- XII - Along the Biedano
Crisp air this morning.
I am under a portico where e the sun filters through a wattled roof and I am absorbed by reading tablets that describe ancient rites when, with the tail of the eye, yet before of seeing him, I detect the arrival of Lathuma with his long white beard. He has a strange look, his step is nervous, extensive and angular. It’s not in his custom, not normal for him.
“Gods have called Aranthur!” - soon he assails me, almost irritated, as if God would have made him a personal injustice with my complicity.
I wait that he arrives in front of me. The high small wall on which I am sitting allows me to see him right in his eyes. He is vulnerable as I never saw him. He is so absorbed in his thoughts that his eyes, as attracted by an internal somethi
