Solomon's Jar Read Free Page B

bounced and boomed as men raced toward Annja.
    She jumped to her feet. She looked at them for a heartbeat. The man in front faltered, allowing the one behind to blunder into him.
    â€œA sword? ” he asked, momentarily stunned.
    His eyes read Annja’s intent. He flung out a desperate hand. “No!”
    The sword went up and down. Left and right. The guide ropes parted with ax-blow sounds, turning into muted twangs. Turning her upper torso sideways, Annja seized the hilt with both hands and slashed through both foot ropes with a single stroke.
    The bridge parted. Its sundered halves fell into the ravine. So did all the men on it.
    The merc in back on the west side might have managed to get a grip and conceivably climb to safety. But his partner panicked, turned and ran right into him as the boards fell away beneath his boots. The two fell in a screaming tangle of arms and legs and weapons.
    Annja let the sword slip back into its space as she fell. She felt no fear, only thrill-ride exaltation. She had escaped. That was victory. Her right hand shot out and caught a plank. Splinters gouged her palm. She gripped with all her strength regardless.
    The slam into the sheer bank broke her nose. But itdid not break her grip. She hung on while bells and firecrackers went off behind her eyes.
    Then, blood streaming over her lips and dripping from her chin, she began straining her eyes to pick out the best climb down to the safety of the streambed.

2
    â€œSay, lady,” a voice called through the rain. “Hey, pretty lady. Hey, there.”
    Annja paused. She was walking home from the little Puerto Rican bodega around the corner from her loft with a small bag of groceries. She wore a light jacket, a calf-length skirt in dark maroon and soft fawn-colored boots that came up almost to meet it, leaving just two fingers of skin bare. A long baguette of French bread stuck up from the brown paper sack, shielded from the patchy downpour by a black umbrella. She liked to get small amounts of groceries during the brief intervals she spent at home, to force herself to get out at least once a day. Otherwise she’d spend all her time cooped up with her artifacts and monographs, turning into a mushroom. Or so she feared.
    She looked into the doorway framed by grimy gray stones from which the words had issued. The speaker looked anything but threatening.
    Don’t make too many assumptions, she warned herself.
    A small man lay sprawled in the arched doorway with his legs before him like a rag doll’s. He looked emaciated within a shabby overcoat, knit cap and a pair of ragged pants, smeared with patches of grime, that came up well above grubby, sockless ankles and well-holed deck shoes. All might have possessed color at one point. Now all, including his grime-coated skin and stubble beard, had gone to shades of gray
    The closest thing to color he displayed was the yellowish brown of his teeth and the slightly lighter but similar shade of the whites of his mouse-colored eyes.
    In a quick assessment, she reckoned she could take him. It was part of the calculus of life as a New Yorker. And even more of the life she had taken on.
    â€œWhat can I do for you?” she asked.
    â€œNeed some change,” the man muttered in a voice as colorless as his skin. “Got some change for me?”
    â€œYou’re right,” she said. “You do need change. But I can’t give it to you.”
    The man cawed bitter laughter. “Shit, lady. I need a drink not a sermon.” Spittle sprayed from his gray lips, fortunately falling well short of her.
    â€œAt least you’re honest,” she said. “I do want to help you.”
    The impatient traffic hissed through the rain behind her. “But if I give you money, am I helping to keep you here? Is that really kindness or compassion?”
    He had cocked his head and was staring at her fixedly. She realized he was contemplating trying to threaten her or outright