“And you.”
Thus parted, Daka wandered back to the inn where he’d stay until he found other arrangements. He cradled the squirming bird against his chest. What did one do with a live quail? Daka certainly couldn’t butcher it for the meat. Though quail were delicious, he was far too squeamish to kill her himself. He could give her to the inn’s cook.
The fowl gave a squawk of protest, nixing that option as if she knew what he was thinking.
Daka gazed into her black beady eyes. She stared right back. The passing fancy to keep her as a pet came and went. Having a little bird companion might be nice for him, but she wasn’t meant to be caged.
Daka veered from his path to seek out a garden. She was a bird after all. He could release her, and she’d fly away having learned a valuable lesson about avoiding traps.
He sat upon a stone bench overlooking a neatly arranged rainbow of flowers. Their sweet perfume tickled his nose. Placing the bird in his lap, Daka investigated her bindings.
If looks could kill his epitaph would read, death by murderous quail.
“You and I must come to an agreement.” Daka first untied the string from her tiny feet. They flexed and kicked with their newfound freedom.
She glared at him skeptically.
“I release you, and to thank me, you do not bite.” He began to unwrap the net that bound her wings. “Do we have a deal?”
With each unwinding, her struggle to break their deal grew more apparent.
Daka’s heart was racing. “Why are you so terrifying? Remember our deal.” He flinched as he tugged the last bit of netting free.
Her wings unfurled in a frantic rush of flapping, and she leapt into the air without a backward glance.
Daka let out the breath he’d been holding, all ten fingers intact. He wondered how Wen had managed to bind the ungrateful little monster to begin with.
“You’re welcome,” he called out into the night.
Glad he wasn’t a trapper, Daka left the garden to seek out his bed. He had big plans to ignore the beginning twinges of loneliness in favor of fantasizing about the man from the market. Tomorrow he would seek out the man and hopefully touch his silken hair…among other things.
2
Mahu
Tromping through marsh, brush blade in hand, Mahu searched for the next overgrown clump of papyrus to harvest. He didn’t often partake in this side of the business anymore, the physical task being left to younger men, but the beautiful day had drawn him outdoors. He may as well be useful.
“Over here,” Sebek called from downhill, hidden amongst the tall reeds. “This patch needs thinning out.”
Mahu followed the sound of his voice. “Good choice.”
Together they tackled the dense thicket. Clipping the stems at the base of some stalks and pulling up the entire root system of others, they provided ample room for the remaining plants to grow. The harvested pieces were piled onto wagons to be hauled back into town for processing.
Turning the raw plant into papyrus scrolls was how Mahu generally spent his days, but it was a nice change of pace to be in the sunshine performing manual labor again. He enjoyed Sebek’s company. They chatted as they worked.
“How are your wife and daughters?” asked Mahu.
Sebek chuckled. “Driving each other mad, probably.”
Mahu smiled at a memory of his own family. How he longed for them to drive him mad once more. “How so?”
“Well, the girls want dyed fabrics for their dresses like their friends. Oranges and blues. But Meri has said no. Apparently it’s difficult to wash. The dye bleeds into everything. I stay out of the fray.”
“Wise man,” said Mahu.
Sebek had twin girls. Young. Around ten now if Mahu’s memory could be trusted. His own daughter would have been seventeen this harvest season. Mahu would have loved to have seen her in the new blue and orange fabrics that had become popular.
“And you? How are you?” Sebek tossed an armful of freshly snipped greenery toward the wagon.
