Chapter 2; The Watch Man
Unbeknownst to the most of the travelers, this moment is shared. In that same predawn light, before the dark sky had fully released its hold on the mound of deep desert rock, a shadow moved quietly along its crest. In flits of light and dark, a group of tiny figures glide easily from one rocky perch to another along the edges of the small, rounded plateau. Finally, one shadow separates from the others and moves to the edge. The figure sat in the lee of a rock to remain out of the clear view of the line of ants out in the sandy plains below him.
A little while before, the wiry, red haired man had been awakened by the his goats. Disturbed by their agitation, he stirred from his pile of bedding in a back corner of a cave. Alni, the lead goat was staring out into the darkness from the opening known as the Right eye of the Watcher. Mumbling to him self as all hermits do, he moved to the front edge of the eye hole, careful to stay in the shadows of his cave. He heard, as his goats had, drifting in off the desert, a regular tinkling of bells. He spoke lowly to his goats, “The Watcher is about to have visitors.”
Moving by feel in the darkness of the cave, he moved to his left until he had touched the wall at the base of stairs. Feeling his way along the well worn steps, Lar moved through a series of hidden trails to the ground level pool in another cave. He splashed water on his face and washed his hands and feet to prepare for the day. Turning quickly, moving as easily in the dark as a blind man in a well known place, he followed the carved steps up two level to a large central chamber filled with books and tables and one huge chair. He moved quickly to sit on the throne of the Keeper. Letting his mind go blank, he joined with the Watcher.
Using the Watcher’s vision, he saw that his visitors are led by his uncle, Bel-Al. He took a moment to look closer at the caravan. Seeing only an orderly entry into his domain, he jumped to his feet with a whoop and ran like one of his prized goats up to the crest to wait for his friend.
Had Bel-Al had thought to look up instead of giving in to the distraction of the blessing, as the growing light gathered its strength to ward off the night’s grip, he would have seen that one of the shadows up on top of the little mountain shape was not a goat. Had he cared to look closely enough to notice, he would have seen that one of the jumping shadows moving nimbly across the upper surface was his nephew.
Finally reaching his favorite perch, Lar sits with his legs dangling off the Watcher’s forehead and watches the caravan come. The morning breeze ruffled his blood red hair and blows up a twisting devil of dust twisting across the flat top and off the precipice.
Not every caravan that visited the wadi would be aware that some one even lived in the rock. Unfriendly visitors would be allowed one night’s rest and water. The second night, their live stock would be loosened and spooked or tents would come untethered from the ground falling around its frightened inhabitants. Very few of these superstitious bedou would last a third night of these hauntings. By dawn of the next day, they would be nothing but a dust trail on the horizon pointed what ever direction they were heading next.
Friendly caravans were welcomed and blessed by the Holy Man of Old Man’s Rock. Only the true people knew of his actual status and the calling that he had answered. Most thought him to be a mad but harmless hermit who was offered fruit or nuts or grains to placate his midnight visits. Few of them even saw him, although they all claimed to. Some denied his very existence. Some told stories of long soul filled conversations that changed their life.
He neither knew nor cared about his notoriety. He was mostly comfortable in his quiet home in the desert. Settling himself comfortably to wait for his friend, the man watches as the desert removes its blanket of shade and greets the new day. He smiles a gentle smile. He loves it up at the top of his God, not at all concerned for the height. This rock had been his home since he was born. The fact that it was shaped like a head and the caves within that make up mountain’s facial features were just no longer worthy of thought.
He is called Lar. His tribe is called the People of the Watcher. To his tribe, he is simple known as the Watchman. He sees what the Watcher sees. He and his father and all of his fathers before them had sat in this chair and written what the Watcher saw. None of his tribe could remember when it had not been thus. His tribe calls the tiny world of a few trees and a small pools set deep in the shade of the Watcher’s head Wadi al Teerah…(the oasis of Tears.) This oasis was Lar’s world. To the rest of the world, who have no idea about the true relationship of the People and the Watcher, this place is called Wadi al Shal Om. To Lar’s tribe, the water was only a tiny part of their relationship.
Behind him, the first tiniest edge of the sun has finally arrived, changing the gray world of both desert and mountain to gold. Lar reaches into hidden pockets of his robe and pulls a bit of dried meat and flat bread from his robes. He had waited for the world to turn pink around the edges before he felt free to break his fast. He mumbled a prayer to the Watcher for the blessing of his food and these new strangers.
Out in the desert down below, walking by his father, Bel-Al’s oldest son, Til-Al, throws his arm over the shoulder of his shorter father and kisses him. “A Salaam, my son.”
“A Salaam Father…are we in time for the blessing?”
“Yes, my son.”
“Great!”
“I am proud of Thee. You have guided the beasts well. We are in the perfect spot and the perfect time to view the Old Man’s blessing.”
Blushing with pride, he bowed over his fathers hands. “I had the best teacher, my father…” His father kissed his curly head.
They turned to gether to watch the da unfold. Out in front of them, the sun rose higher. Gradually, it burnished the shiny black stone of the mountain to a flaming red. As the light grew, they began to see the full image of the area around the mountain. On either side of the rounded mount are lower, flat carapaces. In the morning sunlight. These rock walls appear to look like the shoulders of a man, running straight out each direction and then, they curve a bit forward as they drop at a steep angle into the sand, giving the impression of the way arms would look if a man were buried in the desert half way up to his chest.
Looking farther out from the center mound, lower mounds of black rock reappear farther out in a circle more than a thousands meters wide. This circle was big enough for a small town. But no one lived in this oasis. Over the centuries, this land became known as Holy Ground.
Most people called this mountain the Old Man of the Desert. For those who know the truth about the people who own this oasis, they know that the mountain is truly called the Watcher. Both groups call the front acropolises the arms of either the Old Man or of the Watcher. A geologist would merely point out that, over the centuries, this particular rock configuration had provided a disturbance in the wind wind flow patterns causing the wind to swirl and even form dead air blocks in the corners.
Soil blown across the desert had thus collected inside the encircling stone ridges. Over the long years, a fertile blanket of rich soil had formed inside the arms. Seeds, shaken from the furry coats of animals and the folds of clothing of the visitors, had taken root in this well watered and fertile crescent. Now, food was available for weary travelers and their live stock in this space. Caravans looked forward to the fruit trees, palms, and every kind of grasses in abundance.
As the caravan’s people draw nearer, a tiny, shimmering stream can be viewed trickling like tears from the Old Man’s right eye. The thirsty pack animals pulled harder on their traces as they smelled the water that flowed down the rock face into several pools in the shaded areas under the overhanging rocks. Trees and greenery of all sorts grew wildly in this sylvan glade. The total appearance from a certain angle and from a certain distance is of a man holding a filled basket .
An excited hum swept through the caravan, stirring more sleepy riders from their vans and carts. Children are shaken awake by their parents to see this wondrous sight. Snatches of conversation drift across the dunes to Bel-Al.
“Look… the Old Man of the Desert…”
“It’s the one some call a God…”
”the one some call the Watcher…” one says to another.
Moving a little closer, the travelers begin to see how shadows may play their tricks upon a sleepy imagination. A tiny sliver of red sun throws first light to the rocks and features become barely visible. The crags and hollows along the front of the cliff begin to take on another shape. “Look,” the voices say to each other as the sun light grew stronger. People begin to point, “I can see His face…” All heads begin to nod as features become clearly formed across the baking sand on the mountain’s rocky surface.
“Look… its just as the stories say…there are the shoulders… and the basket… just as the legends said… Wadi al Shal Om…the drink of Peace…”
The seasoned travelers all know that one must be nearly right up to the craggy abutment to see that the shadows are formed by caves and the shadowed edges of bushes that give hair like features to the stone that only make it look just like a face. To the people who believe in the Watcher, the face is clearly seen. To the non-believers, it is a trick of light and shadow. They laugh together, then, Bel-Al cries out to all. “Stop…everyone stop!”
The long caravan staggered to a stop at the top of the last dune. It was a place where the full image of the god-mountain was clear against the new born sky. The animals smell the water and strain against their bonds to reach forward. Bel-Al and his son, Til, wander among the animals. Among their tribe, they are Beast Masters. Thery calm their animals with promises of a short pause. Bel Al turns to the people when the animals are quieted, “Wait for it…wait for it…”
The sun continues to climb over the dunes behind them, burning off the blue-white fog hiding in the hollows of the dunes. The shadow angles on the face tipped upward until the eyes were defined and black as coal. Then without warning, the eyes lit from within and a white glow spread out toward them. People screamed and began to run. The first timers were superstitious Bed Ou and city folk. They did not know it was a simple trick of light pouring into a cave in the back of the skull and being reflected off of crystals through out the head and cleverly aimed out the eyes. If a person was at just the right place out front. The eyes appeared to burn like fire.
Up on top of the mountain, hidden from the eyes of the caravan, the red haired man’s world turned to pink flame and then, to yellow fire, then, gold. With practiced patience, he knew when to move. At just the right moment, the man held his food up into the golden light for a blessing. At that same moment, behind and below him, the light from the new born sun shined thought a back cave opening and struck to the jewels in the back of the eye caves and burst the desert into dancing flames. Enjoying the light show in front of him, he began to eat. For him, this was the most beautiful time of day, not too hot, not too cold. The dew darkened the sand stone surfaces of his perch on top of his world of rock and sand made a cool rub for the bottoms of his calloused feet as the sun warmed the world around him.
Bel-Al, even though he had seen this sight hundreds of times, just at that same moment, was awestruck. Then, jostled by one of the panic stricken travelers, he came to himself.
“Hold!” he bellowed into the morning air. Even the man on the mountain heard this and awoke from his reverie to watch the silly travelers. He was amused, even though he had seen this panic time and time again. He loved to see the Watchers power over the infidel heart.
Bel-Al spread his arms and yelled to the people around him, “do not be afraid of lights in the desert…”
The people began to calm down, milling around in small circles, picking up the belongings that they had dropped in their panic.
He continued, “The lights are a sign that the Watcher calls to us in welcome. We are invited to enter his holy place. Let us remember we are guests as we drink and rest under his protection.”
Quietly, the caravan reformed and headed into the circle of the arms of the Watcher for their rest. The animals rushed forward and began nuzzling the waters all through the enclave. The animal tenders surrounded them and using their long whips, moved the animals over to one side of the circle into cleverly hidden pens under one of the arms of the watcher. There was plenty of feed and water in this area. Bel-Al was glad to see that no one had been there for a while and the grass was high and the water was clear.
Excited from their morning’s discovery, none of the caravaneers thought to look around. If they had, they might have seen a tiny dot of the colored wools of a Tall One’s cap just peeking over a distant dune. From his hiding place, a tall, thin but well muscled man with long curls of red hair flowing down his back watches the caravan. He waves to silence the two men behind him. They quietly slide up the dune to watch together as the caravan moves its vehicles and animals into the shade of this strangely shaped mountain.
One leans to whisper to another, “Who knew that the ravings of that drunken fool were true.”
“Aye, my brother… a man shaped mountain… what a fantastic tale it was…”
“It is good to know that all these days of eating these infidels’ dust have finally paid off. For now, we must hide from this sun or die. Once it is dark, let us head home to tell father what we have discovered.” Nodding, they quickly built their sand colored tents over cooled sand and hid their animals from the sun. They ate a cold meal, fed and watered their animals, and slept.
Distracted by the arrival of his friends, Lar had not seen the Tall Ones either. Once the light show had started, he turned and headed down the stairs to the central level. Following well worn stone pathways through the inside of the caves that honey combed the mountain, the red haired stranger moved from lookout to lookout. He remained unseen, even by the sharp eyed guards who climb part of the way up onto the rocks for a better view of their camp.
Lar watched the caravan move inside the oasis. He marveled at how quickly they built their little village of tents. Women make their cook fires. The children ran toward the water to splash in the early morning heat and burn off steam from being cooped up in the carts and vans of the caravan.
Watching the activity in his usually quiet place, he smiled at the coming distraction to his dull existence. In this small, plain place, he was content most days. He had to admit that the arrival of the occasional caravan of travelers seeking water, did make his life more interesting. Day after day, the patterns of work and the visions given to him by the Watcher filled his days. Days flowed one into another. During the days of dust and heat, he waited in the deep cool caves and he worked until night fall took his light. What the Watcher saw filled his mind and the writing of these stories filled his life.
He knew his place and his work. In the early light when the sun’s rays reached deep into the caves of his little mountain, he sat in his cool rooms and wrote the stories that the Watcher saw. During the Festival of Gathering, he wrote down the stories brought to him by his friends and family.
As on other mornings, the sun filled his world with heat; the light entered his work cave enough for him to see. “Let us see what the Watcher has for me today.” Unconcerned that he was speaking only to himself; he climbed down to begin his work. He sat in the stone chair at the center of the deep cave and commenced his day’s work. At the sun’s highest point, he stopped and ate his midday meal. Then, he returned to his life’s work.
After a few more hours, the light was no longer good enough to write. He finished the work for the day. He stretched a giant stretch, “That’s enough work for today. Now it is time for a swim.” He made his way through the inner caves down the back stairs to the lowest level where two ponds could be found.
He went down until he reached the shaded sand that knew , even in the near total darkness, to be the lowest floor of a cave. This cave, lknown as the Old Man’s mouth, was hundreds of paces across in all directions. In it, were two pools hidden from view by the lowest cave. Looking across the vast gloomy distance, he found, as he had several times every y
ear, his old friend, Bel-Al.
It wasn’t easy to sneak across the lowest cave. The inside of the lowest level was hundreds of paces across. At the bottom of the stairs, he silently skirted around the first pool. It was steaming hot. It remained hot because it was constantly reheated by the geysers that blew boiling hot jewels out onto the sands around the mountain. These molten hot jewels would roll around and melt the sands that stuck to the outside of them as they rolled.
To the uninitiated, these quickly took on the appearance of worthless bits of sandstone. Over the years, Lar had been amused by the visitors who would think they were worthless rocks. Children would build buildings with them. Children would cry because their parents would never let them keep them. He heard them explain over and over that these rocks were worthless bits of weight for the animals to carry. To Lar’s further amusement, these same parents used these rocks to make their fire circles.
Lar felt no shame about deceiving any of the other visitors to his oasis. The precious stones buried in their sand shells were the sole property of the Watcher. Only the Watcher’s people were the heirs to His blessings. These jewels were the proof of the relationship between the God who lives in this mountain and His children.
He searched in the half darkness. Knowing that his old friend preferred the cold pool on the far side of the cave, Lar made his way there. He silently crept up to the old man and sat beside him to dangle his feet in the cool water. Under the outcropping chin of the mountain’s face, a natural spring brought cool water to the pool deep inside the stone.
“Caught you napping again, old man…”
Sliding a short, curved knife out of the folds of his jelaba, the older man smiled with a mouth filled with gold teeth, “I heard you from your first steps into this cave, my nephew of the flaming hair.”
Both men laughed. Bel-Al flourished the knife and cut a chunk off of a lamb shank on a wooden plate near his knee. He handed it to Lar and Lar handed Bel-Al a piece of flat bread from his leather kit bag. The two men chewed and soaked their feet in the cold, dark water.
“Thirsty, ma nephew..?” A goatskin of new wine passed from hand to hand. It continued to be passed throughout the meal as needed. Little was said as little was needed. These were old friends and would not interrupt the meal for small talk.
Lar looked at his image in the pool. His hair was still the bright red of the trees at gathering time. His face was burned a dark brown by a life in the desert wind and sun. Bel Al looked closer at his friend. He noticed that the lines from his eyes to the sides of his mouth seemed deeper than before. “It has been too long between visits, my uncle.
Lar said softly.
Bel Al agreed with a nod and a grunt, thinking how much he looked like his father although he had not looked at that face much since their days of trading with each other as newly bearded men. Bel Al and Lar had first met while fending off peddlers trying to sell him reflecting glass at trading times.
Lar looked at his hands. They were calloused from a life of climbing this rock. His fingers were stained the black of the ink from his writings. His sleeves slid down exposing his forearms. They were stringy with muscle from his early life of hunting and running with his best friend and cousin, Kiv. He retained his tone by climbing up and down inside his mountain all day long.
These days, he lived alone here deep in his rock far out in the desert. Since the death of his beloved Han, he had wandered the caves of his tiny world, crying and writing, wondering where she had gone and why she had left so soon. All was lost for the need of a baby that she wanted to give him. “Both lost…lost.” He sat and began to cry again.
Bel-Al knew the Keeper’s sad story and simple patted his nephew’s shoulder. He made soothing sounds until the crying wore itself out. After a time, he stopped. He splashed water in his face and sat for a time.
“How long will you stay, uncle?”
“I think two days this time.”
“Good, I have not beaten anyone at bones since you were last here.”
The old man laughed, “You may find me a less easy opponent, nephew. I have just won the Trading Time Tournament. As champion, It is beneath my office as champion to play such an elegant game with such a thief as you.”
“As unlikely as your championship might be, old man, my humble board awaits in its usual spot… That is, if you’ve the stones for a real challenge.”
The old man laughed so loud the cave under the chin echoed with the sounds. His son and two guards charged in to the cool half darkness with drawn bows. The boy ran to the old man, “Father…you scared me…I feared a beast or a robber…” Til-Al stopped short to see that his father was not alone. As his eyes adjusted to the lower light, he smiled broadly and offered his forearm in greeting.
Lar grabbed it almost up to the elbow in the Bed-Ou way, “My cousin, you are welcome in my Wadi.”
“I am always blessed by this place but more blessed to see that you are well. May I offer you a visit to our humble campsite, cousin…” said the younger man, waving his hands at the guards so that they might return to their posts. The men bowed and backed out.
The old man smiled, “aaah, my son, what a treasure you are. I fear your second guess to be the truest…for, this very day, I have been challenged by this thief here to yet another game of bones…”
“Hah, I knew this was going to be a great day!” says the young man, leaping nearly to the roof of the cave, sending bats scurrying out the openeing, “we’ll have entertainment tonight, by the Master’s beard…I, myself, will draw the circle…Shall I get that new set of flying dactyl bone game pieces you won at trading days…”
Lar looks suspicious. He squints his eyes at the two men, “Wait a minute. Now you expect me to have to use your bones, my brother?”
The old man tried to look hurt, “And this is problem because..?”
In the appearance of a flash decision, Lar burst in, “Fine! Then, we use MY board…I will bring my own army.”
The old man appeared to consider this for a moment, then, spit in his palm and stuck it out. Lar spit in his palm in true Bed-Ou style and smacked the old man’s hand soundly with it . All three laughed uproariously. Bel-Al began to get stiffly up from the ground. Til Al helped him up and ran out to begin preparations. He knew that these two men were the champion bones men of the whole territory. He knew that the whole Wadi was in for a treat tonight. In addition, he was looking forward to seeing the carved jewels of the Watch man’s Bones.
Bel-Al continued, “So…to loosen you up before the game, you must sup at my table. I have a new favorite wife who cooks like a dream.”
“What? You have a fourteenth wife, now?”
“Who counts…when I tire of them they are returned to their families. They are free to remarry. ”
“What happened to Jal-eel-la? Wasn’t she last year’s favorite?”
“Ooohhh… by the Master’s beard! Don’t remind me! What a shrew. She was sent home with a new dowry ransom and has already been pawned off to some unsuspecting widower.”
“Really…”
“Yes, and hopefully, for his sake, that her new husband has really bad hearing. I swear to all the Gods, that woman could kvetch the white wash off a wall.” That said, Bel-Al turned on his heel, shaking his head, and headed out of the cave.
Lar laughed and watched them go, “It’s going to take more than a new set of bones to beat me you old cheater…” he called after the men. Laughter drifted back to him down the long corridor.
Knowing no women would be allowed any where near this cave, Lar calmly stripped down. He dove into the water to wash off the sweat of a hot day. He swam with strong strokes around in his pool and pulled himself out onto a rock. He tied his loin cloth about his girdle. He stooped to gather up his clothing and climbed back and forth up the stairways that lined the inside of skull. Once he had made his way to the top of the head above his apartments, he spread his cloak over a bush to air out.
Knowing he was unseen from below,
he stretched out in the late afternoon sun to dry himself. Knowing he was in for a long night at the Bones board, he slept there for a while as the shadow from his cloak moved across the high little plain until he was in its shadow. The cooling evening breeze on his skin awoke him. He stretched and rose to his feet, Then, gathering his robes, he shook them, put them on, and headed back down the darkening stair ways toward the for the tent of his uncle.
Coming out the cave at the front of the lowest level, just as he reached the sunny edge of the shade, he found Til Al waiting in the shade with four men, “Watch Man, I have come for your board.”
“Ah, yes…” Lar appeared perplexed for a moment. He snapped his fingers, “Tonight I have been challenged to play... a bit of sport… I had nearly forgotten.”
Lar’s young cousin woofed a laugh at Lar’s apparent loss of memory. Then, he motioned to the men. The men moved swiftly to their task. Each one took a side as they lifted the heavy playing board and carefully carried out into the sunlight. Til turned to go.
“Wait, my cousin.” Leaving Til Al by the door, Lar went back into the cave. Around a turn, Lar rummaged around in a niche carved deep out of sight in the shadow by the door. He took a beautifully carved box from deep in the shadows. “My army…”
Til bowed, “Aiya, cousin…I am so sorry… I almost forgot.”
Pretending to be offended, Lar said, “You would not have me face the great Champion of the Trading Time tournament with an ordinary army…now would you?”
Again, the younger man woofed another low laugh, “No, sir, I would not want that.”
“Ahhh, so…” Lovingly, Lar placed the box on a near by table. He went through the clever locking devices and opened the box and took out his sultan. Like the others it was hand carved out of a jewel. This sultan (he had others) was of a blood red jewel. He put it back in and took out a horse. This horse was cleverly carved from a large pale blue jewel. The horse stood on its back legs with its front hooves pawing the air.
“That is stunning, uncle.”
“Yes. It was carved by one of my long dead grandfathers.”
“By the Master’s beard, this carving is spectacular work.” Lar rewrapped the horse and placed it back in its padded casing. Moving his hand to the next space, Lar took out another cloth wrapped shape. “I have just finished carving these… “
He handed it to Til Al. “What do you think, cousin… Be frank… “
Til Al unwrapped the figure. Revealed in his hand was a bright, yellow stone carved as a dragon in the fighting stance of Jang Shi. Til was so moved that he almost dropped the figure. With shaking hands, he stood it on the table. “I am speechless. This is the most beautiful piece I have ever seen. And, to think, you made this with your own hands.”
Dropping his face to hide his pride, Lar wrapped the dragon and put it back in it resting place, “It is written that the Watch Man is expected to add to the set. My father added a new sultana. He said that it was carved as a likeness of my mother. She was both pleased and embarrassed by the gift.”
“But Jang Shi dagons…wow…”
“Before you were born, your father and, before him, your grandfather always told us bed time stories about the Jang Shi dragons…how they taught us to fight for our freedom…”
“I have heard those tales…I loved them too… But your hands and your blessed tools, honored sir, have brought those stories to life with these renderings.”
“I sought for years for an idea that would be both dramatic and beautiful. Last time your father was here…”
“While I was at Star Master School.”
“Right…well, I heard him telling a rapt audience of boys at his evening fire about these very Jang Chi dragons, so, I set out to bring their stories to life.”
“You have certainly exceeded my expectations for those goals…They are stunning.”
“Thank you Til, I have been working on the idea for several gathering time cycles. I was going to make horses any way. First, I determined that I had to find the right stones. My mother brought me these two at the last Gathering. Then, right after that, your father gave me the inspiration to create these carvings. I immediately drew new plans and began these carvings. I must write in the daytime, so they were carved by moonlight. I have only just finished a few nights ago.”
“Superior work…Father will be stunned.”
Lar closed the box and handed it to his cousin, “My army looks ready.”
Balancing the heavy case, he made ready to go, “May I have the honor of setting your pieces, cousin?”
“Aiya, my beard brother…We will face the champion together. Do not be offended if I make minor adjustments after I see your father’s placements.” His young cousin laughed again and walking carefully, he headed towards his father’s camp.
He shouted over his shoulder, “See you later…”
Watching the box holding the treasured pieces make their way across the wadi, Lar sat on his haunches to think.. Those pieces had been the property of the Watch Man as long as any one could remember. Tonight, they would do battle for the tribe known as the People of the Watcher against the forces from the tribe known simply as Bed Ou. Idly brushing around himself, his hand touched crinkly leaves. He picked one up, noticing for the first time that it had turned from green to a rich red color.
Looking up at the tree that shaded him, he noticed that it was changing color as well. “Flame…” he said softly and smiled. He looked about him, noticing the colors on the other trees and bushes for the first time, “The Gathering time for the People has come at last… They will be coming now. I must make ready.”
He stood as if to run inside to climb the inner caves clear to the top of the Old Man’s head to see if he could see a dust cloud that would herald the return of his tribe. He stopped himself. “Not tonight.” He looked around again at the trees closer to the pools shading the oasis. He saw that half of the leaves were still green. He shook his head, “Not tonight…tonight I go to war with my uncle.”
The Arms of the Watcher Page 2
