Another slice off the narrative roast:
Thank you Jesus, the hard-working nomads of Engywha uryot’ha, and the sacrifice of one spit-roasted yak. The nomads had done some construction in the center of town, rearranging the tents and tables to accommodate most of the village. Like lines of ants summoned to the hill, we all traced through the sands to the tent cluster, eager to pounce on this festivity. Had to admire their modular prowess, puffing up the “rooftop” and seamlessly linking their tents. They must have given their interior decorators some purpose, evidenced by the descendent aubergine fabrics, torch illuminated, resplendent ceiling accouterment.
We gathered around low tables, not much more than darkened sheets of wood upon brick. Not much used, easy to stow and re-use. Can’t just peel off the yak and eat it on the spot. Could still smell it lurking in the air, the aromas having come to rest in our new hall. I try my best to immerse myself when given the chance, but I didn’t try that hard here. Found Clean and other fast friends in a matter of moments. I bowed out of courtesy, ready to capitalize on desires long accumulating in interest here.
“You looking quite happy, Sir Michael,” noted Clean.
“Looking forward to the feast you all put on. Great timing for my arrival, right?”
“Quite,” he added. “They’re serving.”
I snapped my gaze toward whatever activity began at a nearby table. Two husky nomads set down a heavy red chest on a table. Kids, being kids and all, squeezed in through the cracks, barging in between the seated adults. You’d think they wouldn’t take to grown-up food. Prayed within that they honored guests, travel writers, and elders first. In that order.
“What’s in the box?”