But who am I sleeping against? He sighed, working his face against the man's breast. If I've brought another man home from the baths, Father will skin him alive and me after. He remembered that lesson quite well. No more fornication or he really would do as the book said and stone him for his insolence. But is it really my fault that I hugged him outside the door, that others saw? Scrubbing at his eyes, he found then what was missing.
There was no Call to Prayer. Had he missed it? The language around him... He couldn't understand it. Startling, he bolted upright, looking about. Clutching the blankets to his chest as if his father had walked in on he and one of his friends playing with one another, the man panted, sweeping the room again.
A few women were about, tending to fires, skins, babes, myriad other things. Children raced by the doorway to the long hall-like building. Men came and went, some with weapons. Chatter, chatter, all around him, and not an intelligable word to be found. Licking his lips, taking a few deep, albeit too quick, breaths, he looked down at the other who was beginning to come around next to him.
It was the man from the day before, the well-endowed one who'd brought him here. Curious, the smaller man peeked beneath the fur and skin blankets that covered them. Well, he was still clothed. That was something. Skandar nearly leaped from his skin with a yowl as a heavy, large hand was put on his shoulder.
A finger pressed to his lips, silencing what excuses he was about to make for looking beneath the covers. It was only then he realized how heavily he was breathing. Once he'd managed to regain control of his wild heartbeat, he snapped, "Don't do that! You frightened me."
He couldn't say why the man--his captor? his savior? What was he now?--suddenly appeared to be amused. Maybe the expression on his face warranted some joviality. Doubtless he looked a sight, possibly wide-eyed, more than likely slack-lipped. A nice, fat half-witted looking man you've captured yourself, hmm?
Black Wolf gave him a little nudge, giving some order--he'd heard enough orders to know the tone--of which the only word he understood was the name of the woman who'd spoken to them the night before, the one he'd called Mother.
Shrugging, the man pulled himself up, adjusting his rumpled clothing. Looking down as a weight pressed against his leg, he saw the wolf drag its body along his pants before trotting after his master. A little saddened to see the animal go, he followed the two outside.
The camp was abustle with life. People walked, talked, cooked, played; his head spun with the sudden, unexpected display of motion. Heading over to one of the first things that didn't seem to whirl about him, he found a rather large matron making breads of some sort. At least, they smelled like breads. Sniffing, he leaned down to inspect them more closely, only to have to stagger back away as the woman swatted at him.
Snapping at him with all the furosity she could contain in her stout body, the woman was more than likely to blugeon with one of the stones that ringed the fire she baked on. Or so she looked. Finding himself near to whimpering, he looked around for a familiar face, the older man, the man who'd taken him here. He didn't have to look far to find the one who'd been dubbed Mother. She was moving toward them, speaking to the other woman. Skandar realized then how old this stout matron was, her hair all gray, gone white in places near the temples and forehead, her eyes squinting toward him as if she couldn't see properly.
The old woman pointed at him--well, more to the right of him--and intoned what sounded like a curse. Sighing, the younger woman responded softly, taking him by the hand and leading him away. Taking him by the shoulders, she looked him in the eye and began to speak again. This time, it was another tone he knew well; his father used it often. She spoke as if speaking to a little child.
Frowning, Skandar drew himself up to his full height, though it didn't come up to anything more than the woman's chest, and said, "I am not a child." Snorting, the woman placed her hands on her hips, looking down at him and jerking her head, looking pointedly toward something else. The Turk followed her gaze to where boys of a height with him, if not an age, stood. Beardless youths, all of them, possibly ten, twelve years at most.
Staggering, he found himself dragged again, this time down to the river.
The entire process was shameful, but when they returned, his face was cold and beardless as those children and he was left to stand beside them while, having seen him come back, they giggled and spoke softly to one another. Skandar felt his face burn from shoulders to ears. Is this punishment? Does she seek to shame me?
Confused, he took a seat, rubbing at the small stubble that remained on his cheeks. The breeze touching them burned like fire, worse than that. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but he blinked them away. There had been enough shame done to him today; he would not allow himself to--
For the third or fourth time that day, he found himself the victim of a scare, one of the smaller boys all but injurying him severely as the fellow decided to plop onto his lap and gaze up at him.
"Yes?" The boy continued to stare at him. "What? What do you want?" The boy pressed something into his hand. Looking down, he saw a small dart. Looking up, he found himself surrounded by the others. A few hands took his, pulling him up by arms and shirt. Two of the older boys held a hoop. A youth of ten tugged his sleeve and pointed to the hoop, calling to the holders, pushed it. The ten-year-old threw his dart toward the rolling target. It sailed wide and landed in the dirt.
The others took their turns as well, some passing through, some not. Then it was his. Shrugging, Skandar focused on the hoop, tossing the dart. It flew too high, passing within a nail's breadth of the rim of the hoop before planting in the soil.
X x X
Skandar was lost once more after the game stopped, the children dispersing to perform various chores, or returning to some of the women. Mothers, he assumed, though it could have been aunts, cousins, sisters, or the like. Mother. What is their word for mother?
Unsure how to discover this, he looked toward the younger children, deciding to watch them to see if he could glean something from them. Most of it was the same as with the adults--nothing he could understand or attribute to any one thing. Groaning, he grasped at his head. This is madness. Maybe I should just--
"Ista! Ista!" a little girl cried suddenly, running from a boy toward a woman who was heading towards the edge of camp. Well, that was something more than nothing. Watching the woman speak with the two a moment, he stood and threaded his way through some passing men, hopping about quickly and pressing himself to a wall. It's worse than market day!
Gulping, he padded over to where the woman sat, taking a moment to really look her over now that they were mostly face to face. Her face was rounder than most women he'd happened to look at, her cheeks high. Her eyes were away from him, focused on the work in front of her, some kind of weaving, but he knew they were simply brown, as his own were. He chewed his lip, opened his mouth, shut it, and chewed again.
"Mother," he whispered.
"Hmm?" The woman glanced over at him, but refocused on her work, mumbling something that had the intonation of a question.
"Mother," he said, a little louder. Plucking up his courage, he added, "Ista." The woman's fingers went limp then, the needle slipping through them. She looked at him. "M-Mother. Ista. Mother." He licked his lips, silencing himself, hoping she understood what he was trying to say. "Ista." His voice dried up in his throat as fingers brushed over his hair.
I've never called a woman that before. Mother. A little smile touched his lips. It's a nice word.
