So the day started, how would I? I was faithful polishing the shell. I listened to the drums, but though I didn't walk up and fight fully to get to the first wagons, I was listening. Learning, offering my little wares of amusement right now. Listening mostly to my Grandmother as my brother would finally show me a few things. He showed me how to start to gain some control of my thoughts. I had a semi idea from Grandmother. Eyes were sometimes more blind when open. I would close my eyes to find what I was looking for. He was trying to show me how to expand my mind to sort the many things in there. The feelings that would try to flash all at once. Don't think...feel. It was hard, for my thoughts would linger to the far blue sky, and the cloud I saw earlier that day. I would hear a faint sigh knowing he knew my concentration was gone. He knew he couldn't teach me. Age had been a hinder as much as being left to my own vices for so long.
One of things I enjoy the most, is watching when my Grandmother paints. Its a painful thing, but worth it. Since age has gotten so wrapped on her poor flesh, the gift of watching tends to be at my own palm. To create from your own essence. Pictures stained into leather. They hung around our wagon, without a thought one might thing it red dye, but we knew better. Hers were so detailed, every blade of grass was a stroke from the single end of the thorn stem or by her own finger tips. Sometimes when I was younger I would be so engrossed and her pictures so elaborate, I would feel light headed and need to rest. To see the result while I ate after I awoke was worth each prick. I lay here now, working on my own picture. It was just the sky, each cloud had its own delicate lines within lines, within lines. There was a distant hill, with someone riding over it, there was the stream and each circled rock. A sweet solitude found as I continued watching every crimson line soak into the leather. It was for a saddle blanket for my kaiila. Ulita was growing restless and I wasn't in the mood to ride. I really had been a slug. As much as a slug as Tuchuks can be. I still cleaned about the wagon, cooked with Grandmother. We had a couple verr, as Grandmother loved verr milk, so I milked and brushed them everyday. People were always in and out the wagon asking my Grandmother for things, looking for my brother. My brother had this gift, or just a really good skill of reading futures form the bottom of a baby's feet. He only did male babies. He was good at it. I doubt there wasn't a back wagon baby around that hadn't had his feet touched by my brother. When I was about ten, a mother , her mate and a newborn came to see my brother. He simply told the mother to kiss her son, and the mate to kiss them both, and said, to the Warrior, memories last forever. Confused the couple and the baby walked out and I swear on my own feet...if a bolt of lightening didn't strike down right on that mother and son. Right on our steps! It still has the burn marks on the railing. Since that day, people came twice and much now, bring even kids who were already walking. Don't know why he won't do those after they take their first step, just his thing I guess. Something about the lines, the thickness of the heel, the mold of the ball of the foot. The body knows, what their path will be like. When I asked about the bolted baby, he said...he never saw feet to smooth and soft. Not a line, not a single line. And that is all he said about that.
I finished the surface of my blanket, tired, I ate a piece of bosk strip so I wouldn't wake up with a headache, leaving the stem back on Grandmothers chest, I slept well, and dreamed of very tired feet.
