Smoke heard the shift from what seemed to be memorized scripture, chanted and formal, to whispered supplications, or so he assumed. Looking about him he saw that he was draped, in large part trapped, beneath some sort of animal skins. They were heavy and he struggled to get his arms free.
He regretted it almost immediately. The cold was bracing and his body was sore. Still, it seemed, against all odds, nothing was broken, only bruised and abraded. Thankfully he had always healed faster than most men.
The light dimmed and White Hands shuffled into the room, hood pulled down over his face. Of more interest to Smoke, he held a shell for a bowl and a small jug. “Amazing, it seems you will live, young man.”
“Is that for me?” Smoke gestured toward the implements in the white hands.
“Indeed yes. I apologize, there is little enough of comfort here. . .”
As he took the shell-bowl and jug he saw that the white hands were torn and the palms and fingertips bruised, “Thank you, not just for this, but for my life too.”
“No no, God be praised, not I. He saved you, cast you up like Jonah.”
“Still here I am,” He drank deeply draining the little jug only slightly disappointed that it was water instead of something more bracing. “And beyond my life I have to say that thirst was ready to do for me, so thanks for my life once again.”
White Hands chuckled, reaching up he threw back his hood, and then sat down across from Smoke with a sigh, “I can only give you a bit of fish and some greens, but as to the water, it is really the only thing that this island receives in abundance.”
Smoke eyed the little man, appraising. “So why then did you come here?”
“Ah that,” White Hands chuckled, “well it seems that the Lord would have it no other way. I’ve tried to leave again dozens of times, but here I remain.” The little man returned Smoke’s gaze, “Perhaps a better question for us both is why have you come here?”