He was not centuries old and bent, not yet, but his face was lined with a thousand creeks and valleys.  The peace medal was a silver disc, hung on a ribbon, embossed with a profile.  She folded her arms to keep anyone from seeing how much her hands were shaking.  Ellis stood close on one side, Miller on the other.

“He won’t speak to you in English,” Ellis said, “but Miller will tell you what he’s saying.”

The old one, however, said nothing.  He just kept walking closer, all eyes on him, until he was standing in front of Charlotte, regarding her in a way that she’d never experienced before, and which had nothing to do with her hair or bruised face.  She held her ground, the fight rising in her.  Nobody could judge her unless they’d lived her life.  Though his eyes were faded, and she could see that he too was tired, still an equal fierceness showed in his.  She dared him to find her wanting.

She realized, watching his reaction, that there was no need for translators.  He’d heard all that she had to say.  He turned away from her, first letting his gaze rest gently on Miller, then moving to regard Ellis with some intent.  Finally, he spoke and Charlotte listened, transfixed.  It was a language from another place and time, an ancient tongue, like nothing she had ever heard before.

“He honors you,” Miller said, “as a strong woman.  He sees it in your eyes.  He welcomes you to his campfire.  He regrets there’s not more time.  He says that everything will happen when the sun rises again, and this is the way it will be.”  Miller paused, listening to the unraveling skein of words.  “He says he is sorry that your journey will not follow the path your important father expected it to but he himself will guarantee your safety until you reach your destination.”

“I told him everything,” Ellis said.

Charlotte gave up.  She seemed once again to have completely lost control of her life.  She reached into her pocket and held out an offering to the old one.  Puzzled, he took it.  He looked questioningly at Miller.

“What is it?” Miller asked, equally puzzled.

“A biscuit.”  It was the one she’d been saving for lunch and never ate.  She listened as Miller translated this, speaking the strange dialect as if it were his own, the stark realization coming to her that it truly had been his own.

They all watched as the grandfather raised the biscuit to his lips, tested the aroma, squinted at the composition of it, then slowly took a bite.  He chewed thoughtfully.  Charlotte feared it might have grown crusty, but the rich flavor would still be there.  When the old one smiled, his face broke into even more creeks and valleys.  He nodded, then reached out and touched her forehead almost as a benediction.

She sensed Ellis shaking his head.