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Old 07-24-2004, 04:30 AM   #255
piosenniel
Desultory Dwimmerlaik
 
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Rôg

Little rituals learned in childhood are not easily forgotten. Rôg rose from his seat at once at the entrance of the eagle. ‘We are honored, Elder,’ he said, bowing deeply once Surinen had made his brief introduction of her to Aiwendil, ‘to have your presence.’ As he raised himself back up, he noted the perplexed looks on the two men’s faces, and even the eagle had cocked her head at him as if she did not know what to respond. Embarrassed, the color rose from his neck to flood his cheeks, and he stammered out an apology. ‘I’ve misread things again, haven’t I,’ he asked, looking to the old man for some direction. ‘I think I shall leave you to speak among yourselves before my ignorance comes to the fore again.’ Rôg gave a small bow to all three and withdrew, saying to Aiwendil he would see to the preparations for the evening meal.

‘You are such a fool,’ he muttered to himself several times as he trod the distance to the camp’s well. He had picked up a large pot as he passed his and Aiwendil’s tent, intending to get enough water for tea and the making of the flat bread to serve with the stewed desert hen. He was nearly to the well, when he felt a small tug at the hem of his tunic.

‘Did you do something wrong?’ Miri’s worried voice halted him in his tracks, her frowning face looking up expectantly for an answer. He frowned back, about to remind her she was not supposed to visit him, when she stamped her foot, saying, ‘I promised not to let you teach me any more changing tricks . . . I didn’t exactly say I wouldn’t talk to you ever again.’ ‘And besides,’ she went one, looking about at the others who were nearing the well for their evening’s water, ‘there are plenty of nosy eyed grown-ups about to keep me in line, don’t you think.’ Rôg bit his lip to keep from laughing at the fiery spirit of this Eagle child. ‘I suppose you are right, little mistress,’ he concluded with a grin, resuming his walk. ‘Well, then,’ she demanded, ‘what’s wrong?’

Reaching the well, Rôg lowered the bucket with its rope and drew up more than enough for his needs. He passed the rest on to the next in line, and motioned for Miri to walk back with him. ‘What’s wrong?’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Everything I do, apparently. We both come from maenwaith clan, but our customs are so different I seem to stumble all over myself when I try to be helpful or polite.’ He explained his latest misjudgment to her, telling her of the eagle who had come to visit and how he had greeted her in the way he was taught to greet an Elder.

It was now Miri’s turn to be perplexed. ‘You thought the eagle was an Elder of our clan?’ She screwed up her face thinking. ‘Do your Elders come in your clan’s special shape when they come to visit? And if they come to visit, where do they live and where do you live?’ Miri pointed out some of the tents of her clan’s elders as they walked back to his. ‘Ours live right here with us. Don’t yours?’

‘Some do, little one,’ he explained as they reached his firepit. He let her build up the fire as he gathered the foodstuffs and pans needed for the meal preparation. ‘But a number,’ he continued explaining, ‘choose to live a little apart from us, in the big mountain caves on the rim of the northern desert.’ He set the pieces of hen to frying in the big iron pot, along with a handful of pungent herbs, dried onions and peppers from his pack and when the meat was browned, he covered it with the well water and set to cleaning the tubers one of the clanswomen had given him. He cut those into good sized chunks, letting Miri plop them into the pot as he finished.

Miri sat wondering all the while about that other desert and what it was like. She’d not heard tales of a desert up north, and looked askance at him, wondering if he were pulling a little prank on her. ‘And what do they do there in those caves . . . in the north, you said.’

By this time he had measured out a sizeable mound of flour, and making a little well in it, had poured in some oil, a little water, and a sprinkling of salt he’d ground in a mortar. ‘Mostly they talk to each other, I think,’ he went on, mixing the dough together, then dividing it in half so that she could help knead it on the smooth plank laid out for it. ‘They share the old stories, tell jokes, sing the old songs and make up new ones. And often they come in to visit the clan to see how things are going and to help out where they can. And best of all, to share the old tales and songs with us.’ He smiled at her, pinching the kneaded dough into balls to be patted into thin circles and baked on the flat bottom of a large heated pan. ‘Those are special times, exciting to hear the stories of old heroes and villains.’ ‘I like the stories, too,’ she told him. ‘But Narika is the one who tells our stories.’

‘We visit them, too,’ he continued, ‘especially when we are older than you. Fifteen or sixteen summers . . . that’s when the Elders begin to teach us our clan’s shape and the rules that go along with it.’ He smiled again, recalling his time with them. ‘And by the time we are twenty, for the most part, we have learned the change.’

‘You mean if you were Eagles they would teach you to change to an Eagle?’ Miri’s prow was furrowed as she tried to reason this out. ‘Girls and boys?’

‘Yes, both can do this,’ he said firmly. The stew was bubbling by this time; some of the water had boiled off, and the sauce had thickened a bit. Miri sniffed it appreciatively. ‘That smells good!’ she said with grin. ‘But I’ll bet my mami’s still tastes better than yours!’ ‘Probably so!’ laughed Rôg, throwing up his hands in surrender. ‘But,’ he said, winking at her, ‘my mami’s tastes best of all!’ Miri, in answer, simply shook her head at this statement with an impish grin on her face.

The circles of dough were set to cook on the hot surface of the pan. They required little attention save to turn then when they had bubbled up on top. And when they were done, they were stacked in a little basket, covered with a clean cloth, and set near the fire to keep warm. The kettle for tea was then made ready and set near the fire also to steep. Miri was not quite done with her questions and as they relaxed on their cushions she asked him how far away he lived from her.

‘Right now, my clan is south of yours . . . a number of weeks journey . . . at the south end of the mountains here. But soon we will go back to our real home in the north. The Elders have kept it safe for us. And that is very far from here . . . many, many weeks of travel if you were to come for a visit.’ Miri’s little face clouded over with this answer. ‘But you said you were going to visit your clan and see your Elders and you promised you were coming back,’ she grumbled, just on the verge of tears. ‘Now you say you won’t be back for a long, long, long time!’ ‘I won’t be that long,’ he assured her, gathering her close to him. ‘I promised I’d be back and I’ll hold to that. You’ll barely know I’ve been away.’

She looked up at him with one brow raised, a disbelieving look on her face. ‘And just how are you going to do that?’

He was saved from answering by the insistent call of her brother. It was meal time in their tent. Miri hopped up and ran after her sibling, who had already turned and headed for home. She waved to Rôg and called out over her shoulder, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow!’

Rôg waved back at her and turned back to the stewing hens. Spoon in hand he stirred the fragrant medley, awaiting the arrival of Aiwendil and his guests.
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