Neal Barrett Jr. - The Prophecy Machine

“Now, if I could only find a Mycer, I could leave this odorous place and get back to Letitia, alone in that hideous house …”

First, though, he knew he'd best purchase another jar of jam and some more oatcakes, as there was little of either left. That, and a gown she could wear, though where he'd find that, he couldn't say. The females here, Newlie and human alike, seemed to favor ill-fashioned garments made of scraps, patches, and snatches of straw.

Letitia wouldn't care for that. Letitia didn't dote on clothing, but she wasn't fond of sacks. If he could ask someone, if someone had the courtesy to talk instead of sneer …

“Ah, looking at who is here, looking who is out to see the sights in our most lovely town.”

Finn stopped, pulling up short as the Foxer stepped right in his path. One, and then another, and another after that, all arriving quickly without the appearance of intent, yet clearly designed to box him in.

“I fear you're in my way,” Finn said, “I ask you to kindly step aside.”

The Foxer closest by showed Finn a toothy grin. “He askits we are stepping aside. He fears wes in his way.”

“In his way,” said the second, who was shorter than the rest.

“Steps aside,” said the third, who walked with a limp. His voice was a rasp, much like that of his companions, voices that were scratchy and dry.

Finn had seldom been around Foxers, except for a few at home. Foxers didn't care for the west, they'd mostly settled south. To him, these three looked much alike. Gaunt with red eyes, amber hair and tufted ears, and mean little mouths. Still, the bloody slash across a brow, the scar above an eye, a limp and a twitch, told him he had met this trio before.

“That's a wicked cut indeed,” Finn said, addressing himself to Short, yet taking in the rest. “I'd get a stitch or two, drink lots of water, and get plenty of rest.”

Short reached up to touch his scar, thought better of it, and simply glared at Finn.

“We wishes to tell you,” said Limp, “you listen real good.”

“No harm will be coming,” Toothy said. “You gets far aways from here.”

“Far aways,” Short said, “far aways from here.”

“A most excellent idea,” Finn said. “I've considered that myself. As soon as possible, I'll be gone from here, far across the Misty Sea. Until that time, I've something to say to you.

“Last night you woke me from a dream of melon pie. One of your lot is quite good with a blade, and the other two are not. None of you are nearly as good as I. Come at me again, by damn, and I'll slice your hairy ears off and have them for lunch.”

None of the three moved. Limp shook his head. “You might be besting us we have a fight. I'm not believing you eat ourselves, though. We are not foods.”

“Most clearly we are not,” Short said.

“What I'm thinking is, that was not a true,” Toothy said. “That was a humor, was it not?”

“I don't ever do a humor. It was nothing of the sort.”

“Ah, I see.” Toothy looked at the others. They came to him at once, speaking in low and rusty tones.

Finn wondered what they'd do if he simply walked away. Still, just because they couldn't tell jokes didn't mean they weren't agile, fast on their feet, cunning and sly. He'd learned that much the night before. They were dressed in ordinary clothes now, shabby vests and pantaloons instead of black. Except for the blades at their sides, they looked harmless and benign. They didn't even smell as they had when he'd fought them in the hall, an odor that was rank, alien and foul.

All Newlies smelled, some good and some vile. Bullies smelled like grass and sweat. Vampies, Squeen William's kind, had an odor like meat, like mold, like the sickly smell of death.

Letitia, on the other hand, smelled like musk, like old attic dust. Sometimes she smelled like clover, like brittle winter leaves, like earth turned in the spring.

Human folk had odors too, odors that offended, or attracted, others of their kind. And what did the Newlies think of human smell? Letitia Louise said Finn smelled nice, or most of the time, and he hoped that this was so.

“We has come to a decide,” Toothy said, turning to Finn once again. “Our decide is this. We doesn't think you contend against our kind. We doesn't think you do a quarrel. We believes you had a hostile because you was there.”

Finn felt a sense of relief, but he didn't let it show.

“What you say is true. I am pleased you understand. It was dark, and there was little time to reason things out. I had no idea who you were, or what you were doing there. It is clear now, you did — you had a quarrel with the Nuccis. I'm not too surprised, but there's no need to go into that. After I'm gone, do feel free to break in anytime.”

Toothy looked at Short. Short looked at Limp.

“You are a gone? We thinking you are here.”

“Gone from there ,” Finn explained. “Gone from the Nuccis when a ship arrives again.”

“That is not a gone …”

“No, that is like a then …”

“This calls for a change of our decide …”

“This is not a pleasant,” Short said, “but this is how things is. If you be not a gone when we is coming, you be there again. Best thing to do, wes thinking, is us be sticking you now.”

“What?”

“Will you journeys to the alleyway, please? It is plenty darker there …”

Finn had no time to think, no time at all to blink. All three Foxers drew their blades at once. Finn ducked as Limp shaved the hairs atop his head. Toothy came at him from the left. Finn stepped on his toes and sent him reeling into Short.

“Lunatics, crazies!” Finn shouted. “I'm stranded in a madhouse here!”

And, with a solid kick that impaired Toothy's very vital parts, Finn was off and running through the horde, through the rabble, through the packed marketplace.

The crowd cleared before him, parting like water before a schooner's bow, parting, as any crowd would, before a man howling, growling, shouting out curses in some unholy tongue, clutching his blade and waving it about.

Bold, short-tempered men, men who liked to have a drink without a lot of noise, hastened to find a brick or a sharp-pointed stick, hastened to stop this brazen oaf. Hastened, then paused, paused and hesitated, mindful of the rage, of the fierce determination in the man's clearly homicidal gaze, mindful of the yelpers and the yappers, of the barking berserkers on his tail. Thinking it wise to stay out of this mess, the stout and burly men shook their fists, dropped their bricks and sticks, and let their anger chase the man instead.

Finn knew that a man with any sense would let a madman have his way. Especially a loony who came from out of town. Everyone knew they were a dangerous lot, even when they seemed to be sane.

Turning a corner into a narrow, murky way, Finn stopped in his tracks, stopped and felt his heart beat fast against his chest. A team of worker Bullies, seven, eight, or maybe ten, were dragging an enormous building stone down the cobbled street. Each was a giant among his kind, great ponderous creatures with broad massive chests, and scarcely any necks at all. Each grasped a rope across his shoulder, grasped it in two chunky hands, strained so hard against the burden of the stone that a deep and awesome thrum resounded from their lungs with every step. Their thighs were as big as the torso of an ordinary man, and the veins in their arms were as thick as killer vines curled about a mighty tree.

Each of the brutes looked solemn and grave, and each wore a heavy ring through his nose, some lost tradition from the past, some rite now centuries old.

Finn knew he couldn't get through, knew the narrow street could scarcely contain these fellows now. Knew the manic Foxers were howling on his trail. Knew he could beat them one and all if they'd only fight him fair. He paused, took a breath and plunged into the fray …