“Despicable!” he hissed again, so angry that he cared nothing for his own dignity, or the inevitable distortions of his face.
“Taltos,” said one who drew near. “Taltos.”
Look at them, see what they are. He held his fists even tighter, prepared to fend them off, to beat them, and lift them and hurl them to right and left, if needs be.
“Aye, Aiken Drumm!” he cried, recognizing the old man, the gray beard dripping to the earth like soiled moss. “And Robin and Rogart, I see you.”
“Aye, Ashlar!”
“Yes, and Fyne and Urgart; I see you, Rannoch!” And only now did he realize it. There were no women at all left among them! All the faces staring back at him were those of men, and men he’d known always, and there were no hags, no hags screaming with their arms outstretched. There were no more women among them!
He began to laugh. Was this absolutely true? Yes, it was! He walked forward, reaching out, and forcing them backwards. Urgart swung the torch near him, to hurt him or better illuminate him.
“Aaaahhh, Urgart!” he cried, and reached out, ignoring the flame, as if to grab the little man’s throat and lift him.
With guttural cries they scattered, wild, in the darkness. Men, only men. Men, and no more than fourteen now at most. Only men. Oh, why in hell hadn’t Samuel told him?
He sank down, slowly, to his knees. He laughed. And he let himself keel over and land upon the forest floor, so that he could see straight up through the lacy branches of the pines, the stars spread out gloriously above the fleece of the clouds, and the moon sailing gently northward.
But he should have known. He should have calculated. He should have known when last he’d come, and the women had been old and diseased, and thrown stones at him and rushed up to scream in his ears. He had smelled death all around him. He smelled it now, but it was not the blood smell of women. It was the dry, acid smell of men.
He turned over and let his face rest right against the earth. His eyes closed again. He could hear them scurrying around him.
“Where is Samuel?” one of them asked.
“Tell Samuel to come back.”
“Why are you here? Are you free of the curse?”
“Don’t speak to me of the curse!” he cried out. He sat up, the spell broken. “Don’t speak to me, you filth.” And this time he did catch hold, not of a little man, but of his torch, and holding the flaming brand close, he did catch the unmistakable smell of human fat burning. He threw it away in disgust.
“Damn you to hell, you cursed plague!” he cried. One of them pinched his leg. A stone cut his cheek, but not deeply. Sticks were hurled at him.
“Where is Samuel?”
“Did Samuel send you here?”
And then the loud cackle of Aiken Drumm, riding over all. “We had a tasty gypsy for our supper, we did, till Samuel took him to Ashlar!”
“Where’s our gypsy?” screamed Urgart.
Laughter. Shouts and cries of derision; guffaws and curses now. “May the devil take you home piece by piece!” cried Urgart. The drums had begun again. They were beating them with their fists, and a wild series of notes burst from the pipes.
“And you, all of you into hell,” cried Ash. “Why don’t I send you now?”
He turned and ran again, not sure at first of his direction. But the ascent had been steady and that was his best guide, and in the crunching of his feet, and in the crackling of the brush, and in the air rushing past him, he was safe from their drums, their pipes, their jeers.
Very soon he could no longer hear their music or their voices. Finally he knew he was alone.
Panting, chest hurting him, legs aching and feet sore, he walked slowly until, after a very long time, he came to the road, and stepped out upon the asphalt as if from a dream, and stood again in the world he knew, empty and cold and silent as it was. Stars filled every quadrant of the heavens. The moon drew her veil and then lowered it again, and the soft breeze made the pines shiver ever so slightly, and the wind swept down as if urging him onward.
When he reached the Inn, Leslie, his little assistant, was waiting up for him. With a small cry of shock, she greeted him and