Waiting

Dee had graciously brought me a bucket of water, fresh from a barrel right around the other end of the wagon. That snarly beast below never left her, or I, out of his sights, but he did grant us the use of the water without incident. Once I was alone again I tried to keep busy, as if working and concentrating on things would keep my mind from racing and perhaps put all my thoughts into order like vulo in a row. The bucket of water was sufficient to clean the worst of the mud and grime from my arms and face. I even got some of it out of my hair and untangled the urt's nest that probably gave me a hideous wild look. I felt a little better, and I smiled a bit at myself. My Brave Warrior had brought out this femaleness in me, the want to look at my best for when I next saw him. My muddy dress was the next to sink into the brilly chill of the water, taking at least most of the mud and grass from the delicate white fabric. It was forever stained, but at least it would be clean, just in case that was what I had to wear. The last to be scrubbed was the wagon, though I had already swept out as much of the mud as I could. At least I wasn't so worried about getting everything dirty with every move I made. I still had a strong hope for a bath, but that bucket just wasn't big enough.

I had hung my dress over the edge of the railing outside, when a woman approached. She didn't meet my smile with her own, and so I paused in my onslaught of greeting and invitation to sit a while and answer my questions. Her clothing was well kept, soft tabuk hide, or at least something light sable in color that fit her figure with complimentary seams. A thick jacket lay across her shoulders, but was not fastened and the edges hung open to reveal the jacket's fur lining and the bodice of her dress. A singular gash at the neckline, angling from her throat toward her shoulder was the only thing that seemed out of place. Except for her face, and the lost feeling that she seemed to wear like a great shroud around her. Her eyes, the mixture of late summer grass, were dried out verdant golds. Her cheeks were raw, pinked, as if she had suffered each day in the bite of cold winds. She didn't speak, just looked around me, past me, almost through me, until she finally summoned up enough desire to search my own questioning face. I am not sure what she wanted, but I finally crouched to offer out my hand and tell her that the Brave Warrior wasn't here. I am not sure if she was disappointed or relieved, and I could sympathize with that confusion. She timidly touched my offered palm and then melted into the shadows left by the brilliant light as quickly as she had appeared and I took that feeling with me back into the wagon. Sometimes, what we want so badly, we just can't summon up enough to reach for it.