The Darkness Comes (The Second Book of the Small Gods Series) (33 page)

“But don’t you go to nearby towns? To trade, and such?” Horace recalled the shack in the woods where Thorn acquired his britches.

“Nobody has ever left Haven.”

A murmur spread through the gatherin’, whisperin’ from lips to ears and spreadin’ quick as the tide fillin’ a hole in the sand. Horace surveyed their faces, each o’ them so similar to the last, and found most starin’ at Thorn. He clamped his teeth together tight to keep them from chatterin’ with a fearful shiver and looked at the little feller.

Thorn’s nose’d gone a little flatter and wider, back more toward it’s reg’lar shape, and an eyebrow were missin’. A streak o’ gray across one cheek akin to a smudge o’ ash stirred up panic in Horace’s chest. He raised his head, ready to make excuses why he and his son needed to get right back outta Haven this instant and found the stepped-forward man with a smile across his face what didn’t appear altogether natural. He spread his arms wide and said:

“Welcome. Welcome to Haven.”

Welcome weren’t exactly what Horace experienced—scared outta his drawers, maybe, but not welcome.

***

After havin’ time to sit, Thorn grew back his brow and glossed o’er the mark on his cheek, though it still looked like he carried a faded scar. His nose refused to go back to the way it were when he first took on his disguise, but Horace didn’t mind—the little feller looked less like Rilum this way, and the ol’ sailor didn’t need remindin’ o’ the son he hadn’t seen in more seasons’n he remembered.

The buildin’ the crowd o’ town folk’d taken them too were one big room with a churchy atmosphere to it, though it didn’t hold no idols or worshippy things nowhere inside. Horace guessed that made it more meetin’ hall than worshipful place; he were thankful for its chairs for Thorn to sit and get a little rest.

The whole town crammed in with them, ev’ry set o’ eyes on them as a few women—most o’ them what looked far too much like the men—brought him and Thorn food for nibblin’. It tasted good, but they served snacks what Horace didn’t recognize.

They munched on what might’ve been cheese but for bein’ flavored o’ roses and honey, and bread thick and heavy enough to’ve been meat. A bowl carved outta wood contained pinkish-white meat, too, what the ol’ sailor would’ve guessed to be crab, but it didn’t have the flavor o’ crab. Truthfully, he couldn’t’ve said exactly what its taste were but, after a few sunrises in a row puttin’ twigs and leaves and nothin’ more in his belly, he were glad to have it. Thorn sittin’ beside acted pleased, too.

Ev’ryone watched them while they ate, makin’ Horace nervous and wonderin’ if some food’d got caught in his whiskers what were longer’n what he were used to sportin’. He paused in chewin’ and wiped a hand across his mouth, just in case. Weren’t nothin’ there, but his discomfort at bein’ stared at carried on.

When they finished, the man stepped forward again. At least, Horace thought him to be the same man.

“Have you eaten enough?” His voice held some expression this time. Not much, but more’n before.

“Mmm hmm,” Horace said, chewin’ on the last mouthful.

“Excellent. Now we shall find a place for you to make your beds.”

He clapped his hands twice and ‘bout as many people as Horace had fingers left the buildin’. At the same time, Thorn reached o’er and tugged on the ol’ sailor’s sleeve. Horace leaned toward him.

“Thorn can’t stay here,” the little feller what looked only a bit like Rilum whispered. He waved his hand in front o’ his face. “This will disappear in my sleep.”

Horace nodded, sat straight in his chair, and cleared his throat.

“We thank you for your hosp…your hospi…your kind offerin’, but we have to be goin’.”

He rose outta his seat and the man took a stutterin’ step back, wearin’ an expression as though Horace’d spit at him, his head swingin’ side to side. The shocked aspect got passed to the others gathered in the big, open room.

“There is nowhere to go.” A tone o’ non-understandin’ made his monotone voice come to life. “Nobody has ever left Haven.”

A chill crawled along Horace’s skin, pricklin’ the hair at the back o’ his neck and makin’ his staff shrink up toward him as if he were sailin’ too close to the Green. At that instant, his situation’s perilous nature struck him—he were either gonna be stuck in a picturesque but unusual little village, or continue on in his trek toward a place what gave him nightmares. Standin’ there in the churchy meetin’ hall with them people starin’ at him, it didn’t seem like muchuva choice.

“Horace,” Thorn wheezed, and for the space no longer’n an eye blink, the word reminded the ol’ sailor an awful lot o’ how Dunal’s voice’d sounded with his fingers wrapped ‘round the big oaf’s throat.

Horace chewed on his bottom lip and rubbed his fingernails in his scratchy beard, the lower portion o’ his gut startin’ to go watery. His gaze flickered to Thorn, who stared up at him with a desperate expression in them eyes what resembled his son’s, then at the stepped-forward man. The tautness in his lips or the tilt o’ his brow didn’t hold nothin’ sinister, but Horace wondered if a threat might be meant by what he spoke. The ol’ sailor’s belly grumbled ‘round the tasty food inside it and he sighed—he’d told Thorn he’d get him home. A promise made should be a promise kept.

“We do appreciate what you’ve done for us,” Horace said, drawin’ his words out like he didn’t know if he were makin’ a statement or askin’ a question, “but we gotta be goin’. My son’s got a…condition.”

He edged toward the door, peerin’ from one friendly-seemin’ person to the next and wonderin’ which might be the one to jump out and stop them leavin’. Thorn held onto the back o’ his shirt, hidin’ himself behind Horace’s back. Whether he did so to keep up his childlike charade or because his disguise were beginnin’ to fade again, Horace weren’t sure.

They crossed the threshold and warm sun prickled on Horace’s neck. He backed them away slowly, so as not to make anyone upset, but Horace’d forgotten ‘bout the two steps leadin’ to the door, and they tumbled into the grass.

The ol’ sailor came down heavily on his companion, forcin’ a woof from his own lungs and jabbin’ them with that broken rib what he’d nearly forgot. They rolled over, both o’ them scramblin’ to get to their feet. Horace made it up first and grabbed Thorn by the arm to help him.

His gray arm.

Horace glanced at the little feller and saw streaks o’ gray showin’ through on his cheeks, and the color gone completely from the one arm. His hand threatin’ to tremble, the one-time sailor moved his gaze to the door to find it jammed with people gawkin’ at the sight. Horace remembered havin’ done the same thin’ himself.

“We gotta get outta here,” he gasped, pain throbbin’ in his chest, and pulled on Thorn’s arm.

He lurched away, draggin’ the half-gray, half-pinkish Small God behind him. Thorn’s feet wasn’t workin’ so well, stumblin’ and scuffin’ along the ground. They got to the dirt track runnin’ through the middle o’ the square before Horace looked back.

Not a soul’d taken a single step outta the buildin’, but the ol’ sailor didn’t let the fact slow him.

He directed them toward the far end o’ town, opposite where they’d come in. That end didn’t look no different from the other—same tidy white buildin’s and unbelievably green grass—but it seemed to Horace the best direction to head if they intended on gettin’ Thorn home.

The little feller’s feet kicked up dust as they shuffled along the dirt track. They was most o’ the way to the edge o’ the village when them people finally got themselves together and came boilin’ outta the meetin’ hall. The stepped-forward man jumped down the stairs and hit the ground runnin’, a bunch o’ the other fellers what looked so much like him followin’ close behind.

“Fuck me dead,” Horace breathed. “Come on, Thorn. You gotta help me or you ain’t gettin’ home.”

The splotchy-skinned little man peered o’er his shoulder and saw what Horace’d already seen. Bein’ chased gave him extra energy, and he got his feet under him and began runnin’ faster’n Horace, leavin’ him behind. The ol’ sailor’s heart did a lurch and he made his own feet go faster.

The sound o’ runnin’ steps got closer behind them, drownin’ out the singin’ grasshoppers and the chirpin’ birds tryin’ to eat them bugs. Thorn were gettin’ farther ahead o’ Horace, the muscles in his half-gray back flexin’ as he swung his arms runnin’, so the sailor pushed himself harder. His broken rib flared pain in his chest; sweat rolled offa his forehead and into his peepers, stingin’ them with salty water.

The villagers’ runnin’ steps was even closer behind them, close enough Horace expected to feel breath on his neck or a hand on his shoulder. A few paces ahead, Thorn came to the edge o’ the village, where the dirt track ended as abruptly as it began. The little man sprinted into the grass, his legs cuttin’ a swath through the tall blades, and Horace followed him into the meadow four fast heartbeats later.

They kept runnin’, the swish and whisper o’ the slender-bladed grass floatin’ up from Horace’s thighs to his ears. It took more’n five runnin’ strides before he realized it were the only sound he heard—no more rumble o’ feet thumpin’ on the ground behind them.

Still runnin’, Horace cranked his head ‘round to peek back and nearly tripped o’er his own feet. His hammerin’ heart jumped, but he kept his balance and glanced back. His peepers refused to believe what they was seein’.

The villagers’d stopped at the end o’ the dirt track, watchin’ after them with confused looks on their gobs what would’ve been at home on Dunal’s kisser. Horace slowed some before stoppin’ to stare back at the disenchanted mob.

“Hold up, Thorn,” he called over his shoulder. “Take a peek at this.”

Horace stood watchin’ them people what looked too much alike for comfort until grass rustled and Thorn pulled up beside him. Horace regarded the little feller, annoyed he weren’t even breathin’ hard.

“What d’you think’s goin’ on?”

“Nobody leaves Haven,” Thorn said.

Horace redirected his gaze to the villagers, a few at the back o’ the crowd wanderin’ off toward the heart o’ the village like they forgot why they was standin’ there.

“Nobody but us.”

The ol’ sailor and the mostly-gray man faced their backs to the village o’ Haven and didn’t stop runnin’ until they reached the trees what lay ahead.

XXXIV Ailyssa - Given a Chance

To Ailyssa, the soft mattress had become a bed of nails, each of the feathers jabbing into her soul as she perched on the edge of the bed. She rearranged herself, searching for comfort, but the new position put pressure on the fresh bruise on her thigh. Another shift, another pain.

She considered getting to her feet, but the blinding haze hanging before her vision made her fearful of walking into a table or knocking over a lantern. Perhaps setting the temple alight and burning might alleviate the soreness two days and five men had left pulsing between her legs, but it wouldn’t dispel the worry for Claris unless the blaze took her life.

Ailyssa rubbed her sleeve over her face, wishing for the fabric to remove the thick layer of grime she imagined covering her, inside and out. She still felt the weight of the last man’s member in her mouth, tasted his viscous expulsion. How could these women justify doing this in service of the Goddess? Surely the Goddess planned to descend on Jubha Kyna one day and expel them from the world for their sins the way the Small Gods had been cast out so long ago.

The bright blur faded slightly as Ailyssa closed her eyes. Why did the Goddess do this? Would dying blind and alone in the woods not have been discipline enough for failing to honor her with Daughters and Daughters’ Daughters? Did she do something else to deserve being brought here and punished by a parade of men, day after day? To have her Daughter taken from her again?

Ailyssa leaned forward, elbows on knees, head held in her hands. A pain twinged along her spine but she disregarded it. Her brain throbbed inside her skull, growing too large and pushing against the bone, then shrinking back and squeezing in on itself. She wished she’d tried harder to have more Daughters, wished she didn’t stop making the Goddess’ marks on the wall, and that Claris hadn’t fallen in love.

Wished to be anywhere but in Jubha Kyna.

The door latch rattled, hinges creaked.

“N’th Ailyssa Ra?”

Ailyssa pulled her face out of her hands, leaned back, spoke in a flat tone. “Creidra.”

“Are you all right?”

The blind woman sucked a breath through her nose, let it out her mouth, the air shuddering through her lips. What did the young woman expect her to say? Didn’t she realize what was going on here?

Is she more blind than me?

Ailyssa’s shoulders sagged. “Fine, N’th Creidra. Tired.”

Footsteps whispered in the deep carpet and a weight pressed on the mattress. An effort kept her from flinching away when Creidra’s hand fell on her thigh.

“One more today, Mother, then bath and sleep. N’th Adnine Re’a said you should take the morrow to rest. A woman of your age requires time to recuperate.”

My age? A woman of my age shouldn’t be doing such things at all.

The words rang in her head, but didn’t reach her lips. She didn’t trust Creidra, but she depended on her for food and aid; without her, she couldn’t climb the stairs or locate the honey pot to tend to her bodily needs. She’d been condemned to a prison without bars, her own eyes providing the cell.

“This man has been here before,” Creidra said. Ailyssa suspected she may have said more, but she didn’t hear. “…from the shore. A large but gentle man.”

The word large shot a pang through Ailyssa’s groin and she winced. The first man of the day had been large—larger than she’d ever dreamed possible. She didn’t look forward to another endowed with a similar cursed gift.

“Are you ready?”

Ailyssa stared straight ahead at blank nothingness and nodded, hating herself for it, but what else could she do? If she didn’t do as they said, she stood no chance of finding Claris.

Creidra squeezed her thigh, fingertips digging into the bruise on Ailyssa’s leg, making her tense. “I will get him.”

The young woman rose from the bed and padded across the room, leaving the door ajar as she exited, and Ailyssa clasped her hands together in her lap. A lump clogged her throat at the thought of another man and what he might do to her, but she had no choice. If she didn’t, they might hurt Claris. How was she going to find her Daughter, ensure she was all right? Without her sight, she couldn’t even see to find a way to take her own life and end this misery.