Expression

The wagons are said to be countless, the animals without number. Both of these claims are, of course, mistaken, The Ubars of the Wagon Peoples know well each wagon and the number of branded beasts in the various herds; each herd is, incidentally, composed of several smaller herds, each watched over by its own riders. The bellowing seemed now to come from the sky itself, like thunder, or from-the horizon, like the breaking of an ocean into surf on the rocks of the shore. It was like a sea or a vast natural phenomenon slowly approaching. Such indeed, I suppose, it was. Now, also, for the first time, I could clearly smell the herd, a rich, vast, fresh, musky, pervasive odor, compounded of trampled grass and torn earth, of the dung, urine and sweat of perhaps more than a minion beasts. The magnificent vitality of that smell, so offensive to some, astonished and thrilled me; it spoke to me of the insurgence and the swell of life itself, ebullient, raw, overflowing, unconquerable, primitive, shuffling, smelling, basic, animal, stamping, snorting, moving, an avalanche of tissue and blood and splendor, a glorious, insistent, invincible cataract of breathing and walking and seeing and feeling on the sweet, flowing, windswept mothering earth. And it was in that instant that I sensed what the bosk might mean to the Wagon Peoples.

Two fingers pointed toward his eyes then his palm flattened to move out ... extending away from him as far as his arm could reach in a smooth glide. 'A see, Linna .. a see'. He was describing to me the depth of a feeling that swept over him. The bosk. He spoke of riding through them and looking up and their numbers were as far as the eye could see ... a sea of sacredness. Allowing the sky, the wind and the grass itself lead him safely. If there had been any fear in the boy at that time, there was none to be seen in the recounting of the tale. The bull had come to him. His brother. The conviction I heard in his voice left no doubt that this was what he believed in his heart to be true. It was purely reverence.
He spoke too of seeing among this 'see', his own people in the same continuation, his sons and his son's sons among the bosk. His visions were so strong that I felt them in my heart and could see them as if I had stood there at his side. He was coming into his own right among the Tribe and I had been privileged to witness this wonder in his expression, in the play of his features and I could see the many scars that he would bear in a lifetime.

There was a sense of something greater than mere pride and arrogance that swelled in my chest ... something for lack of a better term to offer those who read this in their own native language ... spiritual. I sat there in silence listening to every word, watching every movement of his hands, of his shoulders and the straightening of his height to stand taller than I have ever seen him. There was no resemblance of the boy I had first met .. here stood the persona of a man .. a Tuchuk man filling his lungs with his plains.

His brother ... his first bosk would have a fine name. He would be called Nili and he would sire great herds that thundered across the lands of the Tuchuk.

Later I would tell him that Cana had given him a dun colt with white markings on his nose and the wagon and bosk that pulled it. These would remain in my trust until he received his first scar. Rusty was giving him one of the foals due by the time we camped in the south as well. For now I left him celebrating among the men, taking with me only the memory of the expressions.

There was no anger inside me to taint this moment. Just understanding ... enlightenment if you will. I whispered to the wind, to all that had touched one young warrior's life ... Thank You.