50 Vhalar 721
Dan dug his toes into the golden sand and watched the ponies race each other along the beach, manes and tails flying. It was time to build a bonfire, according to Cloud, which meant gathering wood for it. Dan looked around at the options and then began climbing up the dunes to the high tide line and probing through the debris there for driftwood.
He spotted a corner of salt-silvered, sun-bleached wood poking out from under a pile of seaweed, bent, grabbed it, and hauled. It wasn't as long or as stuck as he thought though, and the extra effort he had put in recoiled on him and knocked him off balance, so that he fell backwards with the scrap of wood in his hand, and landed hard on his backside in the sand. Dan growled a rude word under his breath and scrambled back to his feet. he swiped uselessly at the sand clinging to his pants and then prodded at the seaweed again, with the wood he was still holding.
Two more silvered scraps of tree rolled out of the brown and gold tangle to land at his feet, and he scooped them up and carried them along the beach to add to the growing stack piling up there. Dan saw that it had been organised in size order, from thickest to thinnest. He dumped his pieces in the scantly occupied 'small' section and turned to go back to the tideline for more when he had a sudden thought. The bonfire would need tinder too - he should duck into the trees and grab some pine needles or holly. It's not like he can get lost in there - all he would have to do is follow the sunlight back to the sea."
The way that the dappled light shifted and changed reminded Dan of the way light danced on the sea and he sucked in a quick breath. It tasted to him of pine and damp and something unfamiliar, and he took a deeper one, letting the scents and flavours cross his tongue and fill his nose. Bird calls jabbered in his ears and the thick layer of pine needles under his feet was both softer and firmer than the sand of the beach. Each step brought out a new wash of pine scent.
He bent and picked up a handful of the needles. They felt cool and damp against his hands as he let them trickle through his fingers. Damp wouldn't be any use for tinder, that had to be as dry as you could get it, or it wouldn't take a spark at all. He eased closer to one of the pines, where the ground looked more sheltered and tried there. It was hard to tell if this new handful of pine needles was damp, or just cooler than he expected, so he poured them into a pocket to warm up with his body heat and kept looking.
Looking up from under the branches, a patch of orangeish brown stood out against the dark greens of the living needles, and Dan ducked from one tree to another, looking up each time until he came to the tree in question. The tree was fine, alive and thriving, but one of the lowest branches had died off, but not fallen, and the needles had changed colour accordingly. Dan reached out and touched the branch cautiously, and found that both the branch and the needles were much drier than the ones he had found on the ground. He gathered them eagerly with both hands, and turned to go back with his find - and realised he had somehow lost track of the shore in his meandering search and his moving from tree to tree. The sun had gone into hiding, leaving only a dull, sourceless light to see by. Nothing he could follow.
Panic spiked sharply in his heart and his throat, and he looked desperately from side to side as if that would make the path out suddenly appear. It didn't. He closed his eyes and took a slow breath, then another, beating back the panic. "Can't get lost in there," he echoed, then with disgust at his own lack of abilty, added, "except for me, of course." He scuffed a toe on the ground. It left a mark, and his breath caught in his throat again. Of course, footprints! What other marks had he left? Could he follow his own trail out again?
He peered at the ground around him. The piled and matted pine needles didn't hold shapes very well, but he thought he saw a scuff on one side of the tree, where he had ducked in. he went in that direction, passed out from under that tree, and saw a thread snagged from his sleeve fluttering on another branch. As he closed on that one, he began to see the spots on the floor of the forest where he had scooped up needles. That was an easier trail to follow, and by the time he reached the end of it, he could smell salt water on the breeze as well as pine.
He followed his nose towards the smell of salt water, and eventually ducked out of the shade of the forest into the dazzle of the sun and the sandy beach. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the glare. It hadn't seemed this bright before he went into the gloom of the forest. he blinked again and turned toward the woodpile, which had grown quite a bit in his absence. He set the needles down on a dry patch of sand and placed a thick branch on one side of the makeshift fireplace, then a second on the opposite side to make two parallel lines of wood, then reached for two more big sticks, and laid them across the first two so that the four sticks formed a square with a gap at the bottom. Pyramid fires were great for little fires, but a big bonfire like this, you risked it falling on top of you when you were setting up. A square set up like this, or an A-frame were far more stable and burned just as well.
He continued to add sticks to the square, each layer slightly shorter and thinner than the previous one. Finally, he knelt and propped a handful of thin sticks over the tinder to use as kindling, then pulled out his flint and steel, bent close for easier lighting and began to strike sparks. The pine needles that he had gathered caught and burned hot, licking up over the thin twigs. Dan quickly scooped up another handful of them and added them to the budding fire. When he ran out of twigs, he blew gently across the fire, until it latched onto the bark still coating the lowest sticks and danced upwards through the wooden tower in sparks and flame.
Cloud and Smoke came prancing back to admire the bonfre, and nuzzle him with approval. He buried his fingers in their silky manes in response, and let himself lean against their shoulders, taking comfort from their presence, and then tipped his head back, watching the sky darken into night and the rising sparks cling to it like newborn stars, ever rising and glimmering, until he lost track of them completely.
When he brought his gaze back down, he found a feast laid out for him: Baked fish, stuffed and flavoured with tangy sorrel and good herbs; roasted roots, sliced and laid out on a platter; rounds of freshly made flatbread; an entire honeycomb oozing gently into a bowl; little cheeses; mounds of sweet berries and piles of fruit. There were even treats for the ponies: bowls of hot bran mash; apples with the other fruits; a bucket of oats and a pile of fresh hay.
Dan's mouth watered and he grinned. "Let's eat," he told the ponies and they whickered back at him with joy, and buried their noses into the bowls of bran mash while they were still hot. Dan grabbed a plate for himself and began to pile it with wonderful things, all the treats he could dream of, that never seemed to grow any less, no matter how much he took and no matter how much he ate. So he stuffed himself and went back for more, stuffed the ponies in the same way, glorying in the plenty, taking his time to savour the different flavours and textures. The crisp outer layer of the roots and the softness of the fluffy starch inside. The flakiness off the fish and the tangy tangle of greens mingling on his tongue. The sheer sweetness of the honey and the stickiness he licked from his fingers afterwards. Creamy, rich, cheese and warm bread flooded his senses, and he leaned back in the sand, watching the red and gold of the dancing flames, fed, and content, and as happy as he had ever been.
"Signed words" Spoken words
Dan dug his toes into the golden sand and watched the ponies race each other along the beach, manes and tails flying. It was time to build a bonfire, according to Cloud, which meant gathering wood for it. Dan looked around at the options and then began climbing up the dunes to the high tide line and probing through the debris there for driftwood.
He spotted a corner of salt-silvered, sun-bleached wood poking out from under a pile of seaweed, bent, grabbed it, and hauled. It wasn't as long or as stuck as he thought though, and the extra effort he had put in recoiled on him and knocked him off balance, so that he fell backwards with the scrap of wood in his hand, and landed hard on his backside in the sand. Dan growled a rude word under his breath and scrambled back to his feet. he swiped uselessly at the sand clinging to his pants and then prodded at the seaweed again, with the wood he was still holding.
Two more silvered scraps of tree rolled out of the brown and gold tangle to land at his feet, and he scooped them up and carried them along the beach to add to the growing stack piling up there. Dan saw that it had been organised in size order, from thickest to thinnest. He dumped his pieces in the scantly occupied 'small' section and turned to go back to the tideline for more when he had a sudden thought. The bonfire would need tinder too - he should duck into the trees and grab some pine needles or holly. It's not like he can get lost in there - all he would have to do is follow the sunlight back to the sea."
The way that the dappled light shifted and changed reminded Dan of the way light danced on the sea and he sucked in a quick breath. It tasted to him of pine and damp and something unfamiliar, and he took a deeper one, letting the scents and flavours cross his tongue and fill his nose. Bird calls jabbered in his ears and the thick layer of pine needles under his feet was both softer and firmer than the sand of the beach. Each step brought out a new wash of pine scent.
He bent and picked up a handful of the needles. They felt cool and damp against his hands as he let them trickle through his fingers. Damp wouldn't be any use for tinder, that had to be as dry as you could get it, or it wouldn't take a spark at all. He eased closer to one of the pines, where the ground looked more sheltered and tried there. It was hard to tell if this new handful of pine needles was damp, or just cooler than he expected, so he poured them into a pocket to warm up with his body heat and kept looking.
Looking up from under the branches, a patch of orangeish brown stood out against the dark greens of the living needles, and Dan ducked from one tree to another, looking up each time until he came to the tree in question. The tree was fine, alive and thriving, but one of the lowest branches had died off, but not fallen, and the needles had changed colour accordingly. Dan reached out and touched the branch cautiously, and found that both the branch and the needles were much drier than the ones he had found on the ground. He gathered them eagerly with both hands, and turned to go back with his find - and realised he had somehow lost track of the shore in his meandering search and his moving from tree to tree. The sun had gone into hiding, leaving only a dull, sourceless light to see by. Nothing he could follow.
Panic spiked sharply in his heart and his throat, and he looked desperately from side to side as if that would make the path out suddenly appear. It didn't. He closed his eyes and took a slow breath, then another, beating back the panic. "Can't get lost in there," he echoed, then with disgust at his own lack of abilty, added, "except for me, of course." He scuffed a toe on the ground. It left a mark, and his breath caught in his throat again. Of course, footprints! What other marks had he left? Could he follow his own trail out again?
He peered at the ground around him. The piled and matted pine needles didn't hold shapes very well, but he thought he saw a scuff on one side of the tree, where he had ducked in. he went in that direction, passed out from under that tree, and saw a thread snagged from his sleeve fluttering on another branch. As he closed on that one, he began to see the spots on the floor of the forest where he had scooped up needles. That was an easier trail to follow, and by the time he reached the end of it, he could smell salt water on the breeze as well as pine.
He followed his nose towards the smell of salt water, and eventually ducked out of the shade of the forest into the dazzle of the sun and the sandy beach. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the glare. It hadn't seemed this bright before he went into the gloom of the forest. he blinked again and turned toward the woodpile, which had grown quite a bit in his absence. He set the needles down on a dry patch of sand and placed a thick branch on one side of the makeshift fireplace, then a second on the opposite side to make two parallel lines of wood, then reached for two more big sticks, and laid them across the first two so that the four sticks formed a square with a gap at the bottom. Pyramid fires were great for little fires, but a big bonfire like this, you risked it falling on top of you when you were setting up. A square set up like this, or an A-frame were far more stable and burned just as well.
He continued to add sticks to the square, each layer slightly shorter and thinner than the previous one. Finally, he knelt and propped a handful of thin sticks over the tinder to use as kindling, then pulled out his flint and steel, bent close for easier lighting and began to strike sparks. The pine needles that he had gathered caught and burned hot, licking up over the thin twigs. Dan quickly scooped up another handful of them and added them to the budding fire. When he ran out of twigs, he blew gently across the fire, until it latched onto the bark still coating the lowest sticks and danced upwards through the wooden tower in sparks and flame.
Cloud and Smoke came prancing back to admire the bonfre, and nuzzle him with approval. He buried his fingers in their silky manes in response, and let himself lean against their shoulders, taking comfort from their presence, and then tipped his head back, watching the sky darken into night and the rising sparks cling to it like newborn stars, ever rising and glimmering, until he lost track of them completely.
When he brought his gaze back down, he found a feast laid out for him: Baked fish, stuffed and flavoured with tangy sorrel and good herbs; roasted roots, sliced and laid out on a platter; rounds of freshly made flatbread; an entire honeycomb oozing gently into a bowl; little cheeses; mounds of sweet berries and piles of fruit. There were even treats for the ponies: bowls of hot bran mash; apples with the other fruits; a bucket of oats and a pile of fresh hay.
Dan's mouth watered and he grinned. "Let's eat," he told the ponies and they whickered back at him with joy, and buried their noses into the bowls of bran mash while they were still hot. Dan grabbed a plate for himself and began to pile it with wonderful things, all the treats he could dream of, that never seemed to grow any less, no matter how much he took and no matter how much he ate. So he stuffed himself and went back for more, stuffed the ponies in the same way, glorying in the plenty, taking his time to savour the different flavours and textures. The crisp outer layer of the roots and the softness of the fluffy starch inside. The flakiness off the fish and the tangy tangle of greens mingling on his tongue. The sheer sweetness of the honey and the stickiness he licked from his fingers afterwards. Creamy, rich, cheese and warm bread flooded his senses, and he leaned back in the sand, watching the red and gold of the dancing flames, fed, and content, and as happy as he had ever been.
"Signed words" Spoken words
