The Darkness Comes (The Second Book of the Small Gods Series) (31 page)

He closed his eyes. In the dim barn, another load of manure thumped to the floor.

***

Juddah tossed aside the comb, its broken teeth proving useless for removing knots from his hair. To tame his mane, he dipped his fingers in the jar of fat he’d drained from the morning’s slice of pig and smoothed stray strands away from his face with it. He gazed at himself in a polished piece of tin, flattened a chunk of hair sticking up, then nodded.

“You look fine, Juddah,” he said.

He wiped the grease off his hands on the thighs of his overalls, already stiff with grime, and brushed the crumbs of dinner out of his beard. Two days and two nights for the trip—including the night spent enjoying himself. The cow had plenty of hay, and the stranger the pitcher of water, but Juddah worried about Kooj feeding himself. He’d find a few scraps around the barn, not to mention rats and mice, but would it be enough? The possibility existed Juddah might return and discover the stranger gone and the dog with a pot belly.

“As long as he don’t eat the cow,” Juddah said aloud. He pulled his hat on over his greased-back hair and exited the shack.

He rounded the barn to the lean-to where he kept the horse he’d collected from wandering the woods, complete with saddle, bridle, sword, and a dead man to go with it. The beast ignored him, lazily chewing hay as he set the saddle in place and tied it on. The munching stopped only when Juddah slipped the bit into its mouth, then the horse shook its head and returned to its meal.

Juddah struggled his left foot into the stirrup and hauled his bulk up into the seat. The horse took a step back and whinnied, slapped its tail against its hindquarters.

“Whoa. Don’t worry, now, I won’t make you go too fast,” Juddah said, but the thought of his destination started a stirring in his britches. He pulled the reins and pointed the animal away from the barn, dug his heels into its sides.

“Jubha Kyna, here we come.”

XXXI Horace - Haven

Horace gaped at the greenness o’ the grassy field. It stretched from the brush where they hid to the town lyin’ in the distance. Greener’n any grass the ol’ sailor thought he’d ever seen in his life. It weren’t sayin’ much, given he’d spent most o’ near thirty-five turns o’ the seasons with his feet on a ship’s deck, but he’d experienced his share. Nothin’ lay upon the emerald field—no buildin’s, no towers nor wells nor animals, and no people. Green and more green right the way to town.

“Whatcha think?” Horace said without removin’ his gaze from the field. A breeze rippled through the grass, spreadin’ a wave across its tips.

“Thorn thinks it’s a camp.”

“Out here, we call it a town.”

“Town,” Thorn repeated, fittin’ the word to his mouth. “There will be people in this town?”

“Mmm hmm.”

They was too far away to make out much other’n a few buildin’s shapes. It weren’t a big town, from what he spied, and Horace found himself wishin’ for one o’ them longeyes they used on the boat for keepin’ an eye out for the watery god what ate him. Ships was awful places, but they kept a few handy tools on them.

Thorn jumped to his feet and took a step out o’ the brush. Horace caught him by the forearm, stoppin’ him, then jerked his hand away before the little feller had the chance to see anythin’ more ‘bout his past.

“Where you goin’?”

The gray man lifted his arm and pointed at the group o’ buildin’s. “To the town.”

Horace shook his head. “I think we should avoid it.”

“Thorn has heard the sounds made by your stomach, Horace Seaman.”

“Don’t call me that,” Horace said through clenched teeth. His gut rumbled on cue. “Just Horace.”

“Just Horace.”

“It might not be safe.”

“True, but Thorn is hungry, too.” He rubbed his palm on his flat belly. “More pig leg would taste good.”

Horace sighed heavily, his shoulders risin’ and fallin’ with the breath. They’d seen two sunsets since Thorn stole his britches, but nothin’ what might’ve served to feed them well. The berries they’d found, Horace were hesitant to pop in his mouth because berries’d made him sick before and he weren’t willin’ to fall for it again. Thorn’d munched on roots and shoots, but Horace couldn’t imagine himself developin’ an appetite for them.

“All right,” he said finally. “I guess I’ll go into town and see what I can find. You’ll have to stay here.”

He took a step into the impossibly green grass; this time it were Thorn’s hand on ol’ Horace’s arm stoppin’ him. He spun ‘round toward the little feller, pullin’ away when he did.

“Thorn goes, too.”

A grasshopper flitted past Horace’s nose, its wings clickin’. “You can’t go.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? Take a look at you, then me. You thinkin’ ain’t no one gonna notice any difference?”

Thorn raised his arm to regard his gray skin, then directed his gaze to Horace. An instant later, his flesh shifted to the same hue as the sailor’s. He tilted his head back and smiled up at his companion.

“Better?”

Horace shook his head. “It ain’t just the color o’ your skin, little feller.” He waved his hand before his face. “You don’t look too similar to me, do you?”

Thorn’s lips extended in an exaggerated pout and the place on his forehead where a man’d have eyebrows dipped toward the bridge o’ his broad nose. His eyes narrowed and the muscles in his jaw bulged. A wave o’ panic flowed through Horace’s chest, but shock overwhelmed it when hairs started sproutin’ on The Small God where them brows should’ve been.

The shape o’ Thorn’s nose changed. His full mouth shrank, and stubbly whiskers sprouted on his cheek and his lip below his nose. By the time his jaw relaxed and a smile crossed his now-pink lips, Horace were peerin’ wide-eyed at a tinier version o’ himself.

The ol’ sailor shook his head hard enough to make it hurt and blinked fast. It didn’t stop Thorn lookin’ like Horace.

“We don’t all have the same face, you know,” Horace exclaimed, the muscles in his legs feelin’ a might watery seein’ the gray man wearin’ his face. “That won’t help.”

Thorn shrugged and closed his eyes. The stubble faded from his skin, the shape o’ his nose and cheek bones shifted. When his lids opened, his appearance were different enough no one’d mistake the two o’ them for twins, but similar enough they might’ve been thought father and son.

The ol’ sailor gulped hard; it were as if the years’d rolled backward and a youthful Rilum Seaman stood before him. Did Thorn pluck his boy’s memory from his head, or did Rilum appear so similar to Horace he were mistakin’ the young himself for his son?

Horace sucked on his bottom lip, thinkin’ ‘bout what to do. The feller looked mostly like any other boy, without much aspect belongin’ to a Small God from outta the Green.

“Are you gonna be able to stay like that, or will I be carryin’ you after a while?”

“Thorn will be fine,” the gray-but-no-longer-gray man said. “Thorn feels stronger. He must be closer to home.”

The words caused an involuntary shiver through Horace’s shoulders and his mind started attemptin’ to cook up ways to keep from havin’ to go farther. No excuses came to him, and the part inside what wanted to get Thorn safely back where he came from seemed to be growin’—in the way o’ fungus when you’re stuck on a boat too long and don’t have the chance to wash your feet.

“All right,” Horace conceded. “But if you’re gettin’ to feelin’ wobbly again, you let me know. Better we leave than the nice folk o’ this hamlet get a peek at your real face.”

“Agreed.”

They stood lookin’ at each other for a bit for no good reason. For Horace’s part, he had trouble takin’ his eyes offa the little feller what looked so much like his son, but he weren’t sure why Thorn kept starin’. Prob’ly he wanted Horace to take the lead. It took some convincin’ in his own head, but the ol’ sailor eventually did exactly that.

The greener’n green grass stood taller’n Horace’s knee—high enough to tickle Thorn’s waist. The little man hummed in the back o’ his throat as they strode toward the village, though it weren’t no tune Horace’d ever recognize. He’d never been much for music, anyways. Once, he’d been aship with a feller what used to scratch out tunes on a fiddle, but the scraggly notes made Horace’s teeth tingle, and not in a good way. On the nights the instrument emerged, he hit his bunk early rather’n dancin’ ‘round all foolish the way some o’ the crew did—the ones what didn’t mind a poke in the porthole, he always thought.

“Keep quiet,” Horace growled, more because it made him think ‘bout the fiddle’n because Thorn’s tune were unpleasant. Either way, the little man fell silent.

Their feet rustled in the grass, stirrin’ up odors that excited Horace’s nose. He sniffed deeply, inhalin’ the scent o’ dirt and the hayish perfume o’ the blades themselves. Mixed in with it was the aromas o’ bugs layin’ eggs, and pollen makin’ new flowers, bird shit dried in the sun, and the fur o’ tiny voles what stood still as stone while they passed.

But none o’ those was what made Horace come to a halt, one foot held up in the air. Beneath them, his nose detected a stink what had no right bein’ found in a field o’ the greenest grass: salty water.

The sea.

“What is it?” Thorn asked, noticin’ his companion had stopped with his foot halfway done a step.

“We’re nearin’ the ocean,” Horace said, starin’ off toward the village ahead, narrowin’ his eyes for a glimpse o’ the sun glimmerin’ on waves. He didn’t spy nothin’ but grass and buildin’s, now loomin’ a little closer’n they did before.

“How do you know?”

“I can sniff it.” He drew his tongue across his lips, detected the vaguest hint o’ brine. “And taste it.”

“Good. The shore will lead back to Thorn’s home.”

Horace set down the foot what he’d left hangin’ in the air and continued starin’ straight ahead. Aware o’ Thorn’s gaze upon him, he didn’t pay it no mind; the thought o’ the sea kept him too busy preventin’ his stomach from turnin’ to care much what the little feller gawked at.

“Come on,” Thorn said, wavin’ his hand. When Horace didn’t move, he retraced the three steps he’d gone before realizin’ the ol’ sailor’d halted. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t like the sea.”

“Horace Seaman don’t like the sea?” Thorn mimicked Horace’s voice.

Horace frowned. “He don’t. And I told you—”

“Just Horace, Thorn knows. Not liking the sea explains why you only want to be called Horace.”

The sea-hatin’ sailor sucked his bottom lip hard enough to make it hurt, the buzz o’ flies and hiss o’ wind in the grass markin’ the passage o’ time. Thorn waited, crossin’ and uncrossin’ his arms, rockin’ back and forth on his feet, before Horace gave in and began walkin’ again.

“We ain’t goin’ nowhere near the sea,” he said.

***

They approached the village from the sunrise end. No road headed into the place, only grass as far as you could see until the trees took over, and they did so all ‘round, but for the windward side. That direction, high in the sky, he thought he spied gulls wheelin’, and where you found gulls, you found the sea.

A dirt track finally began just outside where the buildin’s started. Though no weeds or grass poked through it, Horace didn’t think no wagon wheels or horses’ hooves’d touched the road, least not in a long time. And the buidin’s he saw—he lost count after ten, because he didn’t usually have no reason to count any higher’n that—appeared either freshly painted or newly built.

Ev’ry one o’ them.

They trod onto the track, Horace walkin’ a pace in front o’ Thorn the way someone might’ve expected a pa to walk before his boy. He didn’t sense no one watchin’. Pebbles crunched beneath the sole o’ the boot what were pinchin’ Horace’s foot; Thorn’s steps—made by feet he forgot wasn’t wearin’ no shoes—made not a sound.

Birds Horace couldn’t lay eyes on twittered in hidden nests built in the eaves o’ the closest buildin’. He directed his gaze toward the sound, squintin’ against the bright sun shinin’ on him. The sing-song stopped. Horace scratched his cheek, fingernails what were in need o’ trimmin’ scrapin’ against his coarse whiskers. He kept starin’ up until he felt a tug on his sleeve. When he looked at Thorn yankin’ at him, the little feller’s other arm were pointin’ at somethin’ in front o’ them.

The boy appeared to have seen the seasons turn eight or ten times. He stood similar in height to Thorn, though his cheeks showed more o’ the childlike glow expected in a child o’ that age, an aspect the Small God hadn’t captured in his youthful approximation.

This boy what came outta nowhere watched them and did a helluva good imitation o’ a figurehead like they put on the prow o’ those fancy ships the king sailed on himself. Horace stared back, unsure how to proceed, and Thorn were lettin’ him be the one what made the decision. The ol’ sailor moved them forward a few paces in order not to have to shout.

“Hello,” he said, raisin’ his hand in a friendly greetin’ gesture.

The boy nodded in return, his eyes dartin’ between Horace and his companion. Horace fought to keep from glancin’ at the gray man to ensure he hadn’t reverted back to bein’ a gray man.

“What’s the name o’ this place?”

The boy’s gaze came to rest on Horace. He squinted. “Haven.”

Haven. That sounded good to Horace. “There be anyone else ‘round?”

In answer, the boy turned tail and ran for a buildin’ across the little square in the town’s center. Seein’ the feller’s shoes kickin’ up dust as he ran through the middle o’ town started an uneasy rumble at the bottom o’ Horace’s gut. He let his eyes search ‘round, squinty and suspicious, at the other buidlin’s, but he didn’t see nobody just then. He took hold o’ Thorn’s arm and began leadin’ him toward the far end o’ the village.

“I ain’t feelin’ too good ‘bout this place,” he said. “And I don’t appreciate the way the air smells all briny.”

“Thorn thinks the town seems nice.”

They got near to the center o’ the village square when people started emergin’ from the doorways o’ the buildin’s surroundin’ the common area. Each door spewed out four or five stony-faced adults, spillin’ them down short sets o’ stairs and across porches out into the village green.

Horace drew up at the center o’ the square, draggin’ Thorn to a halt beside him, and spun a tight little circle, peerin’ at them faces. None o’ them held the aspect o’ friendliness one might want to find upon visitin’ a new village. The ol’ sailor fought back a shiver and squeezed Thorn’s shoulder.