Snow Mountain

- 5 -

When a laugh broke from the woman's mouth, the herdsman was surprised, then glad. But quickly he realized her laughter was not from humor, but shock.

Carefully, he finished bandaging and set the leftover materials aside, then sat on the bench a ways apart.

"I know it may seem strange at first. But you truly are safe now. Nothing can hurt you here, for so long as you wish to stay."

Her eyes when they found his were disbelieving.

"Do not worry," the herdsman explained. "Just because I have given up violence does not mean we are not protected." He gestured to the swords and spears hanging on the walls around them, grinning wryly. "Trophies, taken from those who came to kill the 'giant of the mountain'."

He felt her eyes follow him as he stood to his full height and returned to the hearth. He laddled stew from the pot there into a bowl then returned, setting it before her.

"Eat," he said, gesturing to the bowl. "You must be hungry."

The woman did eat, ravenously. After she had drained her stew bowl she licked it clean before moving on to the cheeses and dried fruit. When those too were gone she moved onto the bread, and gnawed on it dry until he offered her another bowl of stew to dip it in.

The herdsman himself ate sparingly, finding himself more interested in watching her. He tried not to stare, but again and again his eyes traveled to her scarred cheeks, to her hands with their blue tattooed swirls, to her eyes that reminded him of the sea.

The woman seemed too preoccupied by the food to notice his stare. Finally, when the pace of her devouring seemed to slacken, he asked her about herself.

"You are from one of the Gaulish tribes to the north, are you not?" he asked, wondering if he used the correct name. Her people were many and varied, and not all answered to the same title.

In response the woman's chewing slowed and she pushed up one sleeve, pointing to a symbol tattooed on her forearm. Among the ornate swirls, the herdsman recognized a river bird hovering over pointed waves, a fish in its beak.

The woman's eyes snapped to his as he laughed.

"Forgive me, it is just a coincidence," he said. "I see. Jalintu. The river fisher." Her vibrant eyes took on a whole new meaning. "I have heard of your tribe. They say your chieftain wields dual axes, and is a whirl on the battlefield. Just like the bird that names your tribe."

The woman nodded and resumed eating.

"Perhaps when the snows melt, I can ask my trader friend to help return you to your people," the herdsman offered, reaching for a hunk of bread for himself and a mug of gala to wash it down.

The woman stilled, then resumed chewing.

"And what should I call you?" the herdsman asked, after finishing the bread and the milk.

The woman again pointed to the bird on her forearm.

"Jalintu." He raised his empty mug, as if in toast. "Alright then. Jalintu it is."

The woman took a dried fig and popped it in her mouth, then pointed a long finger at his chest.

The herdsman raised his eyebrows. "Me?" He smiled and leaned his chin in his palm, elbow on the table. "You can call me what you like."

The woman frowned, but, of course, made no answer. Then her finger raised to point to the feathers woven into his hair. A word formed silently on her lips.

"Fyar?" he asked, surprised. "You want to name me for the feathers in my hair?"

She nodded, and her lips mouthed the word again.