Tikker's Arc

Chapter 4 of 6

Tikker dragged the cold bowl across the open sand. The chill kept the frost-pepper safe. But the sun beat down, and the stone building stayed far off. Then Tikker felt it. A heavy tremor rolled through the ground, slow and steady. The thing from the collapsed rock had not stayed buried. It had followed Tikker's drag-marks across the dunes, straight as a rope. Tikker froze. The bowl's hum felt loud now, like a bell calling the creature closer. The sand split open ahead. A long yellow body rose, scaled and thick, with cracked goggles pushed up on its head and two pink cheeks. It was a sandworm. It fixed Tikker with a wide grin full of teeth. Tikker shrank into its shell, ready to seal shut. "Yeah, what do you want?" the sandworm said. Then it looked past Tikker and its grin dropped. "Hold up. You dragged that thing right over my patch. You got half the desert chasing you." It jabbed a claw at the trembling ground behind. "Whatever woke up back at the flats, it's reading your trail like a map." Tikker could not run and drag the bowl both. The hum was the bait. Tikker understood now. The cold sound pulled the creature on. Tikker nudged the bowl toward the sandworm and pointed at the ground, then at its own trail, pleading without words. "Oh, I get it. You want me to break the track." The sandworm rubbed its cracked goggles and flexed. "Course I can. Best tunneler in three dunes, no contest. Hah!" It dove under the sand. The ground churned. Tikker felt the worm carve a wide circle, crossing and recrossing the old drag-marks, scrambling them into a mess no nose could follow. The tremor behind Tikker slowed. The creature had lost the clean line. But the bowl still hummed, and the sound carried. Tikker needed the chill gone from the open air. A small bird raced past, a roadrunner kicking up dust, quick and quiet on the sand. It made no hum. It left no cold scent. That was the trick. Tikker had to move like that bird, fast and silent, without the singing bowl giving it away. The sandworm surfaced, panting. "Track's dead. But that bowl's still ringing the dinner bell." Tikker made a choice. It tipped the frost-pepper from the bowl back into its own shell, sealed the warm ash and the cold spice together for a few short breaths, and shoved the empty bowl down the worm's fresh tunnel. The hum sank into the sand and faded. The ground went still. The creature, with no sound and no trail, turned away toward the flats. Tikker had both spices again, pressed close inside one shell. The frost-pepper was already warming. Tikker had bought silence, but lost the cold bowl. Now the melting clock ticked again, and the stone building was still far across the sand.