The Totem-Maker (part forty-four)

The Totem-Maker

Chapter Six

A First Road

(part forty-four)

Wosogo had pointed me to a master of intendance, often seen among us at the rear. His wagons were my pony’s pace-setters. Farthest back, keeping clear of the wagoneers’ whips, walked a camp of unknowns. From the north (they did not look it), from conquered lands of the Emperor, from the plain beyond Monsecchers…?

Their ways were practiced, their goods strapped to half their heights again on twig-framed baskets. Nights they shed these, staked them in a circle, possessions inward. A safe camp, yet never approached by the Prince’s soldiers.

My latest guardian trotted rear to fore, and when he passed, slowed to grip Cuerpha’s halter.

“Far there.” He grinned down.

“Many days,” I said.

A gesture, the removal of an object from a bag. I reached behind, wondering.

No, he shook his head. “Vlan seh’le.”

“Ah… There is a lord, a general of the province. Let me not say province… I believe, general-governor. We have a name for that type of outpost.” And in my own language, I could not have supplied it. With a shrug of apology, bringing laughter, I said, “The general will receive the seals, and he will give us his hospitality. We will spend the night inside his walls.”

Caring enough to try at this, my friend threaded out sense—his face showed it—from seals, give and night.

He would have ridden on, but I’d taken a notion…

I patted Cuerpha’s neck. “Brei!” I pointed to Cuerpha’s neck, and spoke our word for pony again.

He patted his own mount’s neck. “Habba!”

Now he did spur away, and I hoped I had learned…

Horse, and not the name of his horse. The beginnings of a language with no alphabet to note them down.

I felt eased, finally, of the abuse done my limbs training against Mumas. That, and only a day between, and the riding, hours upon hours. I’ve grown stronger, I told myself. I lay awake regretting I’d bedded down to doze, long enough to pass my chance for a meal. I rested my head on my hands.

For the torches I could see no stars. I thought of Mumas.

We loved our dead; we felt that, like grandparents, they took to their seats at last, awaiting visitors as was an elder’s due. But they sat in kindness, sage of advice, rewarding remembrance. Well-wishers, too, who loved us when Fortune did not.

Mumas had no kin and had neglected his ancestors. He sat underground, hearing footfalls approach and fade above his head.

48

The Mustering Grounds

The Totem-Maker (part forty-five)

(2018, Stephanie Foster)