“Mistress, why would you need to construct an instrument to tell which way the wind blows? Is it not obvious?”
The old lunatic chuckled and when I looked at him a small smile was visible, peeking through the wild mat of facial hair. Tight, think lips just rosy enough to be noticed surrounded by his almost translucent skin and silver mane.
“It’s complicated,” she said.
This is something else she did a lot. I suspect it meant she did not know how to explain it. There was no point in asking further questions about it.
“I am experiencing emptiness,” the old lunatic said.
He meant he was hungry. He was always hungry and had come up with a variety of ways to express it. This amused him. Sometimes, though, his language transcended common sense and because he refused to explain himself, he’d suffer until someone heard the cries from his angry belly.
One time he came upon me and spoke in this way:
The pulp of the flesh.
Lo, sweet droplets from heaven.
The tears of angels.
Apparently he meant to say he was thirsty and required something to drink. Simply, he wanted wine, but his verse was impenetrable to me. I do not know what a heaven is or these angels he often speaks of!
It was a little unclear whether they came from the same place or not, but at least they seemed to have a better time of it understanding each other. I tried not to think much about it and busied myself setting up our picnic.