[Envinyatar]

Listening to Rasputina’s story . . .

‘Rhymes,’ mused Zimzi. ‘I like that idea.’ She rolled the orb in the palm of her hand, thinking. ‘When I was young, my mother taught us the history of the lands around us and of our family by rhymes. It was very effective, especially for a dunderhead like me who could never remember the names of places, much less where they were, or why they were important.’ She tapped her fingers of her free hand on the table. ‘We can keep a journal as we use the compasses . . . yes, that would work.’

Derufin gave Zimzi’s hand a squeeze as Rasputina began to speak of the Numenoreans. He knew that many people’s history of injury does not diminish and that old grudges die hard even though ages have passed and the particulars of a story have faded. Zimzi’s family was from Forlindon, from a small place called strand near the haven of Forlond. In hazy strands of history, her family traced its way back to those who had fled eastward from Westernesse. It was a terrible thing to have happened to one’s people, to be pushed from one’s home by the greed of others.

Zimzi listened closely to Rasputina’s story, her heart heavy for old wrongs. And when the woman had finished speaking she was silent for a moment. ‘This is more than a gracious gift,’ she said, placing the compass on the table between the two of them. ‘From you and from your people to me and to my children yet to come. We will cherish them, Derufin and I. And perhaps someday we might have the pleasure of visiting your homeland. In truth, it really is not that far from here, is it?’

They passed a little while longer in pleasant conversation. Then the band began a song they had promised to play for the couple. ‘Come with us to the dance floor,’ Zimzi urged her. They are playing a circle dance . . . a fast moving one . . . lots of fun. Come join in if you will.’

Derufin stood, holding out his hand to Zimzi. ‘Yes, come,’ he said, nodding toward the dance floor . . . you needn’t have a partner . . .