Nomvula

52. And It's Thunder

"Your woodwork is outstanding," she said, running her fingers along twin crags next to a watering hole.

Buhle's hand froze with the oilcloth halfway down the spear haft, then she continued polishing it. "Thank you."

"How many days have you poured into it?"

"All of summer and most of the previous spring," Buhle said. "An hour or two a day."

"Slow but true."

"There's no other way to work."

"There's only imbalance in a single method of... Nevermind." Asanda pointed at the north-east side of the river. "The Hundred Hills don't look like that, though, or at least they haven't in thirty floods."

Buhle set the spear down with enough force to make the table rattle. "Did you come here to insult my work?"

"No, but art is creation and critique--"

"Stop talking about it," Buhle said, nostrils flaring. "Now."

Asanda took a step back and pursed her lips. "I'm sorry."

There was a long silence that didn't last nearly long enough. Eventually, Buhle's shoulders relaxed, but her face did not.

"People say Queen Nomvula's daughter is a botanist. How do you feel about people pointing at flaws in your garden?"

"My garden is immaculate," Asanda said. "And they can't critique because no one is allowed to see it."

Buhle's laugh was such a surprising sound that Asanda flinched, but it was the tired, hoarse variety that seemed to die out too soon. Asanda didn't realise how soon until her own smile followed it to an early grave.

It wasn't softness that touched Buhle's face, but it certainly lacked the sting of her earlier glare. "I hid the second chair behind my bed."

"Hid?"

"I'm not sure I like you." Buhle picked up her spear again. "Too chatty."

"A rare accusation." 

Buhle's room wasn't particularly large. It was built in the old circular style with a cabinet on one side, and a bed beneath the shuttered window on the far side. Sparse, a place to sleep rather than hide away. Though she'd always kept it orderly, Asanda's was cluttered by comparison. She found the second chair and sat across from Buhle again, putting the tray on the table.

"So what did you want to show me?" Buhle asked.

"Alchemy."

She looked uncomfortable all over again, but she adjusted her chair so she was facing Asanda square on.

"There are unfavourable rumours about you here, you know. They call you a hedge witch."

"I'm spiritually-inclined," Asanda said, putting the clay teapot to one side, "so witch isn't inaccurate, but 'hedge' is offensive. I'm too clever for hedge spells."

Buhle crossed her arms. "With all your silence, I didn't realise you had a sense of humour."

"About what?"

"Nevermind."

Asanda set two cups between them, and the small citruswood box to the right. She opened it briefly to check if the one remaining teabag was secure. Spiking Ndlovu's beer without being detected had been hard enough, spiking it twice to make up for his bulk had been costly. She hesitated. That was a thought her mother would have.

"What's wrong?" Buhle asked.

"Nothing." Asanda shoved the tea box back into her pouch. "I brought terrible tea, anyway."