The Darkness Comes (The Second Book of the Small Gods Series) (36 page)

The same Vesisdenperos who gave his life to and for the Small Gods.

Did he?

“Two hundred,” Kuneprius said, his gazed fixed on the clay man’s expressionless face. “I counted to two hundred this time—the most ever.”

The thing’s head tilted back, its eyes flickering up and finding Kuneprius’. Their gazes met for an instant and a spark of hope leaped into the older man’s chest.

“Ves? Are you in there?”

The moment passed as quickly as it had come. The clay man’s head settled back, his eyes staring ahead at nothing, or everything—at things Kuneprius could never fathom and didn’t care that he never would.

Kuneprius let go a sigh and wiped away sea water running down his face from his hair. The flash of connection, of potential communication, disappeared, and he held no desire to be around the aberrant behemoth.

He trudged away from the living statue, the soles of his bare feet crunching in the pebbles of the shore.

***

Every time Kuneprius inadvertently trod upon a thorn, he whispered small thanks he’d thought to put his boots on again—the only thanks he’d offered since what happened to the children. Much as he hated the footwear, he appreciated the protection the boots offered, and the forest beside the shore was full of prickles.

He passed thin-trunked birch trees that reminded him too much of the ones near the creek, and a red and peeling arbutus that made him wish for home.

Will I ever see it again?

Doubtful. The plain huts, the seed garden, the courtyard—it was all so far away, both physically and emotionally. He shook his head thinking about it. After what he’d witnessed the Small Gods allow to happen, did he want to go back?

His legs thrashed through the brush, uncaring of the racket he created. Two sunrises had passed since they last encountered anyone—and he was glad of that—so he didn’t imagine he’d find people so near the shore. If they were going to find a fishing village, they’d have stumbled upon it by now.

Ahead, the trees thinned further and the underbrush gave way to shrubs and bushes that stood as high as his head. Kuneprius pulled the edge of his vest up to protect his face from thorns and brambles and pushed his way through.

Wide green leaves slapped his ears. He turned his head away, leaned forward. His boot caught in a creeper, tangling his foot, and he stumbled, falling and catching himself on his hands before his chest hit the ground.

He lay still, breathing heavily but happy not to be moving. Around him, the brush had fallen away and his face was in grass growing far above his head. Without meaning it to, a chuckle burbled in the back of his throat. Grasshoppers hidden amongst the blades chirruped along with him.

When the unbidden mirth ended, Kuneprius stay where he’d landed, inhaling through his nose, sucking in the scent of the grass, the earth—each breath blissfully free of the stink of clay. For the first time since they left the creek, the pain in his heart eased.

Then he heard the voices.

Small and distant—impossible for him to distinguish their number or the words spoken. He ceased breathing in favor of listening, his pulse beating faster. Whoever they were, he needed to be sure they didn’t head for the shore—if they stumbled upon the clay man, it would be the death of them.

Kuneprius climbed to his knees, peering over the top of the thigh-high grass into the meadow. Though he intended to follow the same path he and Vesisdenperos had taken on their way to the shore, they hadn’t passed through the field. Somewhere along the way, he must have gotten turned about.

The green grass stood a uniform height, as though trimmed by the hand of a god. The tall blades undulated in the soft breeze, each gentle gust sending a wave across the field the way it might disturb a lake.

For a moment, Kuneprius experienced nothing but the breathtaking sight of the meadow, its color and movement calming him. It drew him to his feet. He stared out at the field, longing to strip and dive into it, allow the blades to caress his skin as he swam amongst them. He imagined taking the rest of his lifetime to count them, but then a movement jarred him from his reverie.

A head bobbed amongst the grass.

No. Two.

Kuneprius remembered the voices, and his heart sank as he crouched, hiding behind radiant green blades to spy on the bobbing heads.

The distance between him and the figures striding through the grass was not as great as the quietness of their voices suggested. He saw it was a man and a boy, though they were yet too far for him to make out their features. They spoke as they walked, but their gait held a hesitancy, as did their speech. To Kuneprius’ relief, their path carried them across the field, parallel to the shore.

He shifted his feet and settled in, waiting for them to pass out of the meadow and allow him to return to enjoying the way the blades shivered in the breeze. They approached the far end of the expanse and Kuneprius’ heart pounded—once they left, they’d be safe and he’d be alone. As he readied himself to stand and plunge into the sea of grass, the two figures stopped, turned, and hurried back into the meadow. Confused, Kuneprius returned to his crouch.

The man and boy traversed the meadow again, following precisely the path they’d taken the first time, but in the opposite direction. They moved more quickly this time, and soon reached the other end. Kuneprius held his breath, waiting for them to cross the verge and enter the forest.

They didn’t.

Curiously, they reversed course again and hurried across the field a third time. Kuneprius furrowed his brow and pressed a knuckle to his lips. Were they searching for something? If so, they moved too quickly to be effective. He resisted the urge to jump up and tell them so, to direct them to take more time and care lest they walk right past whatever they hunted for.

The thought struck a chord in Kuneprius.

What if they’re searching for Vesisdenperos?

He’d put little thought to the golem since happening upon the field of green, but now he craned his neck, peering back through the tangle of brush. Surely, he didn’t need to see the living sculpture to know of his approach—the clay man had yet to act as though he cared if anyone heard him coming.

Instead of hearing clay feet beating through the brush, the harsh call of the crow he’d heard earlier reached his ears. Kuneprius directed his gaze toward the sky, and this time he spied the bird.

Not a crow…a raven.

Feathers black as a moonless sky covered its enormous wingspan. The bird glided through the sky with authority and effortless ease, adjusting its wings and tail to circle back over the clearing as though aiding the man and boy in their search.

Kuneprius watched, his mouth fallen open with the feeling he’d stumbled upon a land of wonders—the remarkable field, the awe-inspiring raven. What other surprises did it hold?

The raven wheeled, heading toward the sea, and Kuneprius pulled himself out of its spell to return his gaze to the man and the boy. For a moment, he didn’t find them. Joy flashed through him that they’d likely disappeared into the forest, but then panic echoed through his chest when he considered they might have slipped by him on their way to the shore. Three stuttering heartbeats later, he located the man still following the same path through the field. Alone.

Where is the boy?

Kuneprius stretched up to peer over the tips of the grass, scanning the field. His breath came in short gasps as his concern grew. Surely, in the time the bird distracted him, the boy couldn’t have gotten far.

The lad had split off from the man and trod a fresh path through the grass. Kuneprius watched with alarm as the boy headed toward the shore where the clay man waited. He opened his mouth to call out a warning, but something inexplicable stayed his tongue. Instead, he narrowed his eyes, watching the boy come closer to his hiding place.

One. Two. Three.

Kuneprius counted the beats of his heart. As the distance between him and the boy narrowed, it sped up.

Eightnineteneleven.

The boy stopped and directed his gaze toward the sky and the raven now hidden from Kuneprius by the trees. The lad’s head pivoted side to side as the great bird circled, and it gave the observer his first opportunity to view the boy clearly.

Broad nose, gray skin.

For an instant, Kuneprius thought he was seeing a boy made of clay—like Vesisdenperos whom he’d left hidden amongst the rocks by the shore—but then the truth of it came to him.

This is the Small God we search for.

His eyes widened, the two children left broken beside a creek forgotten. Here before him was the reason he’d been torn from his home and sent on this terrible journey, the reason his friend had given his life. Here was the opportunity to make the loss and the pain worthwhile.

Still crouching, Kuneprius pivoted on one uneven boot heel and plunged back through the tangle of bushes and brambles, creepers and thorns, to hurry his way back to the shore.

To tell the clay man he’d found the Small God from the Green.

XXXVII Horace - The Towns

“Must’ve got turned ‘round.”

Horace dragged the back o’ his hand across his forehead, wipin’ away the rain drippin’ outta his bedraggled hair. He stared at the village, recognizin’ its new-lookin’ buildin’s, then pivoted to glare at the forest like it were the trees’ fault they found themselves here again.

“We are near Thorn’s home.” Since the little feller stopped makin’ himself appear as somethin’ he weren’t, the proper gray color’d returned to his cheeks and his skin tightened up again. “The veil is keeping us away.”

“What? Can’t be. It’s just a place.”

“But not like any other. Have you ever heard of any man crossing the veil? Entering what you call the Green?”

Horace put his hands on his hips and felt the wetness o’ his shirt and breeches. After posin’ that way for the space o’ four or five breaths, he scratched his head, not rememberin’ anyone ever bein’ in the Green and tellin’ Thorn so.

“But I know ‘bout the Green,” he added. “I seen it dozens o’ times.”

“But the veil has kept you and others of your kind…”

Thorn’s voice trailed off, his mouth hangin’ open and his eyes starin’ up into the sky. Horace swung ‘round to find out what he were gawkin’ at. The sun got him right in the peepers, so he didn’t spy nothin’ at first, but then a black shape crossed the glowin’ disk.

“Don’t know what you got in mind,” Horace said, squintin’ up into the sky. “But I ain’t goin’ back into that Haven place.”

“Father Raven,” Thorn said in a whispery voice like he didn’t listen to any o’ the ol’ sailor’s words. “Come with Thorn.”

The Small God took Horace by the sleeve and led him into the meadow. The clouds what’d soaked them durin’ their flight from Demise’d burned away, leavin’ the sun shinin’ down to dry them out. As it did, Horace caught a whiff o’ how long it’d been since he’d put on a fresh shirt and wrinkled his nose. O’er all them turns o’ the seasons, he’d grown accustomed to bein’ asea for long stretches, but he’d always been one o’ the fellers what did his best to stay clean.

The ol’ sailor shook his head, dispellin’ the odor what the rain’d brought to the surface, and looked ‘round at where Thorn were leadin’ him. Turned out the little feller were followin’ the tree line, headin’ windward and skirtin’ the village o’ Haven with his gaze directed up at the black-winged bird wheelin’ through the sky. Missin’ the creepy little town suited Horace fine, but only one thin’ lay windward from where they was, and it carried with it a briny stink.

“Hold on,” Horace said, diggin’ in his heels and carvin’ ruts in the dirt. “Where do you think you’re takin’ me?”

Thorn faced him, fingers still grippin’ the ol’ sailor’s sleeve, and pointed toward the sky.

“Father Raven brought Thorn over the veil. He can take Thorn back.”

“But the ocean’s o’er there. Told you I ain’t goin’ anywhere near the sea.”

“It’s the only way.”

Horace jerked a thumb backward o’er his shoulder without lookin’ that direction. “If we head leeward, we can get ‘round Haven and Demise, through the forest, find your veil.”

“Thorn would have no way through. Over is how he must go.”

The little feller released his grip on Horace’s sleeve and hurried his feet in a straight line toward where the shore’d be, eyes scannin’ the sky until they found the bird again. His pace picked up from a fast walk to a trot to a gallop. Horace stood watchin’.

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere near the sea!”

Thorn didn’t look back.

The tall blades o’ grass whipped ‘round the gray man’s waist as he shrank with the distance he were puttin’ between himself and the ol’ sailor. Horace’s heart wanted his feet to go after the gray man, but his body what hated the sea, and his mind what remembered how it near took his life, weren’t up to it. His boots stayed where they was, leavin’ him nothin’ to do but hope Thorn’d realize his mistake and reverse course.

He didn’t.

After a while what saw the little feller shrink to nothin’ but a dot headin’ for the horizon, Horace finally heaved a sigh and got himself turned ‘round. No idea occurred to him where he should be headed, but somethin’ made him think that, since he’d gotten this far, he should at least see the place what Thorn’d called the land behind the veil, even if he did so through a magical green mist. He didn’t think he wanted to set foot in it, anyways.

Horace trudged through the tall grass, his mood addin’ weight to his steps. Stickin’ to the verge at the forest’s edge, he hoped to skirt his way past Haven like he’d suggested to Thorn, and then do the same with that Demise place, too.

The ol’ sailor walked for a while, his mind thinkin’ ‘bout how it’d been but a few sunrises since the same bird what Thorn were chasin’ had dropped the little feller on top o’ Horace. Head shakin’, he chuckled while rememberin’ how he’d been so scared he shat in his britches. Doin’ so made him recall Thorn stealin’ his breeches off the line outside the shack in the woods, then he thought o’ what he’d said ‘bout Rilum. Them thoughts made the ol’ sailor’s chest tighten, but not because o’ his hurtin’ rib. It tightened in a way what made breathin’ hard and caused an ache right to his belly.