Bronimir sat upon the table, not his usual place at all. He sat between a yeasty loaf that made his clay mouth drool and the smallest imaginable dish of salt. His family wanted something of him, and he knew what it was. Yet he’d do nothing until they asked.
Same as he’d waited when the Krivici hammered them from the north… and when Rurik’s Rus from out the west tried to trample on their toes… and all that trouble with the Varvags exacting tribute. Then the Baltic Lithuanians… and the Poles… and the Russian occupation (how many times was that?); and the French and the German. But today’s trouble was closer to home. Young Čestmír had been found in compromising situation with the golden-haired Sveta next door.
Domovoy that he was, Bronimir must sweeten the air. Yet again. But not before they asked him and gave him bread and salt.
149 words written for What Pegman Saw: Minsk, Belarus
Domovoy was a family god in the form of a baked-clay man; his usual place was in a niche beside the door.
He was loyal to his family throughout the generations and remained in residence with them whenever and wherever they moved.