his back shall be my slender new branch
it will sway and bend in the breeze
as the devil does his polka
with a hatchet in his hand
- tom waits
it will sway and bend in the breeze
as the devil does his polka
with a hatchet in his hand
- tom waits
82 Winter, 513 AV
Lizards again. Dull and orange, they hugged the stones, looked over the twisty canyons. Jagged ledges spiralled to turgid creeks. Braids of pines ran through them, clung with brown.
Seju crawled up a knoll, ringmail jangling. Black mud smudged his palms. Drool slipped from his lips. Yanking at the brittle grasses, he dragged his legs over a ledge and shook his head to clear it. Red leaked from a gash on his thumb. Turning, he gazed at the lizards. They looked shrunken to him. Their speckles weren't as brilliant as before.
But still they looked.
Zinc skies subjugated the hills, tinged by deepest garnet. The sickly glow jostled at his nerves. There was likely a squall coming. He pulled his shawl tighter. He began to climb again, bow dragging over a jut of boulder. The grasses had been picked over. There weren't any goats here, though. They'd just moved on.
Dirt shifted under his heel. Kicking off from the ledge, he forced his aching legs up the knoll. Toiled to the zenith, where grasses yielded to jabbed rocks clung by pale lichen. Tiny roots projected from crevices. Dizzily, he slumped against a rocky flange. Tried to allay his ragged lungs, or at least quell the pounding in his chest.
Zephyrs pulled at him, but he shook them off. Peered at the distant bluffs. Limned dirty white, they loomed impenetrable. The teeth of a saw that'd rip him up if he dared their slopes.
Seju squinted over the ravines. They just blurred with the grasses. There was a tug of his chin. Then he limped over the knoll, pulling at his pack. The rolled blanket bumped his lower back. Pink quartz poked up from the dirt. Pieces of sanity in an expanse drained of color. They left him uneasy, for he was accustomed to looking out from disjointed kaleidoscope. The ridges were barren. They didn't deceive, just defied the illusions to which he clung.
Picking his way over briars, he cradled the bow to his belly. The ridged horn was smooth against his palms. Taking a steep dip that twisted by a stunted pine, he scrambled over a spur of flint. Toes scuffed over a sodden carpet of needles. Then he regarded the pine. The winds had swept it back against the slope, curving it like a cripple's spine. There were a few cones, Partially covered by the dirt, they jutted from the slope like discarded tin soldiers. There was something inexorable about it all.
Ringmail janged again. Taking shorter steps, he shambled down the slope with caution until it yielded to a shallow basin. Unruly junipers dotted the sides. Twists of root disgorged from the grasses. There was a scant reek of wild onions. Seju looked for them, but he couldn't see any. Probably just bulbs rotting in the dirt, he grunted. That was unfortunate. They would've gone well with the crumbling cheese he had left. The dubious sausage, well, that just wouldn't go with anything.
Seju yanked the straps that pulled at his shoulders. They keep digging in despite his carapace of hides and metal, leaving him achy and agitated. The tendons in his arms bunched until he couldn't take the strain any longer. The burden fell back upon him, and he grimaced. Tiny stones jabbed at his heels. Pearls of melted frost brushed his legs, but he kept toiling.
Jumbled purples and sepias tumbled from crazy ridges. They melded and altered patina with the light. Though fuzzed by grasses, the slopes seemed barren as he crossed them. The zephyrs ghosts in his ears.
Toppled menhirs loomed before him. Low pines crumpled into gorges. Dogged briars lay matted, devoid of customary defiance. Their barbs diminished.
Seju hustled through the cleft between two boulders, both bearing traces of ancient paint. They crowded him. Black dirt slipped under him and he wobbled. Dragged and choked by metal and wrapped leather. Kneeling quickly, he scuffed an unwary knuckle. Blood welled under the hanging flap of skin. Hastily he popped the finger in his mouth and sucked it. Dark eyes lingered over the bluffs spread out before him.
Then he saw it. The gray fuzz pressing an adjacent ridge. To him it looked like a rock. Tassels seemed to jump off of it like a chimera. There was something inchoate about it, limned by uncertain blues. Then it jerked a bit. The ascension of a shaggy head, he realized. The horns projected.
Too far away.
