Day 5- The horse and the tree
This ends a bit abruptly. I may come back to it later.
His horse meandered slowly along the path. The day was dusty, the grass hazy and yellow in the sun. He tilted his head back, one hand over his eyes, and peered into the distance. If he squinted just so, he could make out a largish tree, on the left of the path far ahead. All else was scrub and the dry grasses waving in the wind.
Clucking his horse forward in a futile effort to increase the rate of transportation, he leaned back in the saddle. Weary with travel, his garments were worn, not that they had been anything to impress before the long ride. The only thing worth noting was the deep green cloak slung back from his shoulders, having somehow escaped the worst of the dust, and looking finer somehow than the rider warranted the possession of.
Sighing, he took a drink from the water flask hanging from the saddle. Imperceptibly they were plodding their way closer to the tree just off the road, its wide branches and leaves reluctantly shading the ground. Even the tree looked too hot to do much of anything today. Its sole attraction was as a break in the visual monotony of the landscape around him. He had to wonder why there weren't more. Didn't trees drop seeds, or nuts, or something to make more trees? What happened to all of them? And where did this one come from, come to that? But he was too worn to truly care other than to pass another few steps of the path in the diversion of idle thought.
His horse whickered gently. Puzzled, he looked up from his ponderings, but could see nothing to warrant the equestrian greeting. Wary now, he took a sharper glance around, eyes finally settling on the shade beneath the gnarled branches ahead. Unless he was mistaken, there was someone sitting at ease against the trunk. As he drew closer, details solidified themselves into the form of a small old man, clothed in threadbare robes suffering the same application of dust as his own unassuming trousers and shirt. Cautious, not in the least because he couldn't figure out where the little man had come from - there were no towns for miles on either side - he let his horse pick its way up to the perimeter of the tree's reach.
"Hello" he said, in as neutral a greeting as possible, in case there were hordes of attackers lurking in ambush. Somewhere. Like behind the tree trunk. Or in the knee high grass. (Wherever. They could be there somewhere. He was sure of it.)
The little old man smiled beatifically and nodded but didn't share a word of greeting of his own. His hands were folded in his lap and his legs crossed and a small rucksack lay on the ground behind him. Everything he wore was the same dry tan as the road (and in fact appeared to contain not insignificant portions of it in dust) and was in a highly disreputable state of wear. The front appeared to have collected strata of gravy stains and the hems had long ago frayed into submission. Even the hood bore an impressive patina of grime and dirt, fixing its creases into immobility.
The traveler's horse shifted under him impatiently, sensing that a stop might herald a break and a chance to nibble the dry grass and even perhaps a roll in the dirt. The old man continued to smile placidly up at the pair.
His horse meandered slowly along the path. The day was dusty, the grass hazy and yellow in the sun. He tilted his head back, one hand over his eyes, and peered into the distance. If he squinted just so, he could make out a largish tree, on the left of the path far ahead. All else was scrub and the dry grasses waving in the wind.
Clucking his horse forward in a futile effort to increase the rate of transportation, he leaned back in the saddle. Weary with travel, his garments were worn, not that they had been anything to impress before the long ride. The only thing worth noting was the deep green cloak slung back from his shoulders, having somehow escaped the worst of the dust, and looking finer somehow than the rider warranted the possession of.
Sighing, he took a drink from the water flask hanging from the saddle. Imperceptibly they were plodding their way closer to the tree just off the road, its wide branches and leaves reluctantly shading the ground. Even the tree looked too hot to do much of anything today. Its sole attraction was as a break in the visual monotony of the landscape around him. He had to wonder why there weren't more. Didn't trees drop seeds, or nuts, or something to make more trees? What happened to all of them? And where did this one come from, come to that? But he was too worn to truly care other than to pass another few steps of the path in the diversion of idle thought.
His horse whickered gently. Puzzled, he looked up from his ponderings, but could see nothing to warrant the equestrian greeting. Wary now, he took a sharper glance around, eyes finally settling on the shade beneath the gnarled branches ahead. Unless he was mistaken, there was someone sitting at ease against the trunk. As he drew closer, details solidified themselves into the form of a small old man, clothed in threadbare robes suffering the same application of dust as his own unassuming trousers and shirt. Cautious, not in the least because he couldn't figure out where the little man had come from - there were no towns for miles on either side - he let his horse pick its way up to the perimeter of the tree's reach.
"Hello" he said, in as neutral a greeting as possible, in case there were hordes of attackers lurking in ambush. Somewhere. Like behind the tree trunk. Or in the knee high grass. (Wherever. They could be there somewhere. He was sure of it.)
The little old man smiled beatifically and nodded but didn't share a word of greeting of his own. His hands were folded in his lap and his legs crossed and a small rucksack lay on the ground behind him. Everything he wore was the same dry tan as the road (and in fact appeared to contain not insignificant portions of it in dust) and was in a highly disreputable state of wear. The front appeared to have collected strata of gravy stains and the hems had long ago frayed into submission. Even the hood bore an impressive patina of grime and dirt, fixing its creases into immobility.
The traveler's horse shifted under him impatiently, sensing that a stop might herald a break and a chance to nibble the dry grass and even perhaps a roll in the dirt. The old man continued to smile placidly up at the pair.