A mother and her little daughter walked along
the banks of a placid river giggling together, halting often when a bright
flower or insect trapped their roving attentions. They were absorbed in their
bonding, a little ritual they enacted- with secret pleasure- every rest day
while the men in their lives slept in, it being the only morning they felt free
to do so. All had a hard week, and this single day was for recharging, and for
a mother and daughter to reconnect. In a while they would turn and head for
home, start the breakfast-lunch. It did not matter that they would eat later
than usual, for on this day the rules were somewhat bent.
A tiny hummingbird flew by and the little girl
squeaked delight, then covered her mouth and turned to follow, keeping her
movements deliberately casual to placate its instinctive fears. It fluttered
before a nearby purple flower, drinking the nectar. Her mother stopped with an
indulgent smile and sank into the tall riverine grasses, chewing absently at a
stalk. She watched the little girl’s evident pleasure and then laughed softly
at the disappointed face turned to her only a moment later. The hummingbird
lifted into the air and vanished swiftly. Disappointment, however, surrendered
to a new point of interest as the girl spied a patch of orange flowers.
She bent to pick one, disappearing into the
grass to brandish one proudly an instant later. Her mother clapped her hands
and the fair head vanished again.
The woman smiled and leaned back on her arms to
crane her head up to beauty of the blue sky. Puffs of white scudded in the
distance, creating shapes, changing with every second. Entranced, she watched,
laughing with abandon at her imagination.
The little girl screamed.
Her mother scrambled up, shouting her fear. Had
her daughter strayed too close to the river’s edge? She stumbled through the
grass following the sound, heart hammering, eyes frantically attempting to
pierce the veils of green stalks.
She found her daughter unharmed, and sombre
eyes lifted towards her.
At the girl’s feet lay a man, pale and naked
and curled into a foetal position. Biting back her fright, the mother kneeled
beside the still form, pushing her daughter behind her. Hesitantly she reached
out to lay fingers along his neck to search for a pulse. She frowned, feeling
nothing, moved her fingers and drew a deep breath to concentrate. He was cold
and damp with the morning’s dew, but it was not the cold of death; it was the
cold of exposure. She pressed down harder and breathed a sigh of relief. There,
a faint beat. Her sweet child would not have to face the cold, harsh reality of
death this morning, thank Aaru. Poor man, what had befallen him? Where did he
belong?
Walker of Realms
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