Hergewick swabbed a handkerchief over his brow. A handkerchief that could have been used as a bandanna to go under his hat before he left the Marzipanne at whatever O-clock it had been this morning. But then the morning had displayed not a whisper of the drums the sun was going to pound barely two hours into the afternoon. A set of drums that included the stretch of road between
Darnsket and Mistannicci that Hergewick ‘happened’ to be on, and a fair bit upon either side.
Indeed, the parallel course formed by the Darn was acting as a mirror of the Noon Star’s belligerence, making Hergewick’s right eye twitter. Lina knew what it was doing to the plough man and yoke of oxen in the intermediate field, or the person beyond who was repositioning a bow-less fishing rod. But then they were getting the first impact of the edge-cutting breeze coming from the confluence. That or whatever was depriving Cresten Isle of its usual lower-slope haze. Although the edge had begun to make a comeback by the time it reached Hergewick, merely adding another bead to his be speckled brow.
“They should make siestas mandatory in weather like this,” a voice coughed. Hergewick’s staff clattered on the paves as he brought both hands across his eyes. A child-sized lemon with the luminosity of the sun was up ahead, getting larger as it approached him.
“Are you alright?” the voice inquired.
“Slightly dazed, that’s all,” said Hergewick keeping one hand over his face