Morning Ritual
By Walt Staples

Bruno O’Schmidt watched sourly

 as the old man slowly pulled the cart up to the customs gate and stopped. The Border & Customs sergeant walked slowly over and leaned on his cane as a private examined the old man’s papers. From thirty years experience, Bruno knew the information by heart:

Name: Michelino Impungushe
Nationality: Subject of Odalv Yu-wi
Village: Ster Bo-op
Occupation: None
Security Class: A-2-O.Y.

He also knew an “A-2” meant nothing when followed by the Mountain Peoples designation.

He made a small gesture. Corporal Otis MacFineberg, the man who would replace Bruno in—he glanced at his watch—twenty minutes quietly made his own small gesture. Two other privates joined the corporal as he stepped over to Impungushe’s cart. It struck Bruno that while both NCOs made the same gesture, each slightly differed. Style, he supposed.

Impungushe slowly moved back from the cart. He found a comfortable rock in the shade and sitting, slowly produced a pipe and filled it. The old man’s slow, non-threatening movements were part of the daily ritual at the customs gate.

The border guards began their search of the cart and its load, as usual honey-clove hay for the Duke’s stables. Bruno limped over and seated himself on the rock beside Impungushe.

The old man observed, “Bad hip acting up today, Sergeant?”

Bruno nodded as he rubbed the painful spot. “Yeah, front moving in over the Drakenburgs. We’ll have rain by morning.”

Impungushe laughed. “Yes, each of us does carry his own weather station.” Bruno shot a look at the old bullet scar on the old man’s lower right arm. Before the sergeant could think of a reply, MacFineberg walked up and reported, “Nothing as usual, Sergeant. Load and cart are clean.”

He came to attention, and saluting, continued, “Also Sergeant O’Schmidt, I relieve you of your post and duties.”

Bruno looked at him, bemused for a moment, then at his watch--08:06. He had been a retired civilian for six minutes. He painfully made it to his feet (with a small assisting hand from Impungushe) and coming to attention, returned the salute.

The corporal extended his hand. “Bruno, it’s been good.” The sergeant realized with shock this was the first time in fourteen years MacFineberg spoke his Christian name.

As they shook, Bruno answered, “Otis…Corporal MacFineberg, I leave Post Rivendell in good hands.” He turned away before the other could see him tearing up.

He found himself face to face with Impungushe. The old man also extended his hand. “Sergeant, it has been an interesting thirty years.”

As he grasped the hand, Bruno smiled. “Sergeant no longer. Now I’m just Bruno, Mr. Impungushe.”

The old man returned the smile. “You are no ‘just,’ my friend. And I am Michelino.

“Come, Bruno, I know a pleasant little tavern about a half a click down the road. It is called The Dragon’s Eye & Nun. I’ll meet you there at noon after I sell my goods. It would be my great joy to buy you a drink.” He stopped and raised an eyebrow. “I suppose your papers are in order?”

Bruno laughed. “Yes, and as far as I know, I’m not wanted for any felonies in Odalv Yu-wi. At noon, then.”

***

A few minutes after the angelus rang, Michelino came through The Dragon’s Eye & Nun’s double doors. He grinned on seeing Bruno and joined him at table. “Well met, my friend.” He glanced at Bruno’s empty beer mug. “I see you started without me.”

Bruno cocked his head as he smiled. “Still plenty of room, Michelino.”

Michelino gestured at the beer mug--Bruno nodded--and raised two fingers to the landlord. As they settled back with their mugs, Bruno asked, “Get a good price for your goods?”

Michelino looked at him for a moment. “Goods? Oh, the hay. Yes a very good price. Especially as it was my last one. You see, I too am retiring today.”

Bruno smiled and leaned forward. He spoke in a low tone, “Look, Michelino, we’ve been at this for thirty years. Each morning you come through my gate, each morning your cart is searched, and each morning nothing is found. Now I dang well know you’re not making a living on a cartload of hay each day, honey-clove or not.”

He sat back and taking a sip of his beer continued, “Look, we’re inside Odalv Yu-wi’s territory, I’m retired from Imperial Border & Customs, and you just said this was your last load.” He bent forward again and asked, “For my own peace of mind, what were you smuggling?”

Michelino took a sip from his mug, cocked his head, and gently smiled at Bruno. “Carts.”

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