Westmost Anthropology
A way-too-anthropological fragment from Otter, coming not too long after the first bits, but before the Orca bits. It may not make a final draft -- that is, I might have to write this stuff, but you might not have to read it.
But if you want to anyway, or if you just have a morbid interest in process, here you go!
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The spring caravan came a few weeks later, when river was at full rush and the snow thinned to scales in the folded grasses.
The people of the caravan, the Walkers, came up from the prairies, across the snake lands where no one lived. They came into the spreading skirts of the great black-shouldered hills. There, in the thin shadows of birch and aspen, the Walkers sought and struck the Spearfish River, thirsty
for the protection running water.
The wagons came with wheels splashing and jolting through the shallow rush, across the tumbled stones of the riverbed. The sulfur-yellow dust of the snake lands turned to dripping clays on the wagon's bellies. Above, their loads swayed: bales of fleeces and buffalo hides, boxes of cured meat, jars of honey and beeswax, sack and sacks of grain - all the bounty of the plains. They came to trade for things only the forest could give: wood works from pegs to barrels, from boards to wheels. The bronzework and silverwork of the smithy, for the plains had no wood for the forge. They came for the herbs of taste and medicine, the dyes of beauty and power, and the spell-woven cloth.
For a few weeks, Westmost filled with trade in goods and folk and news and stories. There was splashing and shouting as the wagons were unloaded, there were horses in the sheep meadow, there were dogs everywhere. The painted wagons were wheeled up onto the bank, and the tents in bright colours pitched on their empty beds. Fires burned in the open, extravagant of wood. And in the careful, modest town, no one was careful or modest.
The folk of Westmost were mostly women, for power ran in the female line, and few people untouched by power cared to live in a place were forest shadow stretched and circled. The Walkers were mostly men, young men breaking free of a life of plowing and herding and hunting.
So the spring floods were a time of greetings and breakings. There were always a few half-grown girls come seeking apprenticeship in Westmost. There were always a few Westmost boys, proud as colts, who would leave with the wagons. There was parting and greeting and courting. There were lovers who saw each other only at spring flood, and let the flood sweep them into private silliness, or private joy. For a few weeks it seemed that in every shadow there were couples kissing.
Through this, Otter sat at Alder's side. "Like a cold frog," Pokeberry, the herbalist, told Cricket.
"And Alder?" Cricket asked.
But Pokeberry only shook her head.
2 Comments
You should consider putting it in somewhere. It’s a good picture of life being lived that belong in any story.
I don’t find it boring either. Many stories that I read don’t have enough of this for my taste - the details about culture and living in the world. I like the part about the gypsies being men and the towndwellers being women, and the trading of apprentices.