Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [49]
“Hello! Is anyone at home? We see your smoke.”
“It’s not my smoke, no. It belongs to the fire. But you may come in anyhow, all of you.”
Ehomba led the way into the cottage, which was very neat and clean. Among the Naumkib, it would have been accounted a palace. Sturdy chairs surrounded a table. Both were decorated with carvings and fine scrollwork. An iron pot hung from a swing-out cooking bar in the large fireplace, and there was a sink with a hand pump on the far side of the room. Facing a stone fireplace off to the right were larger, upholstered chairs and a sitting couch. Bookshelves filled with well-thumbed tomes lined the walls, and hanging oil-filled lamps were in place to provide light throughout the evening hours. To the left, a door led to rooms unseen, and a short ladder leaning against one wall hinted at the presence of a copious attic. The cottage’s lone occupant was working at the sink, wet up to his elbows. He turned to smile at them as they entered.
“Mind your head, stranger. I don’t get many visitors, and few your size. Now, I’ll be with you in a moment. I’m just finishing up these dishes.”
The owner was plainly dressed in ankle-length pants and matching shirt of dark brown. Both were devoid of decoration. The simple elegance and efficiency of the furnishings suggested that they had not been made by the cottage’s occupant, but were the product of other craftsmen and had been bought and brought to this place by wagon or other means of transport. If true, it meant that the owner’s isolation was deceptive. He was here by choice rather than out of necessity, and had the resources to pay for more than basic needs.
Not that there was any overt reference to wealth to be seen anywhere within the cottage, unless one so considered the many books. But even a poor man could accumulate a decent library through careful purchasing, especially if it was accomplished over a matter of decades. And their diminutive host certainly had, if not obvious wealth, many years to his credit. His beard and hair were entirely gray, full but neatly trimmed, and despite the blush in his pale cheeks he was clearly an individual of considerable maturity.
“Just have a seat, over there, by the fire,” he instructed them as he ran a rag across the face of a ceramic plate. “I should have attended to these earlier, but there were new lambs in need of docking, and I thought it better to take care of them first.”
“Yes,” Ehomba agreed. He watched Simna flop like a rag doll into one of the big overstuffed chairs and then carefully imitated the swordsman’s actions. He was not used to such comfort. In the village, beds were stuffed but chairs were straight-backed and hard. “Better to see to that as quickly as possible or they are liable to become fly-blown.”
Putting the plate in a drying rack, the owner turned in surprise. “You are a sheep man, then?”
Simna rolled his eyes. “Oh no.” Near his feet, Ahlitah wound three times around himself before, satisfied, he lay down in front of the fire.
“Sheep, yes, and cattle. Mostly cattle.”
“I have never been a man for cattle.” Taking an intricately carved pipe from its stand, the homeowner ambled over to the stone hearth. Selecting a narrow taper from a small box affixed to the rockwork, he stuck it into the flames until it acquired one of its own, then touched the flickering tip to the bowl of the pipe. While he drew on the contents, he spoke around each puff. “Too rambunctious for me, and a bit much for one man to handle. Even with Roileé to help.”
“Roileé?” The herdsman searched the room for signs of another resident.
“My dog.” The