailor shrouded in heavy wool with nothing darker of your body than the blue in your eyes? You expect me to believe your name is Digambar Dharmavaram? Is there anything you can tell me that is not a bald-faced lie? Here,” she said, shifting her feet back and forth and opening her arms wider than her wafer-like body, “let me try to help learn you to speak the truth. The people in town call me Sand Flea. You see?” she said, lifting her shoulders and eyebrows in unison, “I am known as Sand Flea. Alright? You can call me Sand Flea. Yes? My name … is Sand Flea. See? The truth is that easy.” Sand Flea continued to breathe heavily after her fits of laughter.

Digambar Dharmavaram waited with crossed arms watching Sand Flea’s antics. After the girl’s laughing subsided, she said, “What an amazing, strong, confident creature. If you were not embedded in grime, I would hug you like a sibling.”

Sand Flea blushed. She glanced down at her arms before hiding them behind her back.

“I don’t need a sister,” she said.

Digambar laughed. “Perhaps not,” she said, “but isn’t there any way I can improve your life?”

Sand Flea’s mouth opened but no words came out, an uncommon occurrence. Quickly, she recovered, saying, “You’re not very good at negotiations, are you?”

“Negotiations?” Digambar shook her head. “Have you even reached your third decade?”

“That’s hardly any of your business.”

The sky between the short buildings was now glowing yellow, promising another hot, humid day. Shopkeepers were opening their doors for business. The smells of morning: steeped tea and piping bakeries, skipped upon the slight breeze through the market street.

“Look, Sand Flea,” Digambar said, “it’s very nice to make your acquaintance. Perhaps you don’t believe me, but I assure you I do not lie. It may seem strange to have a name paired with a body such as this, and it’s true that I’ve traveled from the north, yet my ancestors hailed from these lands many hundreds of years ago, and the name has survived the ages.”

And, again attempting to use words from an ancient version of the tongue she had used with her family so long ago, Digambar said with another smile, “Small girl, highness, I will liken to you. We friends, so no sisters.”

Sand Flea squinted. She did not laugh at these terribly mangled words. She had never had such words spoken to her before, and she struggled to concede that it wasn’t a trick. Then, she quickly swept an arm across her eyes and swiped at the air beside her feigning annoyance at a pesky insect, but the resultant smear of grime glistening on her forearm lay bare the attempt to conceal her tears. For the first time, she dropped her default scowl and looked up with the soft, longing eyes of a precious child. Stupefied for a few moments, she openly sniffled.

Digambar’s eyes glistened. She swallowed deeply and seemed to reach out to hug Sand Flea but drew back as Sand Flea stepped to the side. Sand Flea regained her composure with a shake and reinstated a wrinkled forehead, but her choked words came out softly. “Well,” she said, “it is an ancient name. Not heard here like that. I could believe it is from an old family.” And then, with more gusto and an open mouth, “Are you wealthy, then?”

“I believe the elders say, all wealth is relative, Sand Flea. I do have the means to purchase a sea chart if only you would be so good as to take me to a cartographer. Maybe then you will believe I need it?” She seemed to look over the waiflike form of the girl. “But perhaps we can first eat breakfast together?”

“Huh, you would offer me breakfast after all my taunting?”

“I would. And lunch, too, if you like. I enjoyed watching you laugh. It made me feel ... warm.”

“I don’t eat more than one meal per day … if I can find it. Will you give me the pieces to buy food tomorrow instead?”

“I will.”

“Do you eat vegetables or only fish?”

“I, what? What kind of question is that?”

“I’ve heard that northern peoples only eat fish.”

“Sand Flea, I simply cannot say what kind of food I would like, or if I can eat anything at all.” She held her stomach, and then, “I’ve been sick at sea. Perhaps it’s safest to first find something for you alone. I’m sure just that will please me more than you can imagine.”

“Well,” Sand Flea replied. She nodded and looked at the ground. “I don’t have many chances to prefer foods. I take what I can get. But,” now she looked up into the sky, “if I were to actually enter from the front of a restaurant and be able to choose what I want, I would ask for a gotchi.” She trained her eyes back on Digambar. “It’s a dessert though, and you said ‘breakfast.’” She looked slyly at Digambar.

Digambar considered the brash little figure in front of her and laughed softly. “Very well, you shall eat gotchi for breakfast.”

The girl hopped in the air, turning herself around to face the right direction and, as she squeaked, “Come!” she reached out and took Digambar’s hand. Digambar followed close behind her but allowed their two arms to remain in tension so that their hands could stay connected.

Sand Flea had already eaten two dishes of gotchi when the suspicious owner delivered a plate of fruits and a bowl of steaming broth to their table. Digambar pulled the bowl towards her.

“I hope this will be an acceptable compromise between the warnings in my belly and the recommendations of my friends to attempt something light.” As she sat on the cushioned bench of the shaded café, she leaned forward and took a cautious sip of the liquid. Sand Flea stabbed a skewer at the chunks of fruit and shoved them into her open, chomping mouth. There was no time to talk.

“But really,” Digambar continued, “I do feel good. No aches. No migraine. I can breathe without the tightness in my chest I’ve had aboard Odyssey.”

Sand Flea’s mouth was full of fruit. “What’s Odyssey?” she mumbled.

“Oh, it’s just our ship.”

“And your friends let you come ashore even though you’ve been so sick?”

“They said I’d be excited about seeing Gjoa. That it would have a positive effect on my health. That it may have lasting effects. I admit I was nervous, but the sunlight, the heat, the bustle of the crowded streets – none of it seems to be much trouble.”

“What about the soup?” Sand Flea was eyeing the bowl.

Digambar pushed it away. “I’ve had enough.” Sand Flea casually pushed the fruit plate aside.

“And all you have to do is get a chart?”

“Pretty much. They told me to enjoy seeing my hometown.”

“This is your hometown?” Sand Flea looked surprised.

“No, it’s not my hometown.” They just don’t understand me.

“And what if you do get sick?”

Digambar reached into her shirt and grabbed a small object attached to a lanyard. “If I’m in trouble,” she said, “I can use this, and they’ll come get me.”

“Wow.” Sand Flea stopped chewing. “Is that allowed in your village?” She tried to reach for the strange looking object, but Digambar was startled by her words and quickly hid it back inside her shirt.

“I won’t need it,” Digambar said. “I’ll manage just fine with you as my guide.”

Sand Flea had never wanted to prove herself a useful guide as much as she did now. Her help was never more evident than at the cartographer’s stall. The rickety old man sneered at Digambar when she walked into the shop. He was sitting on a stool at a large table with sheets of paper, straight rules, and other geometric tools strewn before him. A brightly colored bird chirped from a suspended cage above his right shoulder. Behind him, scores of rolled charts were stuffed into shelves in a haphazard fashion that couldn’t have been organized in a way comprehensible to anyone but the mapmaker. Aside from the small space allowed for customers to step in from the busy hallway of the covered market, there was no room for anything else in the stall.

He barely looked up at Digambar as if the light reflected from her white face or blocked by her tall body was enough to tell him who had approached.

“I already heard you were coming,” he said, in a hoot of thickly accented merchant tongue. “I can’t help you.”

“But you don’t even know what I want.”

“Are you a merchant captain?” he asked her.

“No.”

“Then I will not sell you any charts.”

“What kind of rule is that?”

The old mapmaker peered up through the space between his spectacles and eyebrows. The bird in the cage jumped from one perch to another. After a harrumph he returned to his work. It was only at that point that Sand Flea stepped out from behind Digambar and reached for the nearest chart she could lay her hands on. The old man started and immediately stood up.

“What do you think you’re doing, Sand Flea?” he demanded.

“Just browsing,” she said calmly, and unrolled the large chart in front of her as if she were about to deliver a proclamation to the entire village.

“Get your grimy paws off that chart,” he howled, stepping out from behind the table and reaching a wrinkled arm out to recover his merchandise. The bird chirped nervously in its cage.

Sand Flea was quick as lightning. She snapped from one corner of the tiny vestibule to another, placing Digambar between herself and the mapmaker.

He craned his neck and addressed the enormous woman towering over him, “You will leave my shop immediately, and take this moldy crumb with you!”

Digambar opened her mouth, but Sand Flea spoke up from behind her.

“You will sell us a chart of the southern continent’s western coast for twenty-five pieces,” she said.

The old man stepped back against his table and tried to look around Digambar.

“I certainly will not,” he said.

“You will, or else I’ll explain to the captain of The Marlin when she calls that the last charts you sold her were priced triple what you sold them for to the captain of Al Sahab.”

The old mapmaker leered at the tiny girl, but he didn’t deny the accusation.

Instead, he asked, “How can you know such a thing?”

“Hmph,” Sand Flea said with a shrug. “I know it as I also know you save your pieces in a velvet-lined chest beneath the cabinet beside your bedroom window which, by the way, has a broken clasp that makes it easy for just about any thief to gain entry.”

“Ha! You’re a wicked little tramp. There are no thieves in Gjoa other than you.”

“Perhaps not, but there may be on The Marlin.”

The mapmaker paused, considering his options before muttering, “Twenty-five pieces is too little. Have you any idea the work required to produce a trustworthy chart?”

“I have an idea that you charged Captain Kinshalk ninety pieces and Captain al Doud thirty, so unless you are undercutting yourself for certain folks, my estimate is the work required to produce a trustworthy chart is around twenty-five pieces. Hence, my offer.”

The man rubbed his ink-stained thumbs against his fingers.

“I’ll sell you the chart for forty pieces. No less.”

“Show us the chart,” Sand Flea said.

The man returned to the gap between the table and the shelves, running his bony index finger along the tubular scrolls until he found one that he approved of. With a slight tug, the chart slid out from the collection. Turning to his table, he swept some of his tools aside and unrolled the chart for the two customers to see.

“Is this what you need, Digambar?” Sand Flea asked.

“Digambar?” the old man said as he simultaneously looked up and adjusted his spectacles.

“Yes, Digambar Dharmavaram,” Sand Flea said.

“Ridiculous,” the old man said. He shook his head but said nothing more.

Digambar looked down at the chart. After studying the coastline for a few moments, she said, “There are no depths near the harbors, and I see no reefs marked anywhere.” She looked up from the chart at the mapmaker, and then, “Perhaps this chart is incomplete?”

“For forty pieces, this is what I can sell.”

“Don’t you have a complete chart of this coastline, Sujai?” Sand Flea asked.

The mapmaker bristled at the sound of his given name being used in this way by a child. But the effect seemed to urge him to be done with the transaction as quickly as possible.

“For that price, no,” he said, turning back to the shelf and extracting another roll. “But for fifty-five pieces, this one would have those features.” He unfurled the new chart over the previous one, spreading it flat with the side of his palm.

Digambar studied this version.

“What is the name of that village there?” she asked, pointing to a spot along the coast.

“Oh, it’s written here. Hill Village,” he said. “Famous place. Surprising a merchant sailor such as yourself has never heard of it. Great white cliffs with six towers atop. See,” he said, pointing to the notations beside the cape that was shown jutting out into the sea and creating a visibly safe haven for even larger ships. “Visible over forty miles out to sea, day or night. Can’t miss it.”

Digambar was quiet, so the old man spoke again.

“You looking for coquina?”

“For what?”

“For coquina. To build.”

“No, not that.”

“Well,” the man replied, standing up and folding his arms, “Don’t know why else you’d go there, unless you don’t like the fish we salt. Few resources there. Very dry lands. They dance when it rains.”

Digambar was not about to discuss her motives. She turned to Sand Flea and said, “This one’s good.”

Sand Flea stepped forward again and said, “We’ll take this for thirty pieces, same as al Doud.”

“No, no,” the man said, “al Doud purchased a pilotage chart. This is for two thousand miles of coast. No, forty-five pieces and no less.”

Sand Flea rubbed her chin and said, “Sujai, this is what I’ll do. Thirty-five pieces for the chart and I won’t mention to Captain Kinshalk or Captain al Doud about your shifty practices and I’ll have Prusoth come fix your window clasp for no charge … except parts, of course.” She was rolling up the chart as she presented these terms as if the deal was already made.

The mapmaker frowned at Digambar before clicking his tongue. “Take it.”

Digambar removed the pieces from her satchel and placed them on the previous chart. The man swept them off the table and jingled them into the chest pocket of his shirt.

“I hope this doesn’t get you into any trouble,” Digambar said to Sand Flea as they exited the market into the powerful midday sun. Sand Flea held the rolled chart up to block the sun from her eyes. Digambar couldn’t tell if the little girl was grinning gleefully or squinting from the sun.

“Nah,” she said, “he’s had that coming a long time.”

“But won’t the elders scold you for blackmailing him?”

Sand Flea stopped and looked up at Digambar, “Scold me? They might just praise me for once!” She kicked a stone along the dirt road. “No one likes old Sujai around here, anyway. The elders’ll trip up on their morals and say that I was teaching him a lesson.”

Digambar tilted her head but didn’t challenge Sand Flea.

Before she could say anything, Sand Flea asked, “What do you want this chart for anyway?”

Digambar looked away, as if hiding her face.

“We didn’t have it so I thought it would be good to get one.”

Sand Flea tried again.

“Why are you going to Hill Village?”

“Why don’t the elders like you?”

When Sand Flea jerked her head backwards, she revealed a glimpse of that little girl again, but quickly recovered.

“I just said they don’t praise me.”

Digambar looked over Sand Flea and said, “I think you’re missing out on a lot more than just praise. You look like you could use some new clothes. Where can we go for that?”

Sand Flea blushed. She pinched the fraying strap that held up her shirt and repositioned it higher up on her shoulder. Her lips were pressed hard together, and she looked down at her toes. Slowly, she lifted her arm and pointed down a street that intersected with the market street on which they met.

“Over there’s a secondhand shop where there might be something for me.”

“Is there a guest house nearby here?”

Sand Flea’s eyes lit up. She said, “Why, are you staying here?”

“No,” Digambar replied, “It’s just so hot. I thought we might also like to bathe after shopping. To keep your new clothes clean.”

“Bathe? You mean, indoors?”

Digambar laughed. “Yes, indoors.”

For a second time that day, Sand Flea grabbed Digambar’s hand and held it tight. She savored the connection. If only the clothing shop was much further away.

After Sand Flea had bathed and was proudly wearing her new shirt, trousers, and sandals, they found themselves in the dark recesses of the guest house’s restaurant. Sand Flea didn’t refuse a larger meal. Digambar stuck to fluids.

Sand Flea bounced in her seat and glowed with joy at Digambar.

“I feel, like I’m sparkling,” she said, swallowing a chunk of baked carrot. “I don’t even notice my bites anymore.”

Digambar reached for Sand Flea’s arm and rotated it for inspection. “Where do you get all those bites?” she asked.

“Sleeping at the beach.”

“Don’t you have anywhere else you can sleep?”

“Nope. Not really.”

Digambar looked around the room.

“Can’t you sleep here?”

“When?”

“Well, whenever.”

“No way! They’d throw me out for not paying.”

“I mean, pay to sleep here.”

Sand Flea slipped two fingers into the chest pocket of her shirt, flipping up the flap.

“This is just as empty as the old one, even without the holes,” she said, and continued eating.

“Such a difficult world,” Digambar mumbled.

Sand Flea chewed another bite and swallowed quickly.

“World? Is where you live any easier?”

Digambar looked at Sand Flea. She stretched out a silent pause.

“Well, we don’t have to suffer like that.” Digambar was motioning towards the welts on Sand Flea’s arm.

“But what do you do when you get bitten?”

Digambar shook her head. “We don’t.”

“What do you mean, you don’t? You don’t have bugs where you live?”

“No, not if we don’t want to.”

Sand Flea slammed her hand down on the table. The mugs and tableware clinked.

“Want to?” she asked. A few patrons nearby looked over at the unlikely pair. The action was meant to call attention to her own shock, but she noticed Digambar wince in pain. Something was wrong with the woman. She had noticed it earlier. Even though Digambar had talked about feeling well, she stumbled occasionally and sometimes mumbled her words. When they were in the secondhand shop, Digambar insisted on sitting down and holding her head for a moment. It seemed like every time Sand Flea pressed Digambar about her friends or her journey, fresh pains came to her.

“So, you just get rid of them then?” Sand Flea asked.

“What?” Digambar said, looking dazed.

“The bugs?”

One final pause, and then “Yeah,” she nodded her head, “We just turn them off.”

Sand Flea blinked. “How do you do that?”

Digambar looked over both her shoulders. Then, she leaned close into Sand Flea and stared deep into the little girl’s marvelous, topaz eyes. She slowly presented a smile without any other change to her cold stare. Mischievous was something Sand Flea recognized intrinsically. The girl scooted close against Digambar’s side and winkled her nose with suspense.

In a whispered voice, Digambar said, “We will it gone.” Her mouth opened as she waited for Sand Flea’s reaction.

Sand Flea recoiled, quickly shaking her head. “What?”

“Yeah. If you don’t want it, it’s not there. Too cold? Gone!”

“Pshaw,” Sand Flea clenched her eyebrows, “We don’t have cold here either.”

“No, no,” Digambar said, “Itches, discomfort, pain. All of it. Will it and it goes away.”

“No itches?”

“Just think you want it gone, and it goes. Hunger? Gone. Tiredness? Gone.”

“Well, what about sickness?”

“Also gone.”

Sand Flea had cocked her head, but she looked dubiously from the side of her eyes at Digambar, as if she was being told the harbor might freeze tonight.

Sand Flea squinted. “And death?” she asked.

Digambar paused again. Sand Flea wondered what the woman could be thinking. It was as if a worry had returned but she was fighting it off.

“No death,” Digambar said, expressionlessly.

Sand Flea’s jaw dropped.

“What? You live forever?”

“Pretty much, yes.”

Sand Flea sat still for a moment and then let out an innocent laugh.

“Who can live there?” Her hands were stretched out before her on the table.

Digambar shrugged her shoulders, “People like us,” she said, nonchalantly. “Humans.”

“We can all go there?”

“Not everyone. It’s like … you have to be invited.”

“Well, can you invite me?”

Again, Sand Flea noticed the same pause, the same struggle. But this time, Digambar seemed to close off.

“I don’t decide the invitations, Sand Flea. And,” she continued quickly before Sand Flea asked anything more, “you’d really need to be sure that you want to go there. You’d need to know everything about it before you decide.”

“Well, then tell me about it.”

“I … I can’t. Not now. I don’t have … permission.”

Sand Flea shook her head with a puzzled look. Clearly, she didn’t understand. How could she?

Digambar clutched her abdomen. “I must leave soon,” she said.