[Noinkling]

‘Looks like Dag’s busy at his forge, eh?’ Dulaan’s chin lifted toward the smithy, a small smile wrinkling her face. From her seat in the back of the little wagon, she could see the thick plume of smoke rise up in the cool air, punctuated here and there with bright sparks. The sound of the smith’s hammer rang loud in the distance. Fálki nodded, his eyes sliding momentarily to where Dag’s smithy stood. A look of apprehension furrowed his young brow for the briefest of moments, replaced at once by one of determination.

Only a short space longer and they were at the house where Dag’s family dwelt. Before the brake was set, Jora had already bounced from the wagon’s bed. ‘Come on, Granny!’ she cried, grabbing the basket the old woman was handing over the side. The two pots of jam jostled against each other, their hard clay sides making a dull clanking sound.

‘Child, do be careful! I didn’t spend those hours bent over the Partridge-berry plants to have my good jam spilled all over the insides of this basket. I can feel my old back aching right now with the remembering!’ She turned back the napkin covering the contents of the basket and surveyed the contents. ‘Looks like they’re alright, then. ‘Long with the sweet buns your mother made.’ She handed the basket over the side once more, nodding favorably as the girl took the handle carefully.

‘Fálki, come round and give old gran a hand down, won’t you?’ The young man hurried to help her down. As she slid from the wagon bed, she spoke in a low undertone to him. ‘You’ve got it at hand, don’t you?’ His head nodded; his hand went to the small bulge inside his vest. ‘You just let your mother speak, y’hear? Then when I’ve said a few words, you come forward. Got that, sweetling?’ She patted his arm gently. From near the front of the wagon, Káta called out, gathering her flock about her.