A Floating Settlement, The Turga
Ibo and Taci glanced at one another when Oisin spoke. Ibo grinned, releasing his wife. “Ne, adame,” the wick said, simply. “Yer a guest here, ye chen?”
“‘ere,” Faizra ducked forward and tugged the crate from Oisin’s hands. She carried it back past Ibo and Taci, and deposited it in the shed.
“Da, anythin’ else need doin’?” Faizra asked, hopefully.
“Yaka, nanabo,” Ibo grinned.
Faizra let out a whoop. “Habi!” She called. There was a faint giggle from a neighboring walkway. Without the faintest hesitation, Faizra dived from the boards into the Turga, swimming with effortlessly, easy strokes. She pulled herself into a neighboring walkway, vanished behind a hut, and emerged with Habi clinging to her back, his arms wrapped tight around her neck.
“Whoop!” Faizra took off, practically running down the boards. Habi shrieked with laughter, and Faizra let out a loud yell in Mugrobi. There were answering cheers from the water, and in a single smooth motion, Faizra slid into the water again. She and Habi vanished below the surface again, and then two heads emerged, Faizra holding her little brother up as he shrieked and kicked and laughed. She towed him with her to the other young ones, although frankly Habi seemed to swim quite well on his own.
“One must learn to swim early on the Turga,” Taci said, smiling. “They say the child remembers it from the womb.” She and Ibo exchanged a last look, and Taci left.
“Kofi, adame?” Ibo asked, smiling. “F’ye wish t’ do somethin’, then take kofi wit’ me ‘n m’ daoa. M’ mother,” he translated.
Ibo led Oisin through the winding planks of the village. Here, now, there were others, wicks whose glamours reached out in a friendly way as Oisin passed, exchanging greetings with words and glamours as if it didn’t matter which was used. Here or there Ibo would say something in Tek or Mugrobi, usually accompanied by a laugh.
The hut they went to was at the center of the great sprawling web of boards and homes, a large thing with a heavy thatched roof. A garden spilled around the edges of it, neat rows of plants fitted together. Ibo winked at Oisin, and gestured to him to remain for a moment, then stepped inside. There was silence for a moment, or at least the murmur of voices too soft to be heard.
“What’s takin’ ye so long?” A woman asked; her voice was starting to roughen with age, deeper than Taci’s. She emerged from the hut; she looked older, with lines on her face, her back just starting to bend - but her hands were strong and supple, and her glamour flowed around her like a pool of water, still and deep and cool. It sunk into Oisin’s, mingling deep and welcoming. Like Taci, she wore a colorful wrapping around her head, a match to the cloth draped over her body, comfortable and light and cool looking.
“Come in,” Ibo’s mother said, simply, raising her eyebrows at Oisin. “I am Kaya pezre Zalana. Sana’hulali, Oisin Ocasta ‘f t’ cities of Anaxas.”
Inside the hut was a small garden, plants which needed less of the sun in sprawling circles. Kaya’s glamour stirred as they passed the plants; she murmured to them in monite, words of encouragement, and ran her fingers through thigh high stems, releasing fragrant smells into the air. At the far end was another opening, and through it they would reach a small room. Ibo was already inside, kneeling at the hearth, coaxing life into the fire.
There were no chairs, not here, but Kaya sat easily on a cushion on the floor, and patted one nearby.
Ibo moved to a small bowl of water; he scooped it up with his hands and rinsed his mouth, spitting into a dented metal bowl. “I pledge m’ honor t’ Hulali. I speak truth here,” Ibo said.
Kaya did the same, and the bowl was passed to Oisin. Once he had finished, Ibo would take the bowl outside, and return with wet hands, having emptied it and washed himself. He began to gather the supplies of the ceremony from the small shelves next to the hearth, laying out a roasting pan, a mortar and pestle, small mugs, a tray with bowls on it, and a traditional kofi pot, made of battered metal but polished to a shine.
“Why have y’ come here, Oisin ‘f Anaxas?” Kaya asked, turning her sharp dark gaze on the wick.
“I’ve invited him, daoa,” Ibo murmured.
“Ea,” Kaya did not look away from Oisin. “I have no’ asked ye, boch. I ask Oisin no’ if he wa’ invited, but why he accepted.”
Ibo ducked his head, smiled, and went back to his work.