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Rôg
Even in the bright mid-morning’s light, it was difficult to see the little birds. And especially difficult given that Rôg had just awakened from what seemed a very short nap. His eyes felt gritty, and he knuckled them along the lines of his lashes in an effort to clear his blurry vision. It was of no use. No amount of rubbing relieved the film that swam across his sight. He could see the figure of the old man standing a short way from the camp. He was bent forward, leaning on his staff, his head cocked to one side . . . listening.
Rôg watched as Aiwendil knelt near the birds, and then sat down. The younger man moved toward the older, his bared feet stepping quietly over the cool morning sand. He could hear a long series of mellow, churring chirps and whistles. ‘Larks,’ he thought. ‘The old fellow has found a pair of them by the sound of it.’ As he drew near, blinking – his vision clearing somewhat as he walked, he picked up the soft sound of another bird. He stopped, a short distance from the other man, his brow furrowing.
He could see the tan little pair now, almost hidden against the beige background of the sand and rocks, scurrying back and forth, seeking seeds and small insects among the few thin clumps of browned grass. They spoke back and forth, pausing often to answer the third bird. Crane his neck as he might, Rôg could not see the other bird. He moved a little to the side of Aiwendil, looking closely for the bird. ‘Must be one of their fledglings,’ he thought his eyes searching hard on the ground.
Chirr-chirr-chree-chree-chirr-chirr-chirr-chree-chree . . .
It was a questioning sound, he thought. But his ears must have betrayed him. The sound came not from the ground where the birds were, but from the old man himself. Rog drew a little nearer, stooping forward to confirm what he had just seen. He stood still as he could, but his movement had now caught the eye of the female, and she made a shrill, warning whistle. In less than the blink of an eye the pair had withdrawn into the taller grasses.
Rôg stood up as Aiwendil glanced back at him. The old man’s face betrayed nothing of his thoughts, though his eyes glinted with a new brightness, it seemed, in the desert light. Rôg’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed the older man’s face. There was no way to lead politely into the question he wanted to ask. He looked to where the pair of larks had disappeared into the grasses and nodded toward them with his chin.
‘The little ones,’ he said softly, drawing Aiwendil’s full attention. ‘It seemed as if you spoke with them.’ The old man remained silent. ‘What news did they bring, Aiwendil? Will you tell me?’
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