All right, silent dark bear with angry frown, tell me more about your land.”
He settled back down, picturing it. “I would tend to our land from the moment the sun rose to when it set and then you ...she would tend to me.”
He laughed at her expression again. The world of exile camps and the Valley felt very far away, and he wanted to lie there forever.
“Let me tell you about your bride,” she said, propping herself up on her elbows.
“Both of you would cultivate the land. You would hold the plow, and she would walk alongside you with the ox, coaxing and singing it forward. A stick in her hand, of course, for she would need to keep both the ox and you in line.”
“What would we...that is, my bride and I, grow?”
“Wheat and barley.”
“And marigolds.”
Her nose crinkled questioningly.
“I would pick them when they bloomed,” he said. “And when she called me home for supper, I’d place them in her hair and the contrast would take my breath away.”
“How would she call you? From your cottage? Would she bellow, ‘Finnikin!’?”
“I’d teach her the whistle. One for day and one for night.”
“Ah, the whistle, of course. I’d forgotten the whistle.
— Melina Marchetta
#evanjalin #finnikin #marriage #marriage
