The eerie pip-pip sound in the dusk nearly made him run for cover. He'd been attempting to stretch his lips down to the scummy water in a narrow crack in the now-dry rapids. Who would have thought that the water would all vanish so quickly?
It was a bird; a speckled, brownish hensized thing. It was looking at him with round, suspicious tea-colored eyes. Keilin had never seen a sand grouse before, but he'd dined off pigeons and seagulls often enough. And before he'd made traps, he'd learned to throw stones with some success.
The boy eyed his kill. Just the sight of it made him hungry. He had no means of cleaning it, or cooking it. And then an errant breeze carried an unexpected scent to him: wood smoke. He turned, questing with his nose. It came from upvalley. He was none too certain about meeting the locals, but perhaps he could steal a firemaker, or even just a live coal. Eventually, in the gathering darkness, he caught the flicker of light from a hidden fire. As quietly as he could Keilin crept closer. At last he could see the small neatly constructed blaze, almost entirely hidden by slabs of sheetrock. There was no one sitting beside it, and no signs of an encampment of any sort.
For a moment Keilin hesitated. But hunger drove him on into the limits of overconfidence. Whoever had lit this fire was plainly off having a leak or still hunting. A dash now, and he could have that small ember-tipped log, and be away in fifteen seconds. He sneaked closer, and then stood up and darted forward—
—to be frozen in his tracks. The voice from behind him suggested that moving would be the last thing he ever did. It was an old voice and, if anything, it sounded amused. Someone came up behind him, and then circled around to face him. The man was undoubtably old, his face folded and lined. However, there was nothing decrepit in his movements. Certainly the black-hafted, bright-bladed spear he held with such assured ease suggested that he should be treated with extreme respect.
"You make enough noise for ten men, boy. Think I'm deaf, do you?" He chuckled, the black finger of the spear reaching towards Keilin's ribs. He stared carefully at the boy. "But mebbe I'm goin' blind. Were you plannin' to brain me with that bird? Where's your weapon, boy?"
Keilin felt his legs wobble under him. The jewel was cold on his chest. "Please," he stammered, "I just wanted a coal . . . just something to start my own fire and cook my supper. I promise . . . I haven't even got a knife!" To his intense shame he felt a tear trickle down his cheek.
It might have embarrassed him, but it plainly eased his captor's mind. "Sit down, boy, afore you fall down," the old man said with rough kindness, lowering the spear, "and don't start blubbering now. I don't mean you any harm, son. Just that a man's inclined to be suspicious o' strangers out here, especially when folk try and sneak up on you. You're welcome to a piece of my fire, if you wants it, and welcome to cook your fowl here if you like." He cast a knowing look at Keilin's nervous upturned face in the firelight. "You don't have much to fear from old Marou, boy. And iffen you don't have the means of makin' fire and you don't even have a knife I'm willin' to bet you don't have the faintest idea how to cook the bird either."
"I do!" said Keilin, stung. "I've cooked heaps of pigeons and gulls. You pluck them, gut them, and cut them up, and broil them!"
"What's gulls? I've et rock pigeons though," said the old fellow, sitting down, his spear across his knees, "Besides, what was you going to cook it in? And it sounds like turrible way to spoil a good sand grouse. No. You just give it to me, sonny, I'll show you how to do it right. Then when we've had a bit of a feed, you can tell me just what you're doin' with nothin' in the middle o' nowhere. It's sounds like it might be a interestin' tale. It gets a mite lonely out here, and I've a fondness for a good story."
He pointed at the fire. "I've a nice plump goanna roasting under them coals, so I won't have to deprive you, sonny. You look short a good few meals, though heaven knows why. It's seldom I've seen the land lookin' so fat."
Mutely Keilin handed over the bird. The deft old hands began plucking, and within a few minutes it was plucked, drawn, had salt rubbed into its skin, had been split, and was grilling on a blackened, battered grid above the scraped-out coals. Keilin had sat silent while all this happened, and the old man seemed content to have it so.
When the sumptuous-smelling bird was getting its skin finally crisped, the old man pushed aside the coals with a stick and pulled out what looked like a long blackened sausage. Using his knife and the stick he lifted it up onto a flat rock. The grilled fowl was speared on the knifepoint and put next to it.
Using the knife hilt the cook carefully tapped the sausage shape. Pieces cracked off, and were flicked away, revealing steaming white flesh, which the old hands salted carefully. A fibrous root was added to the stone table, skinned and rapidly sliced. "There you go, me boy, as fine a feast as the hills'll provide." The old man sounded faintly nervous. "Goanna baked in clay, a nice plump little grilled sand grouse, and a paro root, not even two year old! What more could a man ask for, eh?"