Chapter 3

John Ritter made it up to the top of a tall hill before the hottest part of the day, in spite of not having eaten for over three days. The sun was above, so he was able to look about in all directions, and he scanned intently with eyes trained to discern small vessels on a wave topped horizon. He was alert for motion, for human silhouettes, for color or glints. rather than focusing on any one spot, he gazed vaguely, scanning back and forth, gradually drawing his attention from the farthest he could see back closer to the near distance. Of course, if anyone had been looking for him, they would have seen his moving, bright orange human silhouette quite easily.

They would have thought him a demon though, with his four arms (the two water-filled sleeves dangling and swaying over his shoulders). They would have avoided him, hidden from him, and watched him from safety.

Zithrusa hid as she easily avoided the orange demon. She watched from safety as he drank, and stripped off his orange skin. She didn't think that demons needed to drink. She had scrambled to hiding when her goats had alarmed, and as she watched, she wondered what kind of man this was and what strange clothing he wore. His skin was so pale, yet his hair and eyes were dark. If it wasn't for his glowing white skin, which resembled a corpse or ghost, he could be just any other man, if you dressed him in something other than skin tight orange. And such an orange, it was so bright, so easy to see. Almost if it was ment to draw attention.

This close to the caravan route, with all the bandits and warrior-kings, it wasn't the smartest plan. Even so, besides his orange skin, he had no belongings. He didn't even have a knife! He seemed to belong to no tribe or clan, as he had no sept tatoos, not even a guild mark. She had no idea where he had come from, but it didn't seem like he would be able to survive in this world- yet here he was, and a man full grown! She was astonished when his second skin proved to hold water, what kind of rare weave was it?

Zithrusa examined her own wool and felt clothing, loose layers of fine thin weave, perfect for keeping cool or warm as the case might be. Hers were the same color as the animals which had provided the fibers, dull browns, grays, tans and blacks. Her mother and grandmother had avoided sharp boundarys between the colors when they wove, so she would fade into the rocks better. They knew she would be out here on the caravan route tending the part of the flock they had for barter with the passing traders, who could barely find forage for their own pack animals, the strange double humped camels so unlike those that were found in wild herds to the west.

Zithrusa had been watching over her flocks since she was nine, for the past seven years, and had kept them from harm against sand crocs, (or varan), lepoards, wolves, thieves outlaws and bandits, and cobras and vipers. She could sling among the best in the tribe, and against more deadly foes, she had a horn bow which was deceptively powerful for its size. She had used it to effect against more than one predator, both the two-legged and four-legged kind. As long as this strange fool left her flock alone, she had no quarrel for him. No arrow or slung shot either. Her knife was sharp, but she seldom needed to resort to it, most of those molesting her charges were taken out from ambush, and never even saw her.

It was getting towards the end of the season for the caravans, and in a few weeks Zithrusa would be returning home, where ever her nomadic people were pitching their felt tents currently as they moved their flocks to forage. There she would stay with the women on the left side of the tent, behind a cloth partition, weaving, playing the two stringed erghil and learning the spoken history of her people. It was not usual for a girl to tend the flocks, but her people where not blessed with many sons, so those they had produced were coddled and treasured, and protected to maintain the 'face' of the family. It was needed that Men interacted with the traders and other tribes, no one would pay attention to a woman.

There weren't enough husbands to go around, so Zithrusa who was several years past marrying age, was still a maiden. Her family was poor, and didn't have enough dowries to provide good matches for all their daughters. Most likely, Zithrusa would become a maiden auntie, and perhaps provide a child or two to the family, gotten from some passing trader. As long as there was a hope for a husband though, she was going to hold out for that. Zithrusa was counted as beautiful among the tribes, but that didn't make much headway against a poor or missing dowry. She had even daydreamed of some eastern prince seeing her and wanting her for his third wife. She didn't want to be a concubine though. She wanted at least some status as a person, and even third or fourth wife to such a powerful prince would be a much higher status than an unmarried auntie.

She faded back into the shadows, and left the foolish man by the water. Didn't he know how dangerous it was, to camp by water? Any predator would overcome its reluctance to approach man when the foolish man was between it and life-giving water. So far he seemed harmless, but she would keep an eye on him, and her flock, to make sure that his status didn't change to a beast to be extinguished. She was a very good protector of her flock.

John found a shady spot to wait out the heat of the day, drinking the contents of half of each of his gloves. He wanted to keep them balanced, and there was no reason to conserve water, with a nearby source. He leaned back against the rocky overhang, appreciating the chance to relax. He felt a tickle against his cheek, and brushed at it with his hand. Ouch! Something bit him. He looked at the crushed remains of a spider on his hand, and had a brief thought that he hoped it wasn't poisonous. As he had that thought, he noticed that he couldn't move. He had barely enough time to force his eyes closed before they were stuck open and drying out. Then for the longest time, he listened gratefully to his heartbeat, and his quiet breathing.

The man was a fool, she thought to herself, as she struggled to drag him across the back of her donkey. The tough yet patient beast of burden carried her supplies and shelter, and now was carrying this useless man, who hadn't anything of any value except his orange skin. Still, she thought as she examined it, it was of the rarest material, she had never seen the like. It would be very valuable, but to not even have a knife- she wondered if he was a fool or just used to having bodyguards to protect him. She wondered where he had come from, his tracks had led in from the sands. Nothing and no one lived on the sands, it was very mysterious.