Once upon a time…

I am a sand fox with a torn ear. I was born where the wind combs the dunes and the moon writes silver lines on the ridges. Our elders speak of the Lantern March, a night when beetles glow bright and drift in a long line to lead the lost to water. Only once each dry season do they march.

One year, the well at the thorn camp failed. People and camels groaned. I smelled panic and old rust. That night, the Lantern March began early, but it veered toward a dead basin. The glow drew the young and the thirsty. I tasted the air and knew a dust-gulch slept there, ready to swallow feet and hooves.

I ran ahead, yipping the alarm call I learned from a hawk. I leapt onto a ridge of crust and broke it with my weight. The ground coughed. The procession paused. A caravan woman read the danger and turned the line. We followed the beetles from the ridge instead. They curved, as if ashamed, and led us to a hidden cistern under a cracked idol.

Now my torn ear is a charm. On Lantern nights, I walk first.