The Prodigal Troll (42 page)

bile he was sleeping, Maggot's muscles had tightened like the strings on Keekyu's bow. When he awoke, he crawled on his knees and elbows, trying to stand, gave up, rolled over on his back, and slowly tried to stretch. Bad as he felt, the other man looked worse. He sat propped up against the wall like a man who'd drowsed off guarding something.

Years before, on the way south to visit Scoop Rock band, Windy had denned up for the day. This was at the time when Maggot had first begun to venture out by himself in the daylight, and he had gone out to a glade, where he hid behind a tree and watched a rabbit. A panther pounced out of the tall grass and caught it. The rabbit screeched, the panther chewed on it a bit, then let it go, only to swat it down when it tried to run.

Trap, release, swat, repeated over and over again.

Four bloody lines soaked the gray fur as the rabbit shrieked, rolled, and bolted. Maggot, upset, chucked sticks at the sleek and tawny cat, distracting it long enough for the rabbit to escape. That was before Maggot knew that, unlike the stocky bigtooth cats, panthers could climb trees. He was small enough then that he ascended out of its reach, swinging sticks at it until night fell and his mother came looking for him.

The man across from Maggot was no rabbit, but he had the same bloody lines across his chest: four long raw scabs, seeping a pink and yellowish fluid. His hands were balled up, cradled against his body. Maggot leaned forward-the man's feet were red like nearly ripe cherries, and covered with blisters that had torn during the long trek overland.

The stranger's eyes popped open. He straightened, back thumping hard against the wall.

Maggot didn't move, giving no sign of threat.

Seeing this, the man took a deep breath and let his hands relax. His right hand was missing fingers. He looked at the unburied skeletons, then met Maggot's eyes.

Maggot shrugged.

The man relaxed. He touched the three remaining fingers on his right hand to his lower lip and spoke a word.

His name! He was trying to give his name. The word had hard sounds, mixed together, that were difficult to reproduce. Nonetheless, Maggot touched his knuckles to his own jaw by way of introduction. "Maggot."

The man wrinkled his forehead. His injured hand shook as it tapped his mouth again and repeated his name emphatically.

Maggot tried to get his mouth around the word, but it was too much to swallow in the first bite. He put his knuckles on his chin again, as he tried to say it, and recalled his mistake when he met Sinnglas. He smiled at the memory-what a very short word to mean the place-where-food-slips-in.

"Chin," he said.

The man touched his lip a third time, repeating the word slowly and loudly like Windy talking to a deaf old troll.

Like a star showing up suddenly in the sky, Maggot realized: the place-where-food-slips-in. The man wanted water and food. "Thirsty?" he asked in Sinnglas's tongue, in case the other man understood it. He tapped his mouth with his fingers and beckoned him to follow. "Thirsty this way. Water is at bottom of hill. Drink for thirsty at bottom of hill. Thirsty, come this way."

The man dug his feet into the floor and tried to lever himself upright against the wall, but grimaced and stopped halfway. Maggot pointed to the hole and started crawling toward it. The man sank to his knees and elbows, dragging himself across the floor after Maggot. When they were outside, neither man could stand. The man crouched there with his shorn head leaning in the dirt, panting, chest heaving.

Maggot slowly moved around until his face was pressed against the wooden wall. Gripping the logs, he pulled himself upright, hand over hand, stretching his legs and back until he felt like he could stand again.

Helping the other man stand took considerably longer. With branches for crutches, they gimped down to the spring like a pair of three-legged herons. They collapsed by the little pool of water, lying on the soft grass to drink their fill. Maggot, having learned the habit of bathing from Sinnglas, scrubbed his face and limbs. While he finished, the other man cleaned and examined his own wounds, brows knit in intense concentration, a muscle knotted in his jaw. He soaked his feet and fingers for a long time in the icy cold water.

He talked to Maggot the whole time. Maggot listened, grunting encouragement from time to time, trying to catch the sounds of the words. The troll language rumbled and cracked, while the tongue of Sinnglas's people rolled on sibilantly like a stream over rocks. The stranger's words all fell short. They were sharp, barking and ringing like Kinnicut's hammer pounding iron against stone.

Above them the sky began to darken. The clouds over the western sky reflected the sunset in hues of pink and purple, shot with streaks of yellow.

Finally the man looked right at Maggot, stared him in the eyes, placing his injured right hand over his heart. Fresh blood flowed from the wounds. "Bran," he said. He tapped his heart for emphasis. "Bran."

Then he directed his knuckles at Maggot's chest.

Maggot repeated the gesture. "Maggot."

"Mhagha?" Bran leaned forward.

"Maggot," he repeated slowly.

"Mhuuuu-ghuuu..."

Remembering what Banya had told him, and too tired to work at anything more difficult, Maggot placed his hand over his own heart. "Claye," he said.

Bran smiled and nodded. "Claye."

Bran's feet became infected, swelling and leaking stinky pus. Sharp red lines shot up his legs, and a fever took his whole body, lasting on and off for days.

Maggot brought him water-not in a skull as he'd originally planned but in a hollow piece of wood he found in the dwelling. Beans and squash grew wild nearby, and there were berries on the hillsides and nuts not yet ripened on the trees. He found eggs, and caught a snake, and they had enough to eat.

They talked when Bran was coherent, and Maggot learned the names of the foods they ate and body parts and pieces of the landscape. By enacting a few motions, Maggot also learned the words for eating, drinking, walking. At other times Bran raved, swinging his stick, and then Maggot would retreat outside, waiting until he calmed again.

"I have to get out of this crypt," Bran said when the fever finally broke. He was so wasted, weak, and depleted that Maggot had to help him crawl outside and limp down to the spring.

A near-f moon filled the clearing with its pale light. They sat by the water and watched the sky. Maggot was hungry for meat, even carrion, if he could find it fresh. "Bran," he said. "What is-?" and he emitted a coughing bark.

Bran smiled. "That's very good. A deer, right?"

"Deer? Yes, deer. I am hunger for-"

"Hungry. Hungry for."

"I am hungry for deer. Or, what is-" and he lowed.

"Bison. That would be good to eat too. Here." Bran tilted his head back at the moon, cupped his scabbed-over hands to his mouth, and howled.

Maggot grinned and howled back, and soon the two of them were howling at the moon. Far away, over the distant ridge, they heard a querulous wolf howl back in response.

"Heh," Maggot said. He put his open hands atop his head and used the trollish word. "Flathorned elk. Now you speak flathorned elk."

"No," Bran answered. His smile was sad. "The wolf is the only animal I can imitate. I had to listen to too many of them when I was a young shepherd on my mother's farm. They'd come right down to the flock after the sheep. But I sat awake fearing their silence more than their howling."

"Is"-Maggot cupped his hands to his chest like breasts, and borrowed another trollish word fernale down you come from?"

"Women?" He smirked, turned his head. "There are women."

"Women, good," Maggot said seriously. "You take me. You speak me women." In his head, the noun was singular.

Perhaps Bran caught the earnestness in his tone of voice. "If you want. I will take you and introduce you to some women."

He turned his head toward the pool of water. He knew one woman in particular who would want to meet this strange man.

Portia, Lady Eleuate, had carried the dagger-toothed lion's pelt around their camp by the river, pointing out the stab wounds in it. "One man did this, and he did it with a knife."

"It could be a spear," Bran had argued.

Portia was not beautiful in the manner most men desired women. Her features were too strong, and not especially feminine. But when her eyes flashed, the way they had at that comment, some men could not help but fall hopelessly in love with her. Bran had seen it happen, from far too close a vantage point.

She poked her finger through the holes. "Four stabs, close together, into the heart. Could you do that with a spear?"

He said nothing, because he could not.

"Perhaps it was sick," offered Sebius, the eunuch. "Or injured."

She flung the skin to the floor and snorted. "We bring a war mammut, half a dozen knights, soldiers, two dozen beaters, and we can't even find the lion. One man tracks it down, kills it with a knife, and brings the pelt to me." She grinned at that. "To me."

Her father knelt by the skin, examining the teeth and claws. "This animal was not sick or injured."

That's when her betrothed spoke. "You're lucky the wildman didn't stick his knife in you the same way."

"Lucky?" She had sneered at him. "Do you think you could stick your knife in me? Would any of you dare try? You'd get a broken blade for your trouble."

"Lady," Sebius said, trying to take her aside. "Lady, do not speak so vulgarly in the presence of men. You know how excitable they are, how ruled by their temper and emotion. And there is this to consider: the wildman is a killer."

"Captain Bran?" she said, pulling away.

"Yes, m'lady."

"Have you ever killed another man?"

He hesitated before answering. "You know I have, in service to the Baron."

She threw her arms up in the air. "Oh, no, Sebius! There's a killer present! I'm in horrible danger! Bran?"

"Yes, m'lady?"

"Baron Culufre could use the services of a man who can hunt down and kill a dagger-toothed lion without any help. It would free up his war mammut, his knights, his soldiers, and other men for more important tasks, like, oh, cutting down trees and building walls and staying close to the safety of their campfires. On his behalf, I charge you with finding this man."

"Yes, m'lady. As you wish."

Sebius had glared at him as if betrayed, while the other men grumbled. Portia had only smiled. "Or one just like him, as you prefer. If you think any one of you could do the same, then the search is done. No? I thought not."

And now he'd found him. Or been found.

The wild man cupped his hand at his crotch, trying to indicate something about the way men and women fit together. "Women, big there, smell?" he asked.

Bran thought about it. "No, that's not where women have their noses."

After a second, they both laughed, and after laughing, fell silent, each to his own thoughts. The wolf's howl sounded lonely as it ranged farther away.