Iron Jaw and Hummingbird by Chris Roberson Page B

the folks on the outskirts here with such a dim view of tourists? Mayhap if we moved a bit inward . . .”
    Gamine shrugged and followed Temujin. Their feet had become little more than one large blister days before, and Gamine had surrendered the notion of ever getting to sit down for more than a few moments; it seemed an impossible dream, like bathing or hot food.
    In the middle of the village, in a wide square, they found a little market where the farmers sold one another their wares, and other goods and services were bartered and sold. This seemed as close to mercantile as this little community came. Gamine wondered whether she and Temujin might have skills that they could call upon, perhaps to get themselves hired on by a local. She wasn’t sure what they had to offer a farming community, but at this point she was willing to work for nothing but room and board, and she wasn’t particular about what kind of work it was.
    Gamine thought about the promise she had made to herself on her way north: that she would survive, no matter what it took. What kind of work wouldn’t she be willing to do, if the alternative was death?
    â€œLook over there.” Temujin pointed across the square, where a man with the shaved head, robe, and begging bowl of a mendicant preacher addressed a small collection of villagers. Temujin started across the square to listen more closely, and Gamine followed.
    It was appropriate after-dinner entertainment, considering the meal they’d just had. Gamine and Temujin listened to the mendicant’s unfocused ranting for several long minutes. Rambling and disjointed as it was, it had still captured the attention of at least a few of the villagers, who listened on with rapt expressions. The mendicant, who seemed not to be entirely sane, drew his religious lessons as much from works of popular entertainment as he did from the holy words of any established religion, mixing fictional characters, historical figures, and religious icons indiscriminately. He called them all “powers.” Someone who was pure of heart could invite these powers to possess their form, leaving their bodies impervious to damage while their soul lifted temporarily to a higher plane.
    â€œThis cove is barmy,” Temujin whispered behind his hand. “But look how these dirt lovers are just eating it up.”
    After a moment, Gamine nodded. “I think I have an idea. Watch for my cue.”
    â€œWhat?” Temujin looked over at her, a quizzical look on his face, but Gamine didn’t pause to explain.
    â€œO holy master,” she said, stepping forward through the crowd, folding her hands in an attitude of prayer and bowing deeply from the waist. “Your words touch some spirit which resides within me. May I approach?”
    The mendicant, his eyes wild and hair flying, looked down the length of his nose at Gamine, appraising her.
    â€œApproach, daughter,” he said dramatically.
    â€œThank you, master,” Gamine said. She took to the impromptu stage, a little circle of dirt ringed by seated and standing villagers, all watching her intently. “I was passing by,” Gamine declaimed, “and your words about the powers caught my ear. I could not help but feel that you were speaking directly to me. It was like something within me was eager to respond to your words, but—”
    Gamine stopped short and bulged her eyes. She stuck her tongue out of the side of her mouth, and shook slightly, as though an electrical charge had just run through her body.
    â€œMy child?” the mendicant said, uneasily.
    Gamine’s mouth snapped open and a loud howl issued forth, for a brief instant. In the audience, the villagers drew back, startled.
    Â 
    In the days of my father, this land was all ours,
Before the coming of the worshippers of another sun,
With their sacrifices of blood, and pyramids to the stars,
Now we toil deep within the red soil for their pleasure,
And our