His hands would shake in counterpoint to the trembling of his voice. When awake, his Master would walk hunched as if carrying the burden of many years. True, the cultivated grime made it difficult to really be sure, but Aaron was puzzled. Asleep, his Master's face appeared to be that of a man who had not seen more than thirty winters. But before he spoke, he was struck as always by his Master's face, so very different in the repose of sleep than when his Master was awake. Aaron decided that he would make his stay brief. It was stuffy in the pavilion, prodigious snoring having propelled his Master's stale breath into every hidden corner. He ducked under the sagging, stiff canvas, and stood for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness. There was one other kind of visitor, and Aaron was convinced that this was the type that now approached.
When his Master was plagued by company, the visitors were usually parched husks of humankind, always overjoyed to discover that the oasis they had stumbled upon had substance, and remained within their desperate grasp instead of dancing upon the rippling heat just beyond their reach. The nearest city, of the same name, was thirty leagues to the north. Aaron and his Master inhabited the sole tiny patch of green in the midst of the Tangramayne desert.
There was little doubt concerning their destination. Far out on the desert a party of people was approaching, their wavy images alternately crowning the dunes then disappearing out of sight. He lay in the strips of shade provided by a tattered awning attached to an ancient pavilion.
Aaron squinted, trying to see through the heat waves rippling off the scorched dunes.
0 kommentar(er)
