Faithful Pebble
Part Eighty-Six
"Why can't you tell me?" Pebble asked.
The man, in turn, shrugged. His shirt shifted awkwardly as he turned from her. It twisted and knotted and blurred. "I can't tell you," he said. His feet twisted. His fingers knotted. He fixed his shirt, then moved. Stepping to the edge of the porch, the wanderer relocated his sac. He eyed it a moment before kneeling to ponder through its secret treasures. She watched him silently, Pebble. She sought to ask why he was rummaging so, still she hesitated to voice her doubt. She did not wish to waste her one question on something so common, something she could easily ask later.
Then, suddenly, Pebble paused. She bit her lip behind her veil. Secretly behind that brown and coarse and tentative fabric, the girl sulked. Was he even that type of man? Was he petty enough to use such a question to avoid talking about himself? She wondered. She pondered. The man easily answered.
"No," he said aloud. "You are safe. I will not use your curiosity against you."
It was her turn to blink, Pebble. She stepped forward hesitantly trying to discover how he perceived her doubt. But in return, the man chuckled. Amusedly, he half watched her and half fiddled with the knot on his bag. He tried not to frown as his fingers twisted. He must have tied it tighter than usual. The strap was very stubborn, the leather worn and rough. He sighed softly. "I could see the question coming. In spite your veil, you, my dear Iris, can be very predictable. Well… actually, people can be. You are not the first person to ask me such things. And you will not be the last. It's part of being a sojourner. People ask lots of questions."
It was here when the knot loosened and the bag sagged open. The wanderer's gaze drifted to the opening as his hands delved inside. Pebble watched him curiously, her mind rummaging through thoughts, through ideas, through question after question. She wondered which one was the most important, which he'd be more apt to answer. He knew so much about her already. And of him, she knew so little. She sighed as he pulled out a hammer, a tiny pouch filled with nails and screws. He opened it and counted them. There weren't that many. He probably predicted when her curiosity switched for he instantly answered her question.
"I thought that since we are obviously staying here for the evening," he carefully subtracted hours, subtracted minutes, subtracted seconds summing up the amount of time it took to bury the girl's mother, to travel the forest and enter it in the first place. It appeared that the day was well used up and there was no use traveling any further. Even the sun, which basked their little hideaway in golds and crimsons, had begun to sink behind the trees. In a matter of hours, it would be night and perhaps, the wanderer figured, the wanderer considered, the wanderer predicted somewhere in his mind, that the girl needed time. She probably wished to stay, even if only for a night.
Still, he wasn't sure. The wanderer looked back at her. He pulled out a long rectangular thickly sown piece of fabric and another small velvet pouch filled with something tiny and weightless. Walking towards her, he placed both items into her hands. He smiled gently. "Perhaps, we could try to make this place a little more welcoming while we have daylight. And I figured you'd want to freshen up. I know it's been a while, but do you remember if there is a stream or something for you to…"
Pebble blushed and looked away. The wanderer did not need to see it to know it was there. He cleared his throat. "If not, we could…"
"I'd like to stay." She interrupted him purposely, changing the subject so he couldn't change his mind, in case he thought of something else.
The wanderer smiled. He had begun to speak more when his partner beat him to it. Her voice was firm and straight like it was moments earlier, like it was when she first asked the question. "What is your name?" she asked.
Happy Holidays - Calla