[piosenniel]

Rog

Bump . . . thump . . . whump . . . an endless, wheelish litany . . .

‘So much for catching a few winks on the road,’ he muttered to himself.

Rog shifted uncomfortably on the back of the wagon. Despite the stack of folded grain sacks he’d wedged under himself as a cushion, the jolt of the uneven back wheel shot up his spine with a rhythmic regularity. And now his head was beginning to pound. Moth or bird, it made no difference, the ride pummeled him in any form. ‘What a homecoming this is proving to be,’ he groaned as the wheel thumped once more on the packed sand.

Jumping off the rear of the wagon bed brought some relief to his own back side, but now the drifting cloud of sand and dust stirred up by the retreating vehicle made his eyes sting and his nose run. ‘I give up,’ he muttered, sneezing into the folds of his sleeve. Pulling up his hood, he turned his back on the wagon.

He remembered the desert star patterns as soon as he looked up. Above him wheeled the great Drinking Gourd and round it, drawn to its promise of water, were the Bee, the Moth, the Rat, the Lizard. And there, lurking at the edges of the horizon the Eagle, the Warrior, and the Dragon. So bright they hung in the sable sky, unobscured by the sea of trees that flourished in the north or by clouds of those colder climes.

The smells came next as he stood there. Dry, sandy scents with the whispers of night-blooming plants clinging to them. The scent of olive trees from the north and date palms to the east, heavy with ripening fruit. Sharp tang of a desert rat as it scurried from burrow to burrow, marking its territory with its singular scent. And the faint promise of water, beckoning in the dry air.

Now the sounds washed in. The skitterings of tiny feet across the sand. The silken, undulating rustle of the snake in motion. Deep calls of those who hunted in the night and the short, sharp cries of their prey.

The swaying lamp on the wagon had become a small gleam by now. ‘They won’t miss me,’ he reasoned. ‘The old fellow is probably drowsing by now and Qasim will be nodding as he lets his team follow the wagon in front. I can be back before they know I’ve gone.’

His senses surrounded by the familiar, the changes seemed easier.

~*~*~*~

The small, brown bat flapped hurriedly eastward toward the foothills, rising up as high as it dared on its little wings; its large ears paying close attention to any possibility of problems in its path. Had anyone looked back from the departing wagons, they would only have noted the swooping flight of the little insectivore, apparently bent on seeking out his next meal.

~*~*~*~

Even at night, there were thermals that flowed up from the mountains’ side. Wings extended, the vulture caught them, letting them buoy him up as he moved swiftly through them. ‘Much better,’ murmured Rog, as his great wings pulled him along, carrying him to the other side of the hills. Clumsy aground, this form was a lovely one for flight. Built for long lazy circlings in the air, it was ideal for taking prolonged looks at whatever caught his eye.

~*~*~*~

It was a good-sized encampment that did catch his interest. Many tents. And pens, he noted, dropping nearer . . . large ones, filled with the strikingly beautiful horses of the desert . . . smaller ones holding in the flocks of goats, moonlight glinting here and there off their long silken hair. To one side were tethered the imperious ships of the desert, the camels. Wary of them, he gave them a wide berth as he dropped lower - his feathers had at one time been thoroughly drenched by a large gobbet of spit from one of the beasts with whom he'd had the misfortune to argue.

His now bat talons grasped for purchase on a pole of the larger tent near the center of the camp. It was cooler at night and people were awake, taking advantage of the respite from the heat. Around the fire pit, with its small crackling fire, were an assortment of men and women, with children leaning against them or snuggled close in laps, listening to a woman telling stories.

She had a lovely, deep voice. The cadence of her speaking drew him in, and he sidled clumsily across the surface of the tent toward a pole nearer her, his head turned toward her, straining to catch the features of her face. ‘Blind as a bat, indeed,’ he muttered, her profile a fleshy blur splotched by lighter hues of flame and moonlight.

Amidst the shadows of the tent he hoped he would not be noticed. The now small hawk bobbed his red splotched head round the pole, his clear eyes fixing on the storyteller as she moved her hands to emphasize a point. A strong, lovely face, its aquiline features thrown into relief by the flickering of the low flames. She laughed, a clear, ringing sound as the story ended, the voices of her listeners joining hers in chorus.

Rog, ever one to appreciate a good story, though he had not heard it all, let a thin, shrill whistle escape his beak. A dog, one of the many that lay comfortably near the ring of listeners, heaved itself up, lazily alert to the new sound. And one of the children clapped and pointed as the small hawk launched itself skyward in a noisome flurry of flapping feathers . . .