Things are different in the northern months. We see less of each other, in several ways. The bitter temperatures chase most into the warmer depths of family arms, coaxing a bit of family closeness and reacquainting. (Until that becomes a little too much closeness and reacquainting.) Random meetings around the large fire happen much less often and a good deal of our socialization occurs while sharing like chores and tasks together. Even these times find us as strangers at times. Pelts and woolen wrappings protect us, but leave us indistinct from one another. It is hard to tell a boy from a woman, a slave from her 'free' counterpart. Clad in like coats and vests, pants and boots, hoods and gloves we become a nation of similarities. We are collectively, the people of the plains.
One evening I returned to the wagons of Fonce and Sev, my Master and His Lady, by way of a trail of bootsteps. Many had passed by since the sky had begun dusting the earth with powder. I knew we would be moving in the morning, always searching out the fresher green of grass that would sustain our family. The sleen beneath the wagon barely hefted an eyebrow, confirming my suspicion that those beasts saw through fur and grease and probably all our self made protections and defenses as well. There, captured in the dying spark of daylight, a couple stood. They were right at the edge of the clearing that our sturdy wagons marked. I could not tell who they were for certain, for I do not have the sleen's gift, but it was evident what was transpiring. It was the engaging of an embrace - hands just touching the other's arm. The holding of eyes locked in a loving gaze. The joint awakening of hearts ready to accelerate together. A moment to be captured by the brush of an artist trying to savor love in visual terms.
I slipped away as quietly as possible. I did not think I would disturb them, nor thought they would even notice me, but I just didn't want to take a chance on altering such a precious moment of time. They simply do not come around often enough.
My retreat took me to the outer reaches of wagons, right at the edge where the broad expanse of plains marched toward the sky forever. A lone wagon stood there, far apart from the others, yet close enough to be within the Harigga. She stood quietly against a light steel sky, canvas outlined against the puffery of clouds. Her age was visible in the well used darker markings on the steps, the small hand prints that marched and measured up the side of the door, the muted tones of colors staining the canvas. Memories jangled as they dangled, waving in the swirls of wind. Squat pots and tall barrels stood ready and waiting on the platform. Her rugged wheels, many pasangs seen beneath the gentle curves, were where I finally crouched and gazed out over the snow kissed grass.
I am not sure what brings me such contentment when I look over such a view. I marveled at the light granted the world beneath the moon illuminated sky which turned the glistening plains into a diamond studded carpet I could hear the echoes of voices from the day...children's laughter, the bray of bosk, the call of the riders...playing still in the nightswept air. Then the quiet, with it's quilt-like cocoon, whispering dreams in the stillness. I feel small and tiny in comparison. I become just a particle in the grand scheme of countless many. I am less lonely, and I am peaceful. Just as my eyes closed, relishing the plethora of treasures I had found, something moved into my peripheral vision.
I was not startled, and neither was he, as I slowly stretched upward and assumed my standing height. I would come to know him as a guardian. One from the outer wagons, one among the poorer some would say. There are many like him. Men, who choose and purposefully position their wagons at the outer rims. We are kept safe and secure by the talents of the Outriders. We are kept alert and ready by the historical practices of notification. And we are granted one more layer of protection...by men who guard that last place between our homes and the rest of the world. Unsung gems.
I strolled back to the wagons, feeling the bite of cool on my cheeks and looking forward to the orange warmth of coals in a copper brazier. I could feel the heat of fire warmed rocks that lined the furs I would curl up in. My eyelashes had taken on crystal spikes at the tips and beneath all my furs, this nameless creature was smiling. The canvas snapped back and forth as I finally crawled toward the space carved out for myself among the supplies in the wagon. Silvery moonlight speared the coppery glow inside and fell across a rise on the pelts and I got down on my hands and knees to look. The moonlight washed away the color, but left the detail of design shimmering and I could easily make out the shape of flower petals, a touch revealed the deep depths of cushion, and a brush of my cheek revealed a hint of sweet scent. My imagination swirled and ...to me...I saw my amulet of blessings returned, painted upon a cushion to comfort me. How blessed am I to find so much beauty just waiting under the cover of the ordinary.
One evening I returned to the wagons of Fonce and Sev, my Master and His Lady, by way of a trail of bootsteps. Many had passed by since the sky had begun dusting the earth with powder. I knew we would be moving in the morning, always searching out the fresher green of grass that would sustain our family. The sleen beneath the wagon barely hefted an eyebrow, confirming my suspicion that those beasts saw through fur and grease and probably all our self made protections and defenses as well. There, captured in the dying spark of daylight, a couple stood. They were right at the edge of the clearing that our sturdy wagons marked. I could not tell who they were for certain, for I do not have the sleen's gift, but it was evident what was transpiring. It was the engaging of an embrace - hands just touching the other's arm. The holding of eyes locked in a loving gaze. The joint awakening of hearts ready to accelerate together. A moment to be captured by the brush of an artist trying to savor love in visual terms.
I slipped away as quietly as possible. I did not think I would disturb them, nor thought they would even notice me, but I just didn't want to take a chance on altering such a precious moment of time. They simply do not come around often enough.
My retreat took me to the outer reaches of wagons, right at the edge where the broad expanse of plains marched toward the sky forever. A lone wagon stood there, far apart from the others, yet close enough to be within the Harigga. She stood quietly against a light steel sky, canvas outlined against the puffery of clouds. Her age was visible in the well used darker markings on the steps, the small hand prints that marched and measured up the side of the door, the muted tones of colors staining the canvas. Memories jangled as they dangled, waving in the swirls of wind. Squat pots and tall barrels stood ready and waiting on the platform. Her rugged wheels, many pasangs seen beneath the gentle curves, were where I finally crouched and gazed out over the snow kissed grass.
I am not sure what brings me such contentment when I look over such a view. I marveled at the light granted the world beneath the moon illuminated sky which turned the glistening plains into a diamond studded carpet I could hear the echoes of voices from the day...children's laughter, the bray of bosk, the call of the riders...playing still in the nightswept air. Then the quiet, with it's quilt-like cocoon, whispering dreams in the stillness. I feel small and tiny in comparison. I become just a particle in the grand scheme of countless many. I am less lonely, and I am peaceful. Just as my eyes closed, relishing the plethora of treasures I had found, something moved into my peripheral vision.
I was not startled, and neither was he, as I slowly stretched upward and assumed my standing height. I would come to know him as a guardian. One from the outer wagons, one among the poorer some would say. There are many like him. Men, who choose and purposefully position their wagons at the outer rims. We are kept safe and secure by the talents of the Outriders. We are kept alert and ready by the historical practices of notification. And we are granted one more layer of protection...by men who guard that last place between our homes and the rest of the world. Unsung gems.
I strolled back to the wagons, feeling the bite of cool on my cheeks and looking forward to the orange warmth of coals in a copper brazier. I could feel the heat of fire warmed rocks that lined the furs I would curl up in. My eyelashes had taken on crystal spikes at the tips and beneath all my furs, this nameless creature was smiling. The canvas snapped back and forth as I finally crawled toward the space carved out for myself among the supplies in the wagon. Silvery moonlight speared the coppery glow inside and fell across a rise on the pelts and I got down on my hands and knees to look. The moonlight washed away the color, but left the detail of design shimmering and I could easily make out the shape of flower petals, a touch revealed the deep depths of cushion, and a brush of my cheek revealed a hint of sweet scent. My imagination swirled and ...to me...I saw my amulet of blessings returned, painted upon a cushion to comfort me. How blessed am I to find so much beauty just waiting under the cover of the ordinary.
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