Glieph

“So why the roofs?”

Our young guide, Finell, froze, one hand held up in an interrupted sweep meant to steer our eyes along the panorama and towards the village across the rivulet. He started to reply, a quickly faltering noise escaping his throat, but instead just stared at the smug traveler in our group who had just spoken, leaning against a grain of sand.

“Well, obviously…,” Finell began, but then stopped.

He looked back at Glieph, sheltered under its shell. Indeed, all the houses had roofs though no rain would ever get into them. His mouth opened hesitantly a couple of times, and his hand came down.

His hand came up again, “I’m sure…” he began, unconvinced.

A round of laughter rose within our midst and the group moved on, led by the interrupting tourist who began sharing his general opinion on Holn Country folk.

I’d somehow acquired some sympathy for our guide during our travels, despite his ineptitude and refusal to admit this, and couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. I put an arm around his slumped shoulders and gently led him on our way to the village, our stop for the night.