"We will talk
again later."
With that, both girls returned to their labors, but now Si'Wren had a
new wonder to marvel over. Why, ever again, should she worship a graven
image?
The next day was just a little chilly throughout the early hours, and
Si'Wren wore a coarsely woven dried grass shawl that was no longer
green, but a faded, mottled gray.
Early in the morning swirl of drifting mists, the two girls worked
together in silence, safely observing the many inhabitants of the House
of Rababull perform their morning routines from an unobserved vantage
point. It was as if they, too, were invisible behind the gauzy insect
veils stretched across the open tent flap at one end, and it gave
Si'Wren much to think about.
Others could be watched or glimpsed briefly as they led the horses from
the stables, to brush them, and check their hooves and remove the
stinking clots from them with blunt points, and so on, while another
group could be observed at length as they filed out to spend the day
laboring in the Master's vineyards and grain fields.
They also watched the familiar faces of the womenfolk of the House of
Rababull, lifelong slaves every one. Each had her bundle of soiled
clothing, and many bore their babies suspended from forehead slings
draped down across their backs, and as the women walked past in the
direction of the back of the compound, many were accompanied by a
number of tiny, naked toddlers.
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