# Read the first page of Dustborn by Erin Bowman

Read the opening of Dustborn by Erin Bowman free, no signup. A map branded on her back leads to rumored paradise.

- Page: https://uncovered.ink/read/dustborn-erin-bowman
- Genre: Ya dystopia
- Year: 2021
- ISBN: 9780358244431
- Read it blind (cover and title hidden): https://uncovered.ink/?b=9780358244431&s=read-page
- Buy: https://bookshop.org/a/125786/9780358244431
- Borrow: https://search.worldcat.org/search?q=9780358244431

## The opening

There's a storm coming.

I can see it out across the plains, a cloud of haze along the horizon that's bearing down on Dead River like a blanket of shadow. It's a good four clicks off, maybe more, but dust storms move fast. Already the threadbare flags on the huts flap wildly.

I hurry on to the lake. "Big storm to the west," I call out to Old Fang. The wrinkled trapper is kneeling on the dock beside the dam, checking my traps for frogs or fish, not that we get many of either anymore. Dead River's been slowly dying for years, the lake drying up and the banks growing wider. I've had to extend the dock several times just so the traps can still sit in water. Old Fang searches out the storm. The churning clouds crackle and glint with lightning. "That's the second one in ten days. We can't get a break."

It's not untrue. "Any catch?"

He shakes his head. We should have moved in the winter, but now the endless stink of summer is ahead of us. There's no chance of a pilgrimage for at least four moons, not unless we want to die in the heat, and even the damn frogs have had the sense to move on.

Of course, frogs can't read the stars, and I know we need to have faith. The night skies warn of dangers ahead, of dry land and dust-caked tongues, but if we just sit tight, they also promise a bounty. Flowing rivers. Green land. There's to be a rebirth. I've seen it with my own eyes, and even before I could see it, there was Indie pointing it out to me in her sisterly way, and before she could read the stars, there was Ma, pointing it out to both of us. Still, it's hard to keep believing the sky when every sign here, on the land, shows nothing but death and decay. Old Fang squints at the empty buckets I'm carrying, secured to the piece of driftwood I've got propped on my shoulders. "You grab the haul," he grunts. "I’ll rally the pack."

From back near camp, Ma's voice is audible on the wind. She's already shouting orders to our people. I also catch the twinkle of my bone chimes, and once those start singing, it means a hell of a storm. Ma'll need all the help she can get. I give Old Fang a quick nod, and he hobbles off. I pull my scarf over my mouth and nose, looping the loose end over my head to protect some of my hair. Then I scamper down the bank and sprint across the cracked, parched lakebed, the buckets clipping my hips as I run. Used to be I could grab a haul right from the bank. The river might have always been "dead," flowing only in the spring or after a rare rain, but the lake was a beauty when we first arrived. Now I have to go out a ways to reach water. Not even the dam helps much anymore.

The hard earth becomes damp dirt underfoot, then sticky mud, then shallows. I trudge out to my shins and throw down the buckets, listening to the glorious sound of water gurgling into their depths before I heave them back out.

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