The Loranth (Star Sojourner Book 1) by Jean Kilczer Page B

bubbles from under their lumpy skin, and how the squat creatures rip them open against a tree, or your leg, if you hold still, releasing smelly fluid to coat their pitted hides. I just can't take to their rank odor. But mostly I don't like the way they snap up flat tails to expose shriveled maroon backsides that swell to look like long-jawed heads, even if it does confuse the predator.
    No, I never petted a crotemunger, except the sick ones at my sanctuary. It's their rows of black eyes that catch -“
    My sanctuary!
    The animals I treated there. The plague. I squeezed my eyes shut. My mind the swimmer, stroking upwards toward recollection. Like the reflection of sun glancing off a submerged image. The rattle of invisible shackles.
    I stared at the leaf.
    “What are you doing now, Jules?” Christine asked. “Deciding how many angels can fit on the stem of a leaf?'
    I chalked up her insensitivity to Loranth control.
    “Would you like to know how leaves make food for the tree?” I smiled. “I just remembered.”
    She took a step toward me. The Venus image faded. I once had a fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Cloak. We called her cloak and dagger.
    “Suppose you explain about food to the Master when we return without any because of you?”
    I peeled the leaf from my knee, cupped it and extended it out into the rain. A tiny pool accumulated and spilled into my shaking hands.
    Christine searched the close horizon for Trump and Pike, and didn't notice as I drank. When had the rain turned so cold? When had the heel of my foot become infected and begun to throb so insistently? When had my arms become raw with scrapes and bruises? When had I realized that I was shivering with a cold that went down to my bones? “Maybe he can feed us all on a loaf of bread.” I looked up at her. “And a fish.”
    “He could! He could make the desert bloom.” She swept an arm to encompass the area, but I was more intrigued by the way her breast lifted beneath the torn shirt, exposing a nipple. “He could turn this whole desolate land into a Garden of Eden.” Her eyes took on a glazed look as she stared past me. “Except that we're not worthy.”
    I'd seen that look before, on faces of fanatical political and religious followers, in history tapes. It seems to precede the first rumblings of war or the founding of new cults. Had I worn it myself not so long ago?
    “You're right,” I said, filling the leaf. She gasped as I drank. “The flood is more fitting anyway. It drowns serpents.”
    “That taboo!” She pointed to the leaf. “My God, that's taboo.”
    “He's not my god any more, Christine, and he shouldn't be yours. Don't you get it? He's no god. Maybe a devil.”
    She still pointed at me like an avenging angel.
    “Ask yourself,” I said, “why shouldn't we drink from somewhere else beside his pool?” I gingerly touched my left heel.
    “Because I have a skin of water from the Sacred Pond,” she answered. “There. Around Faun's neck.”
    “It's polluted, Chris. Here, drink some of this.” I extended the full leaf.
    “I will not!” She threw a furtive look at the family. “He'll punish you.”
    I crumpled the leaf, flung it away and went to Silk. “He's been punishing us.” I shivered as rainwater ran through branches. “Right now I wouldn't mind a little Hellfire. Maybe a couple of steaks charcoaled over brimstone.” I winked at her.
    Silk's flanks heaved and she whimpered plaintively. She turned her smooth head to watch me as I examined the wound. It was deep all right. Bone showed. But it had stopped bleeding. It needed to be cleansed, sutured, antibiotics to fight off infection. What did I have? Mud and leaves! The rain would wash them off. I patted her neck, saw Faun nudge closer and Christine look on expectantly. I felt like an imposter about to be exposed. Death had tracked my shadow much closer than any healing power. I was the real harbinger of plague, the scythe in the reaper's hand. “Stop crowding me, will