I'm sure of it now. It does have horns. Mouth is dry, but I've got to keep up. Have to prove it: that I can hold my own. The night air is so hot the sweat collects between my gloves and hands. But I still keep up the approach, just like Dann taught me, raising my boots high—to keep them from scraping the prickle bushes—and stepping down like the ground's on fire.
I try to stop myself, but I look back; haven't been able to see the gang for a long time. But I know they're watching me. Looking back ahead I see it better, squinting. The thing is reading by campfire, body turned partially, book angled oddly to catch the light. I move slower as I near—just like Dann taught me.
The thing's wrapped in a big blanket. Thick fur covering its face, except its wet-looking nose and horns—or more like horn-and-a-half; one of the horns looks broken half ways down—and great big furry hands that flip pages deftly every so often. I'm too close to turn heel now. And besides, what would the gang say if I manage to tie
this thing down? It can't be that tough. What with the reading and all.
I keep up the quiet approach.
Now I'm close enough to what Dann calls the sweet spot—when you're close enough to hear their breathing, and you jump out yelling!
“If yer lucky,” Dann said once, “sometimes they piss their breeches. If ya get ones like that they do whatever ya want! 'Have my wife, take her! Just don't kill me please, please!' they'll say. Ha!”
“Yahh! Put yer hands in front o' ya or I'll cut 'em off!” I say, sort of like Dann says to.
The hairy thing fumbles and drops the book. It looks up at me through tiny spectacles and asks in a gravelly voice what I was thinking sneaking up on him like that, not seeming to notice the sword in my hand.
“Put—Put yer hands in front or I'll cut 'em off!”
“In front of where?” he says as he removes the spectacles.
“In front of you, now!” I say, trying not to seem so small, “Or I'll chop 'em off!”
“Okay,” he says, and then stands. The blanket slides off him.
He's bigger than I ever imagined!
Only then I realize he wasn't sitting on a log, he is just that tall. He is a bull-looking monster, except his eyes are human.
I pray he won't eat me.
“You dropped your sword, boy.” he says.
What did he call me? Wait! I did? I look down at my shaking hands and wonder if he'll toss me in the fire to hear me scream.
He eyes me for a long time, I can't look away. Then he puts his hands out as if cupping water and says:
“Well, boy?”
It feels as if it isn't real. I manage to wrap his wrists—each as thick as my body—and tie a knot; one just like Blayne taught me. Somehow he doesn't decide to kill me.
I'm not sure if I tie the beast's hands because he suggested it, or because the gang, Dann and Stenn and Johns, are testing me. My stomach is turning.
“Sit, boy.” he says as he helps himself to the desert floor, cross-legged, “What is your name?”
I hear myself tell him my name: Blayne. But again, I don't feel like I'm in control of myself. He scares me. He continues the questioning and my responses seem muffled, as if someone far off is responding for me, but he nods each time:
“Do you have children? A Wife?”
Definitely not.
“How long have you been living off others' valuables?”
This one I can't answer.
“Just how old are you, Blayne?”
Just sixteen.
His voice is growing softer. I notice that I'm sitting now. I relax a little, until I think about Dann and the gang.
Does he know I'm not alone?
He sort of snorts from time to time, his ears twitching. We both stare into the fire. He continues lecturing me in a backwards sort of way, I answer his questions and he nods slowly. He tells me I'm, “something a little different”, in a good way, I think—the likes of which I've never heard before.
Very strange. I feel like a child.
I hear Dann and the gang nearing. One of them steps on a twig with a
snap, I cringe. The bull-man doesn't look up.
“What. . . are you doing?” Blayne says as he looks from me to the beast to my sword in the sand.
They each share a look—Dann, Stenn, and Johns—and some head shaking.
Then, they start shouting at the bull-man, telling him to stay still or they'll kill him; he doesn't seem scared like everyone else does at this point. I feel queezy as Dann starts at the bull-man with his sword drawn. Stenn aims his crossbow at the bull-man from across the fire while Johns yells at me for being such a “pussy boy”.
“What are you going to do?” the bull-man says. All four of us tense up.
Is he asking me?
For a long, uneasy moment nothing happens; no one moves. Then Blayne smirks—like he always does—and starts at the bull-man again.
Then the bull-man jumps up, the rope about his wrists snaps like leather and falls in pieces. He moves quicker than Dann. I feel my eyes peel wide open. Dann screams as his arm is snapped—the crunching sound makes me finally lose my stomach. I vomit brown, liquid chunks on my boots. When I look up I see Dann fall to the ground with his sword ran through his limp body. Even through my puke-plugged nostrils I smell the blood.
Stenn shoots and hits the beast, but he roars and leaps on Stenn just the same. Johns and I run for the hills. I hear Stenn's skull being crushed behind me—he doesn't scream though. I run faster than Johns does. I really get a good lead on him. All I can hear is my breathing, until Johns yells out for someone, maybe his horse? Then he screams like Dann did.
I keep running.
I don't know why I look back—I never liked Johns—but I do.
No. No! The bull-man is gaining on me already!
I look forward as I trip, heading face first into a nasty rock w—
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I hear grunting and snorting. I'm being pulled around in the dirt. I know I'm being bound with our rope, but I can't make myself move.
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I wake to being dragged through the dirt. It's hot—must be around noon—and my backside feels raw. I wonder how long I've been dragged for, and wriggle and pull back on the rope I'm attached to.
In the sunlight it's difficult to see so I squint upward. The bull-man stops walking and looks back at me. I wonder why he hasn't killed me. My mouth is dry and I taste blood on my lip. I try to get up, but fall back to the ground; the bull-man lets up on the rope and gives me some slack. The rope runs around and up both sides of my crotch, ties off around my neck, and runs to the bull-man's massive hands. At least my hands aren't tied. He gives me time to get up on my feet and tells me I hit my head pretty bad. I picture a big gash on my forehead and guess that's what the blood taste is from. Then he starts pulling me along, doesn't say where we're going.
We walk for a full three days. On the first night, the bull-man tied me to himself as he slept close to me. I laid awake most of the night wondering if he was going to rape and kill me. The next day we walked all the way across the Hemlock Hills and entered into the Troll swamps. As we walked, the bull-man let me drink from his waterskins in his pack when he felt I needed some. He wore a loose-fitting gray tunic and a dirty black cloak. The sun was burning my skin pretty badly—he wore a hood most of the time. As we got deeper and deeper into the Troll swamp he would stop and look all around more and more—it seemed we were lost. It was much cooler in the swamp, thankfully.
On the second night, the bull-man tied me to a tree and slept a bit further from me, as if he knew why I didn't sleep on the first night. He looked over his arrow wound, in his shoulder, and poured water onto it. He told me if I heard anything—anything at all—to yell and wake him. I fell into a deep sleep, despite all my wondering about whether I would get bashed by a Troll while the bull-man snored soundly.
I wake up to the bull-man saying:
“Greetings, m'am.” in his deep-calm voice, “we are a bit lost. You see, I'm looking for Tren Tower to meet with an old friend of mine. Do you know of it?”
I am still tied to the tree. I wonder what she thinks of us, me and bull-man. From what I can tell, she is the craziest looking old bitch I've ever seen.
The Fishy Tree, (Travster)
