The Darkness Comes (The Second Book of the Small Gods Series) Read Free Page B

is Thorn?”
    Horace cast his gaze ‘round the small clearin’ what served as his temporary home, searchin’ for the thorn the gray man were speakin’ ‘bout. Weren’t no thorns anywhere to be seen—flowerin’, poisonous, or otherwise. The sailor raised his shoulders and let them fall, the pain in his chest makin’ him regret havin’ done so.
    “Wha…What’s a thorn?”
    The bird-dropped man’s skin faded to pink, more likened to the color o’ Horace’s own. A heartbeat later, it deepened to red as if he’d been too long o’er the flames, like the poor ol’ pig leg what Horace’d stole. His lids narrowed over his eyes and the sailor noticed a lack o’ lashes on them.
    “Thorn.” The gray man said, pointin’ his finger at his own chest. “Where is Thorn?”
    Not knowin’ what else to do, Horace raised his shakin’ hand and extended a quiverin’ finger, addin’ his pointin’ to the man’s chest, too. “Thorn’s right there?”
    For a second, Horace figured the feller’d go so red, his head might pop off in a spray o’ blood what’d cover the sailor in gooey brains and fill the air with steam. Might be a relief, too, because at least he’d be dead then and Horace’d be free to eat his crispy pig leg and wash his fear-filled breeches. Instead, the small man’s red skin went back to gray and he laughed so hard he fell over onto his backside.
    Horace gaped, not seein’ anythin’ funny in the proceedin’s. The little feller rolled back and forth with his mirth, rockin’ side to side akin to a rowboat caught in a storm. Even thinkin’ ‘bout rowboats caused a knot in the back o’ Horace’s throat what made him suspect he might lose them few mouthfuls o’ stew he’d stole.
    “What’re you laughin’ at?” Horace demanded, his fear forgotten in favor o’ a good bit o’ righteous anger.
    The gray man chuckled a little more and wiped a tear offa his cheek with a long finger before sittin’ upright and fixin’ Horace with his gaze. Fear trickled back in.
    “Oh, the look on your face,” the gray feller said. “Thorn scared you.”
    Horace frowned and his belly gurgled at the burnt piggy aroma what were overpowerin’ even the stink o’ dirt in his britches. The thought o’ puttin’ a bite o’ tasty pig meat in his mouth maybe gave him more courage’n what he might normally’ve possessed.
    “Who are you?” Horace growled, tryin’ his best to sound more frightenin’ and less scared’n he actually were on both counts. “Where’d you come from?”
    “Thorn,” the gray man said, slappin’ both his hands against his chest with a clap. He followed it up by wavin’ his arms o’er his head, in the general direction o’ sunset. “Thorn is of the land behind the veil. Is it far from here?”
    Horace stared at him, findin’ himself unable to string together enough words to make any sense. They stood facin’ each other in silence awhile, the fire poppin’ and spittin’ at Horace’s back. They might’ve stayed that way for a while longer, too, if a crow sittin’ in the trees hadn’t’ve cawed. The sound jerked the gray feller what called himself Thorn’s gaze away.
    He glanced up, searchin’ above his head with his eyes, and Horace looked up too, but he didn’t see nothin’ but branches full o’ jackpine needles and jackpine cones. By the time he lowered his peepers, Thorn’d taken off for one o’ the trees.
    The little feller pulled up when he got to the bottom, raised his arms and jumped toward a branch what hung at least two dozen handspans over his head. He missed it by a good dozen-and-a-half handspans. It weren’t no surprise to Horace that were the case, but it sure appeared like it caught Thorn off-guard. He looked first at his hands held up high, then down at his feet, an expression on his kisser like them appendages’d left him disappointed. His head shook back and forth a couple o’ times and he gave it another try, gettin’ the same