We're seven hours' travel from Vacia,
making good headway to the west. Not much to report on the travelling - which
is good, 'cause we've got another problem on our hands. If you read yesterday's
entry, you can probably guess what it is.
I've had the pleasure of watching over the
little girl we found only once. The hour long shifts are pretty tame, and a few
workers looking to capitalize on the ease of the duty have 'volunteered' to
take longer shifts. Grylock remained at her side for no less than three hours,
and that's only because he was taking naps whenever others were out of earshot.
Little bastard.
I've been using the present tense to
describe watching over the girl. Two hours ago, I would not have been
grammatically incorrect. Ever since Edmund came charging into the halls,
though, her comatose status has changed dramatically.
I was digging into dinner, sitting by
Libby's hammock as she slumbered, when I heard a shout in the hallways of Subsistence.
It was loud enough to wake up Libby, and she lazily kicked me in the head to
send me on an investigation. (Her kicks have a lot less power these days. Guess
her muscles are all going into her enormous stomach.)
I emerged to find a small knot of people
gathered down the corridor. Still munching on a scrumptious meal of corn and
cooked field grubs (seriously, they're GREAT), I jogged over to see what was
the matter.
Ed was sprawled out on the floor, rolling
wildly and clutching at his arm. I immediately noticed small specks of red on
his chocolate skin. (I figured his blood would be milky white, to be honest. Is
that racist? I only recently learned that racism is a thing. Not sure if I'm
doing it right.) Despite the obvious pain Ed remained lyrical in his
explanations, and it took a few stanzas for him to reveal that the little girl
had woken up and attacked him.
"She's rent, she's rent, she's rent my
skin apart!" he cried, raising his arm dramatically into the air.
"What pain! What pain! That saucy little tart!"
"Go bandage yourself up, ya
baby." I nudged at Ed to get him out of the doorway into the recovery
room. "Now, where… ah. Hi, there."
Peering into the room, shouldering past the
crowd of onlookers (must there ALWAYS be onlookers?), I spotted the girl at
once. She'd wedged herself under the bed in the room and was staring out at me,
her wide, white eyes filled with suspicion and fear. I stooped to my knees and
beckoned her forward, but she growled and refused to move.
Sigh. I scratched my head. At
least old men masquerading as little kids are well behaved.
It took us three hours to coax her out of
her hiding spot, and by the end I don't think 'coax' was the appropriate word
to describe the situation. We used gentle words; we used accepting gestures; we
used bribes of food, water, and shiny things; we used veiled threats wrapped in
happy tones, as though speaking to an unruly dog. None of the above worked, and
eventually we had to go in and remove the girl by force. As much for her safety
as for ours. Took five grown men and one wussy bard, but we got the job done.
The girl remains hostile. Awake, which is a
start, but hostile. If she understands our words, she shows no sign of
comprehension. Maybe she doesn't care to comprehend? Maybe the whole world is
now an enemy? No clue. She's currently restrained, at any rate, and those lucky
souls watching over her now have to put up with constant snarling and
incoherent curses. They also get to wipe the spittle from her mouth, which is a
dangerous and gross job.
I have no idea what to do with this girl.
If she's gonna become part of the crew… well… hell. I just don't know.
Sincerely,
Dragomir the Wanderer
No comments:
Post a Comment