Way of The Pride

10| The Summoning

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Life in Isimir has been somewhat ordinary. For someone who lived a wild life it took a while for him to adjust. The few days he spent in the healer's home recuperating made him appreciate the peace and quiet. Something that seemed foreign to him a lifetime ago.

On mornings like this Aniweta would have already begun his daily training. His hands and body movements becoming one with his sword as he practiced battle formations. Now, gentled by circumstance, his hands moved with a different purpose, the art of healing.

Scattered at his feet were baskets of fresh medicinal roots waiting to be trimmed. Keen eyes looked over his shoulders amused at the careless way he handled the herbs.

The great Aniweta had been reduced to trimming roots. He had simply wanted to pay his morning respects when the healer cleverly drew him into the hut in the guise of inquiring about his welfare. He began to distract him with talks about Isimir and before he knew it he found himself plucking out roots.

Clever old man.

Even now he could feel him laughing behind him as he turned over a fresh pot of concoction. Aniweta sighed, the man did save his life so cutting vegetables was the least he could do.

"If you do not mind me asking, I have a question."

"Ask away." The scent of brewed bitterleaf clung to his skin as he settled down beside him.

He paused, contemplating how to word his question. "I do not see the woman of the house. Where is she?"

A wistful look passed across his eyes as he looked at him. "She died giving birth to Agada."

His wife had been dead for a long time. No wonder his home looked it was missing something. Not knowing what to say he apologized.

"I am sorry for your loss."

He waved him off. "No need. She is with the gods now."

A clap interrupted the moment. Someone was announcing their presence. The healer immediately frowned. It seemed the visitor was unexpected.

''Greetings to the household of Ibezim.''

Signalling for him to be quiet he left to attend to the visitor. Understandably, the healer wanted him healed before exposing him to other people. He could only imagine the number of tongues that will wag on seeing his wounds.

Who was the person?

Apart from the healer and his son, he had yet to set his eyes on another soul. He was curious to know other people. Were they as kind as the healer?

Setting the basket down from his lap he gently limped to the window that overlooked the compound. A lone man stood stiffly beside the healer's hut, keen eyes wandering with caution. He seemed like a warrior.

They had both moved towards the far side of the compound, making it difficult for him to listen in. Nevertheless, Aniweta continued to observe their interaction. Back home only hunters, warriors and guards wore decorated headbands. The war paint and spear gave away his identity. He must be a guard and not just an ordinary one, a guard of the palace.

Aniweta saw the healer frowning. The message the man passed across must have been disturbing for his face to take on such a worrisome look.

Did something happen?

The man bowed and turned to leave, message delivered. The healer stood transfixed - lost in thought - as he stared after the man's retreating back.

It felt like he was intruding on a vulnerable moment so he returned back to his seat. The basket of dried roots laid at his feet - patiently waiting to be trimmed - but he shifted it to the side, no longer motivated.