[piosenniel]

Rôg

The prow scraped along the sandy bottom as the boat rushed through the shallow waters leading to the strand. Rôg had rolled his breeches above his knees and shoved his boots into his leather pack before they cast off from the Gull. The surging water swirled about his lower legs, stinging them with its salty coldness as soon as he’d jumped from the boat. Pushing against it as it rushed back from the shore, his arms strained to pull the boat further onto the beach as his feet struggled to find purchase on the shifting sand beneath them. Qasim and Umar, their own ketch secured from the waves, ran out to help. And soon the boat was brought firmly onto land, and Aiwendil and Mas’ud assisted out.

Others, waiting on shore, had already loaded the birds and other goods onto the waiting wagons. And others still had a small fire going and there were kettles of hot, strong tea sweetened with honey to refresh the merchants’ spirits and hold off sleep. They would not be spending the night here, intending to set off once all the wagons had been loaded, and then to head northeast toward the city and its bazaar.

Rôg had no need of the tea, though he took a cup as it was passed to him, inclining his head graciously to the one who had set it in his hands. Still barefoot, he sat on a rock watching the shadows of the merchants as they moved about their wagons seeing to the cargo. They had declined his help, the firelight glinting off their white teeth as they smiled at his offer, saying thank you, but we are almost done, and you are our guests.

His toes dug luxuriously into the warm sands as his gaze took in the shadows of the mountains against the night sky, and he wondered for a brief moment what creatures there were who lived above the desert floor in the craggy places of the distant ridge. Perhaps the old man and he would find time to go there as they traveled south.

Rôg’s woolgathering was cut short as Qasim called them to his wagon. They would ride with him – Aiwendil on the seat in front with Qasim and Rôg in the back, his legs left dangling from the rear of the wagon bed. Their wagon was last in line, and the horses stamped their hooves against the packed sand eager to be off. Rôg could hear Qasim urging them on with a flick of the reins and a few soft words. The iron bound wheels crunched against the sand as they started, and the small lantern which hung from wagon bed threw crazy, swinging patterns of light on the passing sandy hillocks as they rolled by.