Pillow Talk

Yama rode by a square cut in the canvas, perched upon a creamy white kaiila with liver brown spots. She didn't wave, but held on to a bright pink hat that had several feathers sticking out of the brim.
Uncle Dray came next, straddling a fence of midnight temwood, and he kept reaching out a hand toward me, but it just never came close enough.
Mag sped by, furiously peddling and pushing a wagon cart, with Blackie grunting inside it.
Then Yellow Teeth, with a dusty musty smell that made me choke, tried to crawl into the window opening, but I rolled away, and the wagon did too and he fell down below the line of my vision.
The sky was dark grays and mottled purples, a strangled cry of morning trying to break free.
The leather bracelet I once wore flew past, and the winged creature broke free and, taking the dangling bells with it, slipped to a comfortable hold around my ankle. It's presence was warm and connecting, a slim chain of brushed gold melted away into the shadow, but a hand was visible, just barely, outlined in silt upon black and a voice called my name, a name I did not know but I knew in my soul it was me.

Yama once told me that I slept like a rock, and all evidence pointed to her being correct. I awoke to the rocking rhythm of the wagon swaying from side to side and clearly in movement. Everything around me was a lighter shade of darkness, and I gathered that it was still well before full daylight outside. The dregs of dream appeared like flitting wisps of breath and I smiled or shivered involuntarily as I crept cautiously toward the flaps of wagon. The one I rode in, the cavernous slave wagon, was lashed tightly to one before it, and it appeared, that to the one before it. Next to me on either side, more wagons lumbered in the same linked fashion. The dust and debris alone was enough to make me duck my head more than once. I could see the shadows of those walking or riding beyond the lashed wagons, but faces and voices were not familiar.

My hands instinctively wrapped the still warm fur tighter around me, and sought for the lumpy pelt in the basket near the flap openings where I had left it. I breathed a bit of relief that the lamp was safely cuddled in the cradle I had made for it. Like everything else I had come upon, except for the packed supply wagon, it seemed nothing but what was absolutely needed was kept. Perhaps that was a necessity when you lived upon the plains. With all the movement and the harsh life, I could see that keeping things simple would make life all the easier. This lamp, however, was not a necessity. It was a nicety. Something not just utilitarian, but pretty. How like the Brave Warrior to try to make other's lives just a little nicer. I wanted to preserve that gift for gift it was, take care of it, appreciate it. Maybe one day I would even get a chance to ask him how to use it.

Dee appeared sometime after the Central Fire had started to turn the mud clumps and dust in the air into brilliant splotches of gold and brown. She ran easily beside the wagon and called instructions of how to disembark from the platform. It took a few tries, though not as many as getting back on would take. I was rather grateful to have both her company and her help. I did not want to look like a total fool at my public appearances. She spent some time teaching me the run, pick, save and toss into a tarp under a wagon method of gathering fuel. This was something I was adept at, having done something similar every year of my life that I could remember. The dash between the rumbling wagons became a game between us, but it was a valuable lesson as well. There was little room for error, with the huge wheels almost brushing a shoulder or shin, ready to capture a misplaced foot, or snag a dangling bit of fabric.

That first night Dee returned when we made camp. Countless things needed to be tended to - fires to be made, food to be cooked, animals to be tended. She took me from one to the next filling my head with tasks, and my hands and heart with a sense of accomplishment. I wanted to give, both to give back in thanks, and to give in the hope of making a difference. When I returned to the wagons that had become my shelter, I slipped into the one where I had been chained.

If the Warrior should make it back to His wagon at any point in the travels, He would find a few things left for Him. First, would be that His small fire pit was always warm, burning softly with that blood red light of smoldering coals. Second, His furs would be rolled out, fluffed, and looking as inviting as they could be. And finally, atop the scrunched up pelt, a nice colorful one, that would make such a divine cushion for His tired brow....a design of beads. much like an open ended heart, or anything the mind might make of it. Trailing away, down the slop of pillow, marching across the furs like little footprints they would go..until they stopped at the manacle end of the slave chain. Here He would find a strip of my old dress tied around the steel, and within the pouch created...a few savory dates. That first night I hurried out, still having another task to complete.

I mixed up one more batch of spice to make a mustard orange color and took one of the thick braided strips of leather from a basket in the slave wagon to paint with. The pictures looked much like the doodling on my journal pages, and quite the contrast to the broad vista of paint already on canvas, but that was my intention. It was my little guide so that I could find my way, and make sure I found the correct wagon. I was taking no chances, and an empty thud of my heart added punctuation to that feeling. Small flowers, swirling strokes, winged creatures and a single open ended heart would cluster together in a small patch. I tried my best to incorporate the design with the surrounding colors, picking a spot at the back of each wagon that was lashed to it's brother and belonging to the Brave Warrior Fonce, and when I stood back I felt rather happy with the results. I spoke to the stars and moons then, showing them my handiwork, and admitting - yes - I was adding my dreams to a larger canvas. Then I slept - like a rock.