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Old 04-05-2004, 03:15 AM   #147
piosenniel
Desultory Dwimmerlaik
 
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Rôg

The camel bumped along in the gathering darkness; his great, flat hooves thumping against the packed sand. Aiwendil had pulled his hood up, retreating into silence, lost in his own thoughts. Rôg, his feet hooked firmly in the folds of Aiwendil’s robe, had retreated in like manner, tucking his head beneath one wing. The outer appearances of repose aside, the little bird’s thoughts were whirling.

The Star Isle. It cannot be! I must have misheard . . . He flapped his wings and shook his tail then settled his head once again under cover of his wing. The old man speaks as if he had been there . . . how can that be . . .

A leathery voice niggled at the edges of his thoughts saying Step up, little one, when there is need . . ., receding as a scene from his childhood played in his mind.

~*~

The old, old woman had come in from the steppe one winter . . . down from the craggy cliffs to the east, her thin frame bent over in the chilly winds that swept down from the north. One gnarled hand grasped a walking stick; crooked yew wood it was . . . And from the small boy’s point of view the bent and twisted and gnarled frame of the woman who bore it prompted the wild thought that her stick was simply another appendage that grew from her. Or perhaps she from it . . . he could not tell.

He thought, too, the wind might blow her over, so frail she looked to him. But she turned her dark eyes on his staring face and he could see the strength rooted in their depths. No winds would move her, he sensed. Then, wondering if this were just some ghosty thing come down to haunt the camp, he reached out with his slim, small hand to touch her robe.

Real enough, he now remembered, feeling the rough, scaly material slide again between his fingers.

The clan leader had welcomed her to his tent with great affection and later that day, around the evening fire, had invited her to be the story-teller. The older folk had warmed to her recitation of the clans’ family names and their descendents, nodding one to another when their ancestor was named and their branch recited. Rôg and his sister had grown fidgety at the long lists that rolled off the old woman’s tongue, but their father had fixed them with a frown and slight shake of his head at their restless antics; their mother had simply gathered them nearer, hushing them as she nuzzled her lips against their hair. ‘These names are written in your bones,’ she had whispered to them. ‘Listen! She speaks them for you.’

Names, and sons and daughters of names, had woven round in the soft light cast on the tents gathered near the communal fire. Sparks flew up into the deepening darkness as the pitchy wood crackled and hissed. Daira had pinched him as her name was chanted out near the end, and he in turn had given her a smug smile as his name joined hers and led the way, then, for the few of those younger than they. Murmurs of appreciation and nods at the old woman followed as her voice dropped off, the namings done.

‘An old story, now, Mother!’ a voice had chimed in. ‘The one with the Eagles!’ called another. ‘Narîka 'nBâri 'nAdûn!’

‘What eagles are they asking about?’ Rôg turned his small face up with a frown to his mother. He knew there were great birds that nested in the cliffs, but they were ordinary, everyday birds, and these seemed to be of some other sort. 'nBâri 'nAdûn. He rolled the old words about in his mouth, savoring the feel of them. Lords of the West . . . their eagles . . . His attention snapped back to the old woman as she spoke the familiar words that began every story.

‘Now this is how it was told to me,’ she said, placing her gnarled hands on her knees as she bent forward slightly and looked round the thick circle of faces. ‘Back then, in the time long flown, a great, great gift was given . . .’

This was a story he had not heard before. A wondrous island had been raised from the waters by the great Lords on the rim of the world. Far to the west it was from here. Shaped like a great, five-pointed star, it floated above the waves – bearing many delights for those who dwelt there.

Birds he remembered her saying; the old woman had spoken at length about the winged creatures, large and small, that lived there. Her words painted the picture of mariners drawing near to the isle, guided in by the clamor of the great flocks of wheeling sea-birds. In a piping voice she drew the scattered flocks of tiny scarlet birds as they winged low over the white sandy shores, calling out their name as they passed . . . kirinki . . .

And the Nimîr, the Beautiful Ones, who had flown in their white swan ships, over the waters, from the edges of the sea, flocking gracefully to the western harbors, bringing gifts. And there in the center of the isle there rose a great mountain . . .

‘The eagles,’ someone had said in a knowing voice.

‘Yes, yes, from the west they flew,’ she nodded and went on. ‘The Great Lord sent them. From the very rim of the world, beyond the edges of the sea. It is said that the people of the island held them as sacred, and blessed the Great Lord of the West and his people who had sent them.’ She leaned forward again, her voice dropping to a hush, her listeners straining to catch her words. ‘This I was told also . . . that the eagles and this Lord of the West and all his people could put on forms at their need and at their pleasure.’

‘Ah!’ A collective affirmation rose round the fire in waves.

‘So I have heard,’ she repeated, ‘and believe it to be a true telling, passed down from my mother’s mothers to me.’

The story wove on through the abundant years of the gifted isle, bright years. Then, down into the shadowed time the telling went; the betrayals and the turnings away; the evil deeds piling one upon the other; the Shadow that passed in glamoured form promising his own dark gifts. Some there were who had remained true to their promises. But they were set upon and threatened and many kept silent rather than voice what they held true.

Rôg had shivered at her words, drawing in tight against the safety of his mother. He clutched her cloak tightly, bringing it up to cover his face, his dark eyes peeking out as the story drew to its ending.

The King of that Isle, she went on, beguiled by the promises and lies of the Shadow, had ordered his great fleet of ships to sail to the forbidden lands at the rim of the world. ‘Their gift was not enough,’ the old woman admonished her listeners. ‘They reached out to grasp more.’ Her audience was hushed as she shook her head at the foolishness of the islanders.

With a great THWACK! she brought her walking stick down hard on one of the rocks that circled the fire.

‘They smote them down as their feet touched the forbidden soil . . .’ she said, her voice rumbling out into the waiting silence. ‘ . . . The Lords of the West did . . . and they sunk that island far, far beneath the waters of the sea . . . the edges of the world were bent . . . and never again did the Eagles fly the straight path to the east.’

She looked into the fire and spoke the ending words. ‘So I was told, and so now you have heard.’

Amid the murmurings of approval for the well told story, Rôg had slipped away from his mother and come to crouch down near the old woman. At a lull in her conversations with others of his clan he had gathered his courage and reached out to touch her on the arm. ‘Old Mother,’ he had whispered, tugging lightly on her tunic. ‘Old Mother,’ he had prompted in a louder voice as he crept nearer.

‘What is it, child?’

‘What happened to the ones who kept their promises?’

‘They were spared and came east over the seas. Good people. But so few . . . so few, at the end.’

His question answered, he had thought to creep away. But she had reached out with her fingers and grasped him lightly and securely about the wrist, her gnarled talons surprisingly strong. She fixed him in her gaze, and drawing him near, leaned forward to whisper in his ear. Step up, little one, when there is need . . . will you promise this? In his own childish way, a little afraid of her and wanting to please or appease her, he had nodded his head ‘yes’. ‘Good, good,’ she had uttered in a soft voice almost to herself as she released his wrist. He had turned to scurry back to the safety of his family, when he heard her call out after him. ‘Remember to keep your promise, little one.’ Rôg turned back once to look at her but she was already swallowed up in the press of people that surrounded her.

~*~

The camel came to an abrupt stop. Aiwendil lurched forward, nearly dislodging the little bird from his shoulder. ‘Water, I think,’ he heard the old man say as the camel turned of its own accord toward an old covered cistern in a clump of scraggly palms. Dismounting, they both lugged the heavy cover from the shallow tank, and were rewarded by a few inches of standing water. It was brackish, tinged with silt and sand that stirred at the slightest touch. Still it was water, and they refreshed themselves as best they could.

Rôg let the camel drink his fill, then bade him kneel down to let Aiwendil mount once more. Once the old man had arranged himself in as comfortable a position as he could, Rôg flew up to his shoulder and settled in again for the remainder of the journey. The camel moved along at a slow, steady pace. Rôg plucked up his courage and moved close to the old fellow’s ear.

‘About that Star Isle . . . I was just wondering . . . what had you heard about those who kept their promises? Were they all drowned? And what had you heard about the eagles . . .?’

Rôg cocked a feathered eye toward Aiwendil. He was determined, in some manner, to sort out his quandary. Had the old fellow misspoke when he said he had been to the isle? Had he confused hearing the story for being there? Or were his memories true? And if they were true . . . what sort of creature was he?

The little bird narrowed his eyes as he considered his companion. A barely perceptible mutter escaped him as he turned his own questions over in his mind and awaited the answers to his others.

‘. . . and just how old does he think he is, I wonder . . .

Last edited by piosenniel; 04-09-2004 at 02:50 PM.
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