In The Lair of the Draca (Book 2)

In The Lair of the Draca (Book 2) Chapter 35: Painful Homecoming

"Look!" A feminine finger pointed. "They come. They come!"

There was a quick rustling of bedsheets, muffled voices, and the mild scraping sound of dead coals as someone poked a stick into the long-extinct dinner fire. Beneath some coverlet, a woman's baby wailed its hunger into the darkness of the morning.

"Quiet him!" someone hissed. "They'll know we've been waiting..."

"Enough of your foolishness already," an aged grandmother snapped back. "Everyone else has fallen asleep at their dinner fires, as well-- half of Looks Thrice wants to be the first to see the Star-Child dragged back through the palisade."

"If she survived," another voice piped pointedly.

The same grandmother shook her hoary head and cackled grimly. "Oh, she survived," said she, with the finality of a pronouncement from the fabled Pomoq. "There is something special about that one. The Star-Child...whether Sorceress or not, she shall survive to achieve great things. Mark my words!"

And a flurry of shame-faced busy-bodies scrambled to kick soil over their fires and snatch up their sleeping wear, still damp from the morning dew-drops which kissed the leaves and the blue-petaled weed-blossoms.

Unwilling to be noticed and seen as the gossip-mongers that they were, young men rushed toward their lodges with armfuls of bedding supplies. Their women followed, some with toddlers clutched against hips as they wiped the sleep out of their large, blinking eyes, and a few limping grandmothers hobbled after them as quickly as they could. But deserted that the common area now appeared, there would still be plenty of eyes peeking out from lodge doors that were only partially closed-- oh, yes. Everyone in Looks Thrice wanted to be the first to know if the Star-Child had survived, if there would be proof that the Draca had done her bidding, and what had become of Malaraq, of Tuchek, and the two youngsters Dijaq and Luka. The outcome of this arrival would be told and re-told around bonfires likely for generations. Never before had there existed a woman-- nay, a mere child!-- who could command, let along communicate with, the creatures who formed Dragura's deadly entourage!

Pomoq's lodge door swung open with a piercing squee-ee-eech (he had been reminded more times than he could recall that the hinges would have to be oiled); a brilliant, green-winged bird darted out from the inside and flitted merrily away toward Hallow's Wood. Squinting, Pomoq doddered out into the misty morning in his Healer's Cloak-- the black one with the heavy hood-- and he leaned generously on the supporting end of his trusty walking-staff. His rheumy eyes blinked maddeningly, and the creases in his leathered face seemed more pronounced beneath the dawn star-light.

Behind him, Gormaq and Amiechek shuffled out of the lodge and into the morning with impatience and worry in their large, moist orbs.

Amiechek-- who, as always, was dressed in her matronly finest-- placed a hand on Pomoq's bone-like shoulder. "Can you see them?" she whispered.

"Never mind if he can see them," barked Gormaq disdainfully, whose aging heart was full to the brim with concern for the daughter whom he considered his own, as though she had sprung from his very loins themselves. "Are they safe? Is my Ziuta safe from those shiftless Draca?" Elbowing Amiechek roughly out of the way, Gormaq ignored her haughty protests and gripped both of Pomoq's shoulders, shaking them-- hard. "Has my daughter lived?"

Pomoq peered first at the gnarled hands which grasped him, then inquisitively up at the peaked face which stared into his own. The tip of Gormaq's bulbous nose was dotted with a few beads of fresh dew-- or were they perspiration?

"I would first ask that you remove your hands from my person and take a few steps back, my child," Pomoq said in a withering tone, and Gormaq appeared immediately ashamed.