The nights grow dark and damp as Autumn creeps into the foothills and valleys between the Cascade mountains and the Oregon coast. Walls of distant, untouchable fog nestle into the alleys and roads. Light gathers itself closely to the streetlamps, cowering in fear of the shadows crawling across the sidewalks. Noise echoes and swirls through the air, more like garbled tones heard through water than the clear ringing of unhindered sound.
On those nights I often find myself walking the lonely streets in solitude and ecstasy. There is something in the chill of each breath, the richness of the air, the warmth of the scarf wrapped around my neck, that I cannot find anywhere else. I wander aimlessly, except for the aim to breathe and walk and feel - for a moment - free. It was on one of those nights when my curious tale began. “Goodbye, dear.” I said to the lovely red-haired girl in the kitchen, “I’ll be home in half-an-hour.” “Alright, I’ll see you soon.” She didn’t look up from the sink, but I didn’t mind. I didn’t even think of it at the time. The door shut behind me with a familiar click, and I filled my lungs with the wild nectar of Autumn air. I couldn’t help but smile as my feet led me down the road, under the quiet glow of streetlights, around corners, past the old graveyard, and on into the night. I can’t recall anymore the shape of my thoughts on that evening, only that my feet kept moving forward, step by step, and my mind wandered some other direction. In that moment of peaceful loneliness, the tapping of my shoes on the sidewalk drummed constantly, lulling my mind into a wonderful emptiness. I breathed easily, unworriedly, even happily. It was only when I decided to turn back that I realized I could not recall which direction I had wandered. No cause for alarm, I decided, I would just walk until I found the next street sign, and from there I would know where to go. But as I walked down the street I found no sign, no intersection, no landmark or house of any kind, only endless hedges that towered over me on either side of the street. A glance at my watch informed me my wife was expecting me in only five minutes, and I had no idea where I was. Frustrated and feeling quite foolish, I turned around and began marching back. A moment later the hedges spread out on either side of me, and I breathed a sigh of relief. A street sign must surely be near, or at least a landmark of some kind. Even a house would be a welcome sight, for I could knock on the door and ask directions back to my wife, who was undoubtedly thinking - and rightly so - I had finally lost my path. But there was no intersection, no signpost, not even a house. The hedges spread out only to close entirely, encircling a small culdesac. A thousand tiny voices of panic rose in the back of my mind. I looked at my watch, but the hands did not move. They were stuck at six fifty-five, exactly as they had been a moment ago. I tapped the glass face, but it produced no effect. “Hello?” I called. My own voice swirled through the air, echoing back to me from the nothingness of the night. I heard no other reply. Confused and anxious, I explored the little circle of hedge. There on the far side, directly opposite from my entrance, I found a gate. It was difficult to see at first, for beyond it the walls of hedge continued, narrowing into a hallway barely wide enough for a man to fit in without walking sideways. The gate, I thought, must surely lead up to the home of some eccentric but wealthy family. I pushed on it, and - to my relief - it opened. The path beyond it wound curiously. It did not branch or turn any sharp corners, but, like a great snake lying in the grass, made gentle arcs left and right. My watch, absolutely useless, gave me no hint as to how long I walked, but every time I thought to turn back, I reasoned that the house - for surely there was a house - was undoubtedly closer to me than the gate from which I entered. Even as I walked I felt building in me the confidence that my goal was just past the next curve of the path, just a few heartbeats away. Yet each curve led only to another, back and forth, until I felt I must be in some twisted labyrinth walking in endless loops for the pleasure of some cruel spectator. Furious at my hopeless situation, I stopped and stared at my surroundings. The hedge, dark green, bristly, and perfectly kept, offered no tell-tale mark or variation by which I could prove my theory. I dug through my pockets and discovered a dirty penny hiding amidst the lint. Bending over, I set the penny on the path, face up. Convinced of my own theory, I set out again, winding through the endless back and forth swaying of the hall until there, shining in the moonlight, my penny stared back up at me. I bent over to pick it up, seething with rage, but found it tails up. I flipped the penny over, and without a doubt it was the same penny, for the pattern of dirt was identical. “Hello?” I called once more. “This really isn’t funny. My wife is probably worried sick waiting for me.” My voice bounced around inside the labyrinth, but I heard no response. I waited, stubbornly refusing to continue whatever game this was. Something laughed. It was an ugly little laugh, more like the stuttered breathing of a snub-nosed dog than any human laugh I had ever heard. I turned around to face whoever was behind me, but I saw no one, only the empty path, swaying left. I traced my steps back around the labyrinth, watching for some well-concealed offshoot from which I had certainly entered, and - just as I expected - I discovered a tall swinging doorway disguised to blend with the hedge wall. I pulled it, and as it opened I saw not ten feet in front of me the very gate I first entered. I was nearly ready to cry from the hot anger and confusion in my stomach, but instead I began to walk faster, pushing past the gate and back out into the culdesac. Except the culdesac was gone. The gate led rather to a forest. Ancient trees wider than three men shoulder-to-shoulder stretched toward the stars. In their gnarled and twisted roots were countless pools. I peered down into one, but couldn’t see the bottom, only the reflection of my own face peered back up at me. The trees stretched as far as I could see in the black night. A wall of fog stood thick and far off. I was suddenly aware of the thick, warm silence, like waking in the middle of the night just before Christmas day, when the fire was only embers, and not a soul stirred. There were no birds, crickets, or other noctournal creatures, as one would think to hear in the middle of the night. In fact the silence was so thick I could almost hear the trees growing. The serenity of that place filled me with wonder. I wandered, aimless, forgetful even of my broken watch and the red-haired girl waiting at home. I reached out a hand and felt the rough bark of the trees brushing against my fingertips. Though there was no path to follow, I went deep into the trees. My lungs drew thick breaths of living air, and I felt peace like no peace I have ever known. I stopped by the silver edge of a pool and stared down into it. My dark brown eyes looked back up at me through the reflection of my thick glasses. I bent over, suddenly filled with a desire to drink the water. My hands touched the surface, passed through, and lifted the sweet, icy water to my lips. Even as I drank, I felt filled with strength and life, my eyes opened, and I blinked over and over as the world refused to focus. I took the glasses from my face, wiped them on the corner of my coat, and blinked once more. I could see the outline of every tree and leaf as clearly and sharply as ever. I placed the glasses once more on my nose, and the world lost focus. Laughing, I took the glasses from my face again and stared wide eyed at the world around me. Everything was clear. In my wonder I failed to hear the danger crawling nearer and nearer. Something crashed into me from behind. My glasses slipped from my hand, and I felt myself fall, splash into the pool, and sink down, and down, and down. ~<>~ ~<>~ ~<>~ When I awoke, I was in a place more jungle than forest. Massive trees and ferns taller than myself stretched into the sky. I sat up and realized I was on a hill. Down below me, in the bottom of a wide, bowl-shaped clearing, was a little pond. An island rested in its center, and there on the island was some sort of stone. Looking Up hill I saw a cliff stretch into the sky. It wrapped around into the distance on either side, curving toward the pond at the bottom of the slope. How I saw all this I wasn’t certain, for it was clearly night, and there was no moon in the sky, nor stars or lights of any kind, but I could see through the darkness as clearly as day. Slowly I remembered myself. The forest of pools came back to my mind, and I recalled the sensation of something slamming into me, knocking me into the pool. I shook my head, trying to clear my muddled thoughts. My watch still read six fifty-five, and I suddenly remembered a red-haired girl standing over a kitchen sink, her hair tied back to keep it from her work, and a light green apron on over her Sunday dress. Lost, alone, and terrified, I wept.
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I stand upon the mountain’s height And watch the starry skies. Darkened fields and points of light Are all that meet my eyes. Beneath my feet the stones stand strong, Though deaf, and dumb, and blind. I cannot see beyond my hands, And black is all behind. The wind – such wind! – near knocks me down And I cry out in fright, “I do not know if You are there, or if I am alone, But this I know – that I am here, Crying on the stone.” The wind blows cold and I grow old, The stars won’t sing for me. They stay up there in Heaven’s air. And I am left to be. But what am I? Why must I cry, These bitter rolling sobs? Loud as the wind, that enters in And echoes in my soul – Cold as the stones that form my home, And I am deaf, like them. A touch I feel upon my hand I look and see two eyes. A face like mine, with nose and ears And lips and chin like mine! And shoulders square, with arms – full, strong – And hands that reach for mine. “Now come, small one,” he says to me, “and stand upon my back.” With old gray hands I do obey, Though youthful they become. Upon the touch of that dear one My age is melt away. And youthful strength does fill my arms, And back, and feet, and legs. Til I behold before my eyes The stars come down to me. And reaching up I catch in hand A rope – which now I climb. But there below I see the one Still bending ‘neath my load. And age, and time, and illness too Seem laden on his back. “Come up!” I call, “Go on!” He says And I must leave him there. I climb and climb the starry strand For days, and months, and years. And I forget the man below – Who gladly took my tears – Til I recall, once in a while, That face – those arms – my fears. And new tears fall like drops of rain, For him, my humble friend. Then light! Light! Light! Before my eyes! Bright wide, and silver lined! A splendid hall above it all, The wind, the stones, the rain. And stars here sing – like wind, yet sweet, And each is lovely, fair. But still I weep, and still I cry, For him who sits below. “Why weep you so?” the stars do ask, “Do you not like our song?” Through tears I tell them of my friend, Who brought me to this place. “Oh! Oh!” One cries, a little child, “Come, come, oh come at once!” She leads me through the crystal halls Her hand, sweet, strong, in mine. Up, up, we climb, bright stairs this time, And opens she a door. “My friend!” I hear, and know at once, the name is meant for me. And looking up I see the one Who died – below – for me. Far off the path of most travelers there is a town known to the locals as Bandylocks. The odd name is due to the funny little river flowing through it - called the River Bandy, for the water bends and turns around every hill forming endless loops and bows. The town of Bandylocks nestles itself comfortably over several of those loops, and bridges of every sort link the two shores together. One could - if so inclined - trace the expansion of the town by the architecture of its bridges. Far more intriguing than the bridges, however, are the folks who inhabit the little frontier town. Dreams draw folks to Bandylocks, dreams of gold, adventure, and discovery, for Bandylocks sits on the edge of a great wild. Tall and treacherous mountains stand far to the west. Touching their feet is a great rolling wood, unmapped and strange. The River Bandy runs parallel to the mountains, flowing south to the shore. The town was founded first by prospectors panning for gold and shopkeepers peddling pans. Of the two, the shopkeepers became wealthier by far, but the love of gold kept adventurous souls returning to the river, never willing to abandon their prize. One such gold-hunter was a man by the name of Bartholomew T. Baker, known simply as “Baker” to those who cared to know him - a small crowd at best, but Baker preferred it that way. No one asked him for favors, no one expected anything of him, and no one missed him when he vanished for days on end into the sprawling woods between Bandylocks and the mountains. Yet Baker’s name is etched into the history of Bandylocks, and there is not a soul in town unfamiliar with the legend of Bartholomew T. Baker and the Great Beast of Bandylocks. --- It was a cold and frosty day in late October, and the whole wood of Bandylocks glowed with Autumn light. Baker, tasting the wind and feeling one last tug of adventure before winter, filled his packs with dried meat, warm clothes, a pick, and a pan. For months he had hiked through those seemingly endless woods, searching and searching for gold dust and the promise of the riches and comfort it would bring. Yet for months and months only wisps and specks of that dream turned up in his pan, enough to urge him on in his greed, but never enough to satisfy it. With an early and treacherous winter threatening, he set off into the wood hoping beyond hope to at last find the source of that elusive fairy dust. It was cold, impossibly cold. Baker’s breath turned to white mist in front of him and fell to the ground as fresh snow. Frozen leaves crunched under his heavy boots. Still he marched on, hour after hour, mile after mile. The numbing frost set into his fingers, slowly turning them bright red and blue. He muttered something foul under his breath and blew on his hands. His eyes stared down into the stream alongside him. A speck of gold caught his attention. He laughed greedily to himself, rubbing his hands together for warmth. The cold bit into his fingers, and he at last lit a fire. His greed forbade him to rest any longer than necessary to warm his numb hands. He could already see the gold, flashing and glittering in his pan. As his fingers warmed he looked up and up river, and there, far ahead, the water crashed and roared in a spectacular waterfall. He looked up the cliff, up and up, until it faded into a black wall of night. Warm and ready, he doused the flame and hiked up hill to the base of the waterfall. There, shining in the starlight, a thick layer of golden sand coated the floor of the pool at the crashing base of the fall. In maddened disbelief Baker laughed a loud greedy laugh full of pride and joy. He reached down to the pool, thrust his hand into the water, and brought up a shimmering handful of golden dust, heavy and glowing. Again Baker laughed in his wicked joy, thinking of the wondrous things his gold would buy; houses made of oak and silver, fine clothes of silk and fur, sprawling land, rich food, strong horses, and great splendid carriages to parade him about the city. He would be a prince - even a king! A branch cracked behind him. He stuffed his handful of gold into a greasy pocket and turned to face the wood. “Stay back!” He shouted, pulling his pick from his belt. “I was 'ere first! It’s mine by right!" No answer came from the woods. Baker lifted his pick, waving it slowly. His heart raced, his nick shivered in the cold, but nothing appeared. Baker, nervous fear shaking his hands, walked forward, closer to the trees. There came a great hiss in front of him. A shadow moved. The paralysis of fear overcame him. His feet felt made of lead. He could see no clear shape, no outline or even eyes, but suddenly an overwhelming fear gripped him, howled in his ears, and tore at his frightened little heart. He ran. Something followed. Trees and branches cracked behind him under the weight of some terrible creature. Each snap and hiss pushed him harder and harder, faster and faster. Something sharp - a terrible claw - slashed his left leg. He cried out in pain and flung himself forward. On either side of him the trees began to give way for grass and bushes. The torchlights of town shone in the distance, and he aimed directly for them. The noise of pursuit stopped, but still he ran on and on, until the torchlight grew into the streetlights of Bandylocks. Unwilling to sit outside he flung himself into the little saloon. A lamp still flickered inside. The barkeeper, Derrick Thornton, was the only one inside, sweeping up the remnants of several broken bottles. “Baker,” Thornton often recalls, “Was covered in cuts and breathing like he’d never tasted air before. His left leg was bleeding all over my floor.” The barkeep spent the rest of the night mending Baker’s leg and listening to the story of some great beast and a magical golden lake. The next morning Baker, limping but determined, bought Thornton’s rifle for a small handful of gold and set off again towards the woods, still babbling about a waterfall of pure gold and a monster larger than the trees. He was never seen again, but his legend lives on, bringing strangers of all sorts to the little town of Bandylocks. Some come looking for his gold, some his monster, and some come to make a profit from the rest. As for Bartholomew T. Baker, some say they have seen him out in those haunted woods with a handful of dripping gold and a rifle always at the ready. The End. For months the Captain repeated his odd ritual. Every night he came to the galley, spoke a few words with the Chef, looked at the boy and said, “Good night, sleep well. I hope to kill you in the morning.”
But the nights were not good, the boy did not sleep well, and though many mornings came the Captain never did kill him. The boy hated sailing with pirates. They constantly assailed weaker vessels, took everything from those who did not resist, and never spared any who fought back. Their swords were wicked, cutting down good men without restraint. With each raid the boy silently hoped the for the pirates’ defeat and his freedom, but the pirates were cowards. They never risked an attack on a ship that looked even the least bit dangerous. One day the boy heard the pirates complaining about the Royal Navy, which grew stronger and closer every day. The King was coming against them. So the pirates set sail for distant waters and waited for the King to forget about them. But those waters were dark and strange, and the crew grew uneasy. While they were out on those high seas, the waters grew rough and uneasy. Tall and terrible waves crashed around the ship, and yet there was not even a breeze of wind. The crew trembled in fear, as did the boy. The sky was black and speckled with stars. It was no storm. An awful screeching roar blared forth from the sea. Long slender shapes twisted into the starry sky. A frightened crew member yelled the single word each of them feared. “Kraken!” The terrible tentacles twisted down to the deck of the ship, ripping through sails and rope as if they were nothing. Men screamed and hacked at the massive arms of the beast, but it was no use. The ship split in half. The boy clung with all his might to a barrel of dried fruit. There came up a dreadful sucking sound from beneath him. It reminded the boy of water draining from a tub but longer and far louder. As he looked down he saw a fearsome black pit open beneath him. A ring of teeth ran around the edge of that awful mouth, and he stared in horror as the beast swallowed men whole. At that moment the boy did not fear death. Whatever came after life, it was surely better. Life, from the boy’s experience, was a constant state of fear, shattered dreams, and, apparently, Kraken teeth. His father often tucked him in bed after tales of far better things. He remembered whispers of beauty, adventure, and love – and a better world after this one. He prayed silently and prepared himself for the teeth. They looked sharp. The tentacle wrapped around the boy’s barrel lifted him skyward. He came closer and closer to a point directly above the grinding teeth and black maw of the beast. From the corner of his eye he saw a bright flash. The noise that followed was that of a gunshot. A gunpowder keg exploded, glaring for a moment more brilliantly than the sun. The Kraken roared deafeningly. The tentacle wrapped around the boy’s barrel writhed in pain and flung him away into the sea. His barrel was knocked away by the blast. Icy water surrounded him as he sank into the sea. He felt little strength to swim. The moonlight slipped down to meet his eyes, stinging from the salt water. Still, he no longer feared his death. He welcomed the thought of leaving the terrible sea. But a terrible spark ignited in his heart, and it refused to let him die. The sea did not kill him, pirates did not slay him, and even the mighty Kraken did not swallow him. He refused to let himself die. With every fiber of strength left in his body he pumped his legs and thrashed his arms. Truthfully, he did not know how to swim, but he began to rise up. The moon grew larger, the stars began to glimmer, and at last his head rose above the water. Far in the distance he heard the roar of the Kraken once again. A barrel bobbed in the water nearby, and after a moment he reached it and clung to it for dear life. Cold sea water surrounded him. Salt stung his eyes. His ears still rang from the roar of the beast. His body throbbed in pain. As he blinked away the salt from his eyes he saw a small fishing ship on the horizon. He yelled with all his strength. A small band of fishermen found the boy floating in the sea, clinging to a barrel of dried mangos. The fishermen could hardly believe his tale, but when they came to port at a nearby island they discovered the boy’s father, who also survived the pirates’ raid. His own tale is almost stranger than his son’s, but that is a story for another day. As for the boy, he never again feared the sea. He even joined the Royal Navy, where his stories continue to be disbelieved by new recruits and bested by the oldest captains. The end. The boy, too terrified to even think of trying anything, kept his mouth shut.
The two pirates brought him aboard the terrible vessel and pushed him to the deck. “’Ere’s the little scunner Cap. What should we do wif ‘im?” The boy looked up, trembling, and stared into the steely gray eyes of the Captain. A single long scar distorted his face. His lips bent down in a sneer. A large dark hat topped his head. Too scared to look away, the boy continued to stare at the Captain. With a voice like cold steel the terrible man spoke. “Put him in your charge, Chef, and have him prepare my breakfast tomorrow morn’. If I do not enjoy my breakfast I shall run him through and let the sea swallow him with the rest of that crew.” His verdict pronounced, the Captain turned on the silver heel of his boot and marched away. With the Captain gone, the crew burst into laughter. A pudgy hand landed on the boy’s shoulder and pulled him to his feet. “Looks like you and Oi are goin’ to be good friends.” The ogre-pirate called “Chef” bellowed, “if you know ‘ow to cook, that is.” Another round of boisterous laughter followed the Chef’s comment, and the boy lost all fear of the churning waves for dread of the Captain’s frozen eyes. Shoved down a steep set of stairs, the boy saw a dimly lit room that smelled of death. In the center was an aged iron cooking pot that bubbled ominously. “Ere’s the galley then,” bellowed the Chef, “Make a mess of it an’ Oi’ll see that the Cap’n doesn’t like your cookin.” His ugly laugh sounded again. Piles of litter covered the room. The boy could imagine no possible way to make the disgusting galley any more vile. He found hope in that thought. He was at once set to cleaning by the Chef, and bit-by-bit he scrubbed away the mess. Each moment the careful eye of the ugly pirate watched him, but the boy decided to follow orders whether or not he was being watched. He did not care to think of the alternative. His overseer yawned and stretched his swollen body. “Well, is abou’ time fer me to sleep. If ye care fer yer life though, ye may wan’ to star’ thinkin’ o’ the Cap’n’s breakfast.” His thudding footsteps clunked out the door and into the hold where the crew slept. Once again terrified, the boy panicked. The galley, hardly any cleaner than before, was no fit place to cook. Still, the image of the Captain’s sword pushed him to try something, and all night the boy searched his mind for something to cook. Finally an idea came to him, and as the sun began to rise he was done. A crewmember peaked through the door, “The Captain is waiting for his breakfast in his quarters.” The door slammed shut, making the boy jump. He looked at his creation, a piece of fish and roasted vegetables baked over the fire. His father often served a similar dish in his inn. His hands shook as he carried the plate upstairs to the Captain’s room. More than once he almost dropped it, causing his heart to skip a beat. At last he entered the most beautiful room in the ship, and there sat the Captain, steel-eyed and cold. Without a word the boy set the plate in front of the Captain. The Captain’s long slender fingers picked up the fork and knife. He began to eat. Agonizingly slowly the fish and vegetables began to disappear. Time crawled by. At last the plate was empty. The Captain wiped his mouth and glared at the boy. “You have bought yourself one more day, boy.” He stood up and brushed a few crumbs from his shirt. “Do whatever Chef asks, and stay out of the way.” The rest of the day passed quietly. The crew seemed sullen at their lost sport, but their fresh loot distracted them. The boy continued to clean under the Chef’s careful eye, and when at last the sun began to sink, the Captain came to the galley. “I will have my breakfast at sunrise.” He said, and he looked at the boy with a queer smile. “Good night,” he said. “Sleep well. I hope to kill you in the morning.” Once upon a time in a fair kingdom by the sea, there lived a young lad who was terrified of the ocean. He watched ships go out to sea, but each time they set sail he imagined himself standing on the deck watching the land sink away. His stomach turned over and his fear forbade him to set foot on one of the great sailing ships.
This terrible fear of the sea was likely the fault of the sailors’ many tales. Often when the ships came to land, the sailors came to the inn of the boy’s father. There they bested one another with terrible stories of sea witches, giant serpents, and the terrible Kraken. Even when the sailors were not telling tales of monstrous creatures they traded news of pirates. Many of those burly men bore vicious scars from the raiding brigands. “Sea Devils,” they called the pirates. He hated listening to those stories, but as much as he despised them, they amazed him. Now one-day the boy’s father announced a plan to travel to a distant land. The boy was delighted, for he would never again need to stare at the ships going out to sea. Neither would he listen to the terrors of the sea as the sailors traded stories. His father’s announcement of their new home soon crushed that delight. They were moving to an island. The boy panicked at this news, for in all his life he never once imagined a fate more terrible than living on an island. An island, he thought, was more like a ship than real land. Yet the day of their departure came, and the boy gripped his luggage with white knuckles. Ahead of him menaced the white sails of a ghastly ship. Far behind him stood the lovely white caps of the mountains. With his knees shaking and stomach writhing, he crawled up the wobbly gangplank and stumbled onto the ship. The next thing he remembered was laying in a hammock in the belly of the ship and trying to hold in the contents of his own belly. He failed. Day by day the rocking of the ship put terrible visions of sea beasts and pirates into his mind. Though his father tried to nurse him back to health he showed little improvement. The boy could not be persuaded to leave his bed for anything. One fateful day as they sailed on and on - for it was quite a long journey - a ship appeared on the horizon. Its black sails towered into the sky, and a red flag fluttered in the sea wind. No one came below deck to tell the boy, but he heard the shouting, the readying of canons, and the clamor of swords being drawn. The clattering became silent for a long while, and the boy hoped the pirates had left them alone. An unfamiliar voice crushed those hopes. “Give us your treasure, or we take your lives!” The boy could not think of any reason a dead man might need gold and quickly decided he preferred life to treasure. He hoped his captain thought the same. The booming of canon fire dashed his frail hopes once again. Gaping holes opened in the walls of the ship, and the boy saw sunlight for the first time in weeks. His absolute terror prevented him from caring. He felt the boards of the ship breaking apart underneath him and clung desperately to a wooden beam. His ears rang from the cry of canons. His stomach rolled and twitched. He could smell the burning canon powder mixing with the salty air. Water gushed into the ship. Another canon roared, and the boy found himself trying to hold on to a piece of wood bobbing in the open ocean. Around him floated the wreckage of his own ship, and there, standing against the cloudy sky, was the ship with black sails. A menacing red flag fluttered in the wind. “Oi! We’ve got a live one ‘ere cap’n!” Yelled a rough voice. “Bring it aboard!” Came a smooth and dreadful reply. A strong hand grabbed the boy, and he was rudely plopped into a small boat between two incredibly ugly men. The uglier of the two – though both sported grand-champion scars, warts, and wildly disproportionate features – pointed a rusty blade at the boy and smiled. “Try anyfing an’ Oi’ll gut you quicker ‘an you can blink.” |
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