Dragons of the Valley - Donita K. Paul [12]
With hands pressing the surface at its sides, the shaggy creature hoisted the lower half of its body clear of the earth. The ground behind the first creature stirred, and another beast emerged.
“Step back,” warned Maxon.
Bealomondore almost missed that the order was directed at him, but Maxon’s powerful tug on his trouser leg emphasized the need to move.
Like wet dogs, both earth creatures squeezed their eyes shut and gave a tremendous shake of their bodies. Clods of dirt sprayed in every direction. Bealomondore and Maxon backed farther away.
The tumanhofer gasped. “They’re ropmas.”
“Yes.” Maxon eyed the figures before them. “Are you done shaking?”
A low, rumbling chortle came from the two as they stretched and shook once more. Smaller bits of dirt, vegetation, even gritty pebbles flew from their woolly coats.
Bealomondore had never seen a ropma up close. One of the low races, they lived in forests, mountains, and other isolated areas. His fingers itched to pick up a pencil and sketch pad. He wanted a picture to capture the distinctiveness of the two.
Shaggy fur covered their muscular bodies. Dirt obscured the light color of their coats. They wore no clothing but looked natural and decent, like some huge house pet. In fact, Bealomondore decided the ropmas looked like friendly longhair cats. Big cats, standing on their hind legs.
Maxon pointed to each ropma. “This is Roof and his brother, Door.”
The brothers exchanged looks. Then, once again, deep-throated chuckles tumbled out of their smiling mouths.
“All right then.” Maxon grimaced and reversed the order as he pointed to each one. “That one is Roof, and the other is Door.”
The ropmas continued their gravelly laugh and bobbed their heads.
“Thank you,” said Bealomondore, “for getting me out of that hole.”
The brothers dropped their smiles and looked at each other with concern.
“Hole?”
“Hole?”
They turned to Maxon for an explanation.
“He doesn’t mean your hole.” Maxon turned his bright eyes on Bealomondore. “They call their homes ‘holes.’ They’re burrowing ropmas, and for them, the word home refers to a structure built above ground. So when you said ‘hole,’ they thought you thought you’d been in their home.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Bealomondore caught movement. He turned his head to see the two brothers disappear under the flowering bush.
“They’re shy,” said Maxon. “They rarely stick around for a conversation.”
“They talk?”
“Some.”
Vague memories rose in the artist’s mind. It would be a joy to capture the ropmas’ lives on paper, to record their culture. But could he get close to them? “More than just one word at a time?”
Maxon looked up at Bealomondore. “What are you getting at?”
“I was told they were dumb.”
“They are simple, not dumb.”
Maxon darted away, forging a trail through the trees. Bealomondore followed, having more trouble than the small kimen.
He pushed branches out of his way and saw Maxon slip under another bush. “Wait up. And I meant ‘dumb’ as in deaf and dumb.”
Maxon made no comment, and Bealomondore had to shove more aggressively through the thick brushwood to keep up with the little kimen.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“To my village,” answered Maxon. “It’s not far now.”
Bealomondore followed his voice. He could no longer see his guide. “Are there any ropmas in your village?”
Maxon laughed. “Only kimens and guests.”
“Guests. You have very few guests, right?”
“Right.”
A branch scraped across the tumanhofer’s face, and he grimaced. “How long will I be there? And why am I going to be there?”
“I think you will be there a long time. Or maybe a short time.”
Bealomondore stumbled over roots and growled. “Maxon, you are moving too fast. Slow down.”
He blinked, and the little man stood at his knee.
“I am anxious to get home,” said the kimen.
The tumanhofer pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to the scratch on his face. “Why are ropmas who live underground named after things you would find in a house above ground? Why ‘Roof’ and ‘Door’?”
“The story is that one day someone