Being thoughtful is a good thing.  Being thoughtful all the time is a tiring thing.  So here’s just a light story for you to enjoy.  It’s one of those vignettes that helps an author build her universe and get to know her characters, but may never show up in a finished work.  I hope you enjoy the day as much as Marc and Dallen did…

And so on a warm early autumn afternoon he found himself mounted one of her fine horses, riding out into the nowhere of her land.

Gradually desert gave way to scrubby bushes and tough, hardy grass. They had ridden most of the hours in an easy silence. Dusk had fallen and the night was deepening, when Dallen finally pulled the fine bay she was riding to a halt. Marcellus had commented on Rigel’s absence as they had started out, but Dallen had let it go without an answer. They had begun passing something that could pass for a tree an hour or so back; now they had pulled to halt beneath an old oak that could do the name proud. At the base of its gnarled, old roots a spring bubbled up with a merry welcoming noise. They gratefully drank of its cool clear water, before filling their flasks and letting their horses drink their fill. They hobbled their horses for the night, drawing their bedrolls off and making camp underneath the shelter of the oak.

There was no fire, as the night was warm, and there was no fresh meat to cook. Dallen had volunteered for the first watch, and so they sat in the darkness, Dallen watching, Marcellus waiting for sleep to steal over him.

“Marcellus,” she said, after a while.

“Hmmm.”

“We are going to visit a tribe of my people, who live much like we have for centuries. My family and their petty little wars are not who my people really are.   I wanted you to know who you are fighting with, who you are fighting for. To know that they are worth it.”

“Tell me about them,” Marcellus said, enjoying the lilting cadence of her voice.

“I would rather you see for yourself. But you must not call me by name.   To them I am just another wanderer.”

She fell silent after that, and Marcellus, lulled into sleep by the soft sounds of the night, rolled up in his blankets and fell asleep.

He woke up some hours later with Dallen’s hand on his shoulder. The moon had risen and its strong full light filtered through the branches, casting enough light on her features so that Marcellus knew all was well. It was simply his turn on watch. Satisfied he was wide-awake, Dallen lay down without a word and was asleep instantly. The consummate soldier, Marcellus thought.

The next morning Dallen laughed at his slowness and teased him as he stretched out the stiffness sleeping in the open had set in his muscles. “I am out of practice,” he replied, “Do you do this often?” he asked, not really expecting her to answer.

She swung up on her mount, and looked down at him from its height, “Not as often as I would like.”

Marcellus mounted and they rode away from the sheltering oak and deeper into the heart of her land.

They reached the tribe they were searching for late that afternoon. They had ridden through a forested area and climbed up on to the grassland plateau that spread across vast miles of her country. Dallen pointed to a faint trace of smoke wafting into the air.   “There. The Gorma tribe is camped along a creek about four miles away.”

Marcellus hung back a bit as they cantered closer to the tribe. The plain was dotted with round circular huts perched on the edge of the plateau before it fell away to the splashing creek below.   There must have been a dozen huts, each surrounded by the accoutrements of life. As the hoof beats of their horses were heard, a crowd began to gather at the edge of the village. He watched as Dallen dismounted and was welcomed into their midst. She endured several warm embraces without flinching, and then turned back to Marcellus. She gestured for him to dismount and join her. There was the confusion of voices and welcome and Marcellus tried hard to see the individual faces in the crowd and to find names to put with them. He had been drawn away from Dallen, and so did not hear what she said, but the crowd responded with a unanimous roar of delight and many of the men pounded him heartily on his back, as if congratulating him for something. When the river of people moved him back to Dallen, she reached out and grasped his hand, pulling him close to her. “Don’t get lost again,” she murmured into his ear.   Gradually the crowd thinned and they were left with a wizened old woman. It was only as they sat before the old woman’s hut and were given food and drink that Marcellus realized Dallen and the old woman were speaking in a tongue wholly unknown to him.

He caught Dallen’s eye and raise a brow, silently questioning her. She smiled, the first real full-fledged smile he had ever seen on her face, “Forgive us. Ochina refuses to speak anything but the language of our people, though she understands the common tongue well enough. She is telling me that it is fortunate that we have come today, another day they would not have been able to offer us much in the way of accommodations.   They begin their journey to their winter camp tomorrow. We are welcome to stay the night and journey with them if we are heading north.”

Marcellus enjoyed watching Dallen fall into the rhythm of the tribe’s life. It was obvious she was well known and had spent much time with these people. She strode through the camp speaking to people, stepping in and giving a hand where she could, Marcellus always in tow. When they reached the picket line, they mounted their horses and rode out into the plains. When the were safely out of earshot of the camp, Dallen pulled up her horse and sidled close to Marcellus. She grinned at him, naughty mischief dancing in her eyes.

”What have you done?” he asked.

“I have told them that you are my husband.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry.   It was a terribly selfish thing for me to do, but you have never heard Ochina snore,” she laughed, completely unrepentant for all that she had started with an apology.

“I don’t understand.”

They were riding along, side by side, their legs occasionally brushing as their horses paced along. She was silent for so long he thought she would not answer, but she did finally, and surprised him with the length of her explanation, “There is an old legend the people tell. They say that long ago we were without the horse.   That we walked the land on our own feet. One night a stranger came among us, asking for hospitality. The people welcomed him, making a place around the fire, sharing their food, giving up a hut for him to sleep in comfort and privacy. That night as he sat around the fire with them, his hands were busy with wood and knife. Come morning, the stranger was gone, but his carvings remained. As my people carried them from the hut and as the first light of morning shown on them, they were changed into the first mare and stallion.   So in honor and memory of He Who Has No Name, each tribe keeps an empty hut ready, should a stranger come among them.   Hospitality is important to my people.   We would not turn a stranger away.   But, we would not let an unmarried couple share that hut, and I have had the dubious pleasure of sharing Ochina’s before.”

Marcellus threw his head back and laughed heartily. Spurring his horse, he gave himself over to the pleasure of galloping a fine horse across the open plain. Dallen followed, her mount quickly closing the distance between them.   They thundered through the sun warm day, knowing only this moment of freedom, this one instant of life. And it was a beautiful moment.