Blair woke in a soothing, lamp-lit darkness. His head ached
less, his side more so, but not enough to keep him from taking
fascinated stock of his surroundings. Music floated to him in
tangled skeins of sound, also voices, soft and not distinct. Different
rhythm tapped or pounded or snapped out, a silvery flute, followed
by warm amber triplets spilling from a sun-mellowed guitar. The
voices spun in song, rose in argument, and whispered in agreement
as he became aware of the not unpleasant scent of woodsmoke and
wax. Every instinct the anthropologist possessed was telling him that
he was safe. Whoever these people were, they would not harm him.
"Are ya hungry yet?" A soft voice spoke from the curtained doorway,
jolting him back to himself.
An elderly woman stood just inside the room, a deep mug in her hand.
Its steam carried a fragrant, gut twisting aroma to his nose.
"I've brought ya some beef broth, and a bit of bread. Sonata doesn't
want ya eating anything too hard to digest right now." She walked
slowly toward him, her white hair in a long plait hanging down her
back over two sweaters and a patched pair of jeans. Tattered Keds
and socks knitted in bright stripes adorned her hesitant little feet.
Blair eased himself to a sitting position, ignoring the pain in anticipation
of food. A grumble from his interior welcomed her approach and he
grinned sheepishly.
The old woman chuckled. "Well, I'd guess you ARE hungry
then. Eat it slow, boy, and dip that bread in the broth to soften it like."
He mumbled a "thank you" as he took the chipped mug from her delicate
blue veined hands and accepted the large end of fairly fresh French bread
in its paper towel napkin. Blair took a cautious sip, letting the savoury
stuff slide into his hollow pit of a stomach. Another few sips and he
forgot the white haired woman watching from a chair beside him and
concentrated on his feast. Slowly, bite by bite, his yammering stomach
was soothed with food, and he ate the last chunk of broth soaked bread
with a sigh of contentment.
"That was great...uh.." The young man flushed. He hadn't even asked her
name, but she smiled again as she took the heavy mug from his suddenly
tired hands.
"Don't fuss, youngun. Y'had more important things on yer mind than
lad di dah manners. I've been hungry m'self, and I know what it's like
when ya finally get food. I'm Charleston, Charlie for short." Her pale
blue eyes were clear in the seamed, tanned face, and full of good humor.
The anthropologist smiled back, enchanted with this strange tribe's Elder.
He tried to thank her again for the meal, but was interrupted by a gaping
yawn. Charlie got up, patted his hand and twitched the motley assortment
of quilts comfortably around his shoulders.
"Y'get yerself a good sleep, hon, and we'll talk later." As she crossed
the room with her small silent steps, he was already out.
less, his side more so, but not enough to keep him from taking
fascinated stock of his surroundings. Music floated to him in
tangled skeins of sound, also voices, soft and not distinct. Different
rhythm tapped or pounded or snapped out, a silvery flute, followed
by warm amber triplets spilling from a sun-mellowed guitar. The
voices spun in song, rose in argument, and whispered in agreement
as he became aware of the not unpleasant scent of woodsmoke and
wax. Every instinct the anthropologist possessed was telling him that
he was safe. Whoever these people were, they would not harm him.
"Are ya hungry yet?" A soft voice spoke from the curtained doorway,
jolting him back to himself.
An elderly woman stood just inside the room, a deep mug in her hand.
Its steam carried a fragrant, gut twisting aroma to his nose.
"I've brought ya some beef broth, and a bit of bread. Sonata doesn't
want ya eating anything too hard to digest right now." She walked
slowly toward him, her white hair in a long plait hanging down her
back over two sweaters and a patched pair of jeans. Tattered Keds
and socks knitted in bright stripes adorned her hesitant little feet.
Blair eased himself to a sitting position, ignoring the pain in anticipation
of food. A grumble from his interior welcomed her approach and he
grinned sheepishly.
The old woman chuckled. "Well, I'd guess you ARE hungry
then. Eat it slow, boy, and dip that bread in the broth to soften it like."
He mumbled a "thank you" as he took the chipped mug from her delicate
blue veined hands and accepted the large end of fairly fresh French bread
in its paper towel napkin. Blair took a cautious sip, letting the savoury
stuff slide into his hollow pit of a stomach. Another few sips and he
forgot the white haired woman watching from a chair beside him and
concentrated on his feast. Slowly, bite by bite, his yammering stomach
was soothed with food, and he ate the last chunk of broth soaked bread
with a sigh of contentment.
"That was great...uh.." The young man flushed. He hadn't even asked her
name, but she smiled again as she took the heavy mug from his suddenly
tired hands.
"Don't fuss, youngun. Y'had more important things on yer mind than
lad di dah manners. I've been hungry m'self, and I know what it's like
when ya finally get food. I'm Charleston, Charlie for short." Her pale
blue eyes were clear in the seamed, tanned face, and full of good humor.
The anthropologist smiled back, enchanted with this strange tribe's Elder.
He tried to thank her again for the meal, but was interrupted by a gaping
yawn. Charlie got up, patted his hand and twitched the motley assortment
of quilts comfortably around his shoulders.
"Y'get yerself a good sleep, hon, and we'll talk later." As she crossed
the room with her small silent steps, he was already out.