[Rimbaud]

Hillmen

Calem was cold and miserable. He had wanted to watch the strange newcomers arrive. Instead, Wolf had told him to sit by the riverbank and catch some fish. Calem knew there were no fish at this part of the stream, it was too shallow and rocky, little more than a trickle at times.

He could smell the fires of the newcomers on the air and tasted food on the air. He was hungry. He would return to the others and see if they would throw him something to eat. There were no fish here.

He lurched to his feet and moved forwards, his left leg as ever dragging slightly behind him. Overlong and under-muscled, it caused him great frustration as he could only move very slowly and awkwardly. When he tried to run, he fell and struck his head. He bore the bruises, cuts and untended scrapes to prove this. Some of the cuts on his hands had festered in the dirt and grime and sores had cracked open. Calem had not noticed these for some time.

He was still hungry and the others seemed no closer. He grunted and kept his head down. The others did not like to see his slack-muscled, twisted face, or especially the deep-set, squinting eyes. He hoped they had not drunk tonight. He rarely got food if they were drinking. He wanted to go back to the village. He did not know why Wolf had made him come.

He was still hungry. He growled as he struggled up over a small ridge. He would be at the others soon. Perhaps they would not mind that he had not brought them fish.

[ September 08, 2003: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]