Messages

One: Journeying

    
"Come on, Twila! We need to hurry up if we are going to get to Spifa on time," I complain to my little sister as she trails behind, distracted by whatever she sees off the side of the road. She has a tendency to get *a little* too interested in the scenery on her routes; she almost failed her Messenger Test because of her distractibility.

A few feet off the trail is a stream that transforms into a waterfall, not far downriver from where we are. I would be the first to admit that the area is beyond worth stopping to admire the landscape; the light streaking in between the tree trunks bears a strong resemblance to golden thread. I can see the veins of nearby leaves, the contrast drawn out by the backlighting. From this vantage point, we can't see the actual waterfall. It just looks like the little stream disappears, only to be replaced by a glowing valley. If (and that's a big if) we weren't on duty, I would stop. I would gaze at the scenery with Twila all day. All...of forever. But, I am on duty. I am essentially always on duty.

"Dawn," Reed, the third member of our Messenger group, murmurs softly in that "let her be" way of his. And thus ensued one of our silent conversations composed of hand motions and withering looks, which make up our own kind of pig latin. It's faster this way, and we don't have to worry as much about Twila overhearing. Twilla hasn't quite caught on yet.

I jerk my head down the jungle-like trail we were following, indicating that we need to get a move on. The Message won't deliver itself, after all.
His response consists simply of raising his eyebrows and locking me in an "honestly?" stare. This I interpret as: "Do you really care so much about abiding by Messenger rules that you won't let your sister have a tiny bit of fun?"

I nod vigorously and draw my right index finger across my throat. It's the most basic principle of being a Messenger: impress your customers, both the ones giving you the Message and the ones receiving it. For if you slip up, the consequences can be dire.
Reed draws himself up to respond, but before he can speak (or motion, rather) Twilla interrupts. "You guys are weird," she says, and turns to follow the road we have been following to the great city of Spifa, evidently giving up her attempts to track our conversation.

Reed and I fall into step behind her, in silent agreement to put our argument to rest. At least for now.