#jarra

Los Castillo, "Jarra Tucán," Mexico, c. 1980,

Silver-plated metal, green hardstone composite,

"He did not mean us," Loial rumbled. "We are his friends."

"Of course, good — uh — good Ogier. Of course, he didn't mean you. I — uh — I don't mean to say anything about a friend of yours, but I — uh — I — think he's sick. In the head, you know."

"We will take care of him," Perrin said. "That's why we're following him. Which way did he go?"

"I knew it," Simion said, bouncing on his toes. "I knew she could help as soon as I saw you. Which way? East, good master. East, like the Dark One himself was on his heels. Do you think she'll help me? Help my brother, that is? Noam's bad sick, and Mother Roon says she can't do anything."

Perrin kept his face expressionless, and bought a little time to think by propping his bow in the corner and setting his blanketroll and saddlebags on one of the beds. The problem was that thinking did not help much. He looked at Loial, but found no help there; consternation had the Ogier's ears drooping and his long eyebrows hanging down on his cheeks. "What makes you think she can help your brother?" Stupid question! The right question is, what does he mean to do about it?

"Why, I traveled to Jehannah, once, good master, and I saw two... two women like her. I couldn't mistake her after that." His voice dropped to a whisper. "It's said they can raise the dead, good master."