I’d needed the hard silence of the desert because I was still learning back then. This place was perfect. When I practiced, I liked to dig my fingers in the sand and scratch circles, squares, trapezoids, fractals, whatever shapes I needed to visualize the equation. This day when I was eight years old and had run away, I’d set up my tent beside the furthest stone and my fingers drew circles upon circles.
My eyes were half-closed as I watched swirls of sand tumble down a nearby dune. I was whispering a current into being as dividing numbers tumbled through my head. I worked hard not to think about the self-righteous look on my oldest sister’s face as she said, “It’s just dancing. You have to start sacrificing things like that now.”
I was angrily digging my left index finger hard in the sand when I felt it. My nail grazed over it first and I noticed, but unconsciously. I was seeing a short hazy blue line dance before me. Tears fell from my eyes. My family was right. For three years they’d been pushing and pushing me, my mother, father, sisters, brothers, aunts, and uncles. They were all so sure of what I was, that I had the gift. I did have it and now everything was changing because of it. But I just wanted to dance.
The current whirled itself into a perfect circle. Now it was a connection. This would have powered an astrolabe if I had it assembled and positioned for “turn on.” I felt a sting and hissed with pain. My hand. My finger. The blue disappeared as I brought my finger to my face for a closer look, my heart slamming in my chest. A scorpion bite all the way out here in the desert, while alone, was very bad news.
My thumb dripped blood and sand was ground into the wound. A tiny gray point poked from the spot where I’d been making circles with my fingers and thumb. Beside it was a small yellow flower. How’d I miss that? I wondered. I tried to pick the flower and realized that it was attached to a thin dry but strong white root that clung to whatever was poking from the sand. I put the flower down and grasped the point. It wouldn’t budge. I shifted to my knees and leaned closer for a better look.
“Oh,” I whispered. “It’s not just . . .” I sucked on my finger as I looked at it. Then I started digging around it with my other hand. Soon I was using both hands, disregarding the stinging and light bleeding. Whenever my father allowed me to buy a new book, I spent hours in my room with my eyes closed as I listened to it on my astrolabe. In many of those stories, a curious person would find a secret or magical object that would change her or his life. I’d always wanted that to happen to me. And now I was sure this was it.
This was the Book of Shadows that appeared on the boy’s astrolabe when he passed too close to a tree that had just been struck by lightning. This was the jeweled eagle figurine that the girl bought in the market that caused all the birds to come. This was the plant that began to grow in the old man’s bedroom after a strange dust storm.
The thing I dug up was a stellated cube. It fit into the palm of my hand and was made of a tarnished metal. There were intricate designs all over it, adept loops and swirls and spirals whose lines never touched each other. I turned it over this way and that, marveling at its complex pointy shape.
“What is this thing?” I whispered, awed.
I knocked off the remaining sand and used some of my otjize to polish it. This worked better than I expected, for soon its tarnished appearance changed to one of amazing shine. And each time I moved it, it produced a . . . a soft sound. Like the low husky voice of a woman. It was a little scary . . . and fascinating. There was somehow old current in this thing. Nevertheless, the more I moved it, the softer the sound until it stopped all together.
Father’s eyes will bug out when I show this thing to him, I excitedly thought. And that was how I decided that I was not running away after all. I couldn’t wait to hear what he had to say about the mystery device I’d found. Or if he could tell me the best way to study it. Maybe I can get it to do whatever it was made to do, I thought. I giggled to myself, sitting on one of the stones and holding the strange thing to my face.
When someone tapped my shoulder, I nearly screamed. And when I whipped around and saw the tall dark-skinned woman with a corona of black hair so huge that it blocked out the sun shining behind her, I did scream. I jumped to my feet and nearly fell over my satchel.
She was one of the Desert People. She looked ten feet tall and everything about her, from her hair to the light sheer blue cloth wrapped around her head to her flowing pants and top made of the same blue material, was blowing in the soft breeze. Slung over her shoulder was a small capture station, its catch bag, and a blue old-looking backpack. I squinted up at her in the sunshine. She was so very tall and so . . . blue. The tallest person I’d ever seen. And somewhat old like my mother’s mother. She grasped a thick gnarled walking staff with her long-fingered hands, but she wasn’t leaning on it.
“What are you doing out here?” she asked. Her voice was dry and commanding, also like my grandmother, and I immediately stood up straighter.
“I . . . this . . . this is where I . . . please . . . my . . .”
“Oh, shut up, child,” she sighed. “Forget I asked.” She rested her staff on her side and began doing that which I’d heard the Desert People did; she moved her hands this way and that, like a child swatting at a fly. I took the moment to quickly look around. There were no others. Could I outrun her? The woman wore no shoes. How can she stand the hot sand?
“Binti,” she said. “Daughter of Moaoogo Dambu Kaipka Okechukwu Enyi Zinariya.”
“That’s my name, my father . . . how do you know?” I whispered. I’d decided that there was no way I could outrun the woman. She was old and carried a staff, but something told me she was strong like a man and she didn’t use that staff for walking.
“Do you know who I am?” she asked.
“A desert person?”
She nodded, working her hands before her. It was as if they weren’t even part of her body. In my pocket, my astrolabe buzzed. The sun had just reached its highest peak and it was best to sit in the shade for the next hour. I reached into my pocket to stop it from buzzing.
“I journeyed all the way to this place so I can think,” the woman said.
“I . . . I did, too,” I said.
And for a moment, we stared at each other.
“I’ve been coming here since before your mother was a thought in your grandmother’s womb,” she said, with a chuckle. “What is that you’ve found?”
I grasped it more tightly and took a step back. “Nothing. A pretty chunk of . . . metal.” I felt sweat prickle in my armpits. To lie to an elder is a sin.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not going to take it from you.”
“I . . . I never said that,” I said.