The Spaces Between (A Drunkard's Journey) by Martin Gibbs Page A

laughed. “The last time I was in a temple, my grandmother had died. I was seven.”
    Qainur nodded. “Aye, I have only been to one once, and that was to stand for a man who was getting married. I later had to kill him because he went to bed with the lady’s sister.”
    “Well,” the small-man shook his head again, still not able to comprehend the fact that his companions were so illiterate in the religious folklore of their own country, “there is a temple in the greatest northern reaches. Supposedly, the great pillars of the world are there, holding it up from the demonic spirit world. Once the pillars are shattered, evil will flood the world in waves of thousands upon thousands. We all will die. Or worse.” He stopped and stared at the dead embers of the fire.
    “Grinding goats! What does this have to do with anything?” Qainur asked. “Oh…and what could possibly be worse than death? Gaah!” He shook his head and scowled at the far wall.
    For once he seems to be using some sort of logic , Zhy thought to himself. It reminded him of a humorous story he had read—something about a destiny worse than a destiny worse than death—as if anything could be worse! Horrible torture maybe… Instead, he scowled and responded, “You don’t do well in the morning, do you?”
    The warrior grumbled. A loud pop came from his bed as he cracked a knuckle on his thumb.
    “Don’t you see? If the pillars are broken, demons will flood the world. I know we only saw one, but...that close to the main road? I had a nightmare...a vivid nightmare of—” Torplug broke off.
    “It was one demon, as you said,” Zhy said softly.
    “But what if there were more?” Torplug asked. He sounded in a panic. As if he were still living whatever dream he was having; the small-man shivered and then sniffed loudly. Then he sniffed again. Zhy had finally had it—exhaustion or not, he was getting irritated to the point of screaming.
    “Oh stop it!” he barked.
    “Stop what?” the small-man asked.
    “That Sacuan-blasted sniffing! And you, Qainur, with your knuckle-cracking and your loud snoring. It’s enough! Great Sacuan’s scrotum!” he barked, thumbing his earlobe roughly.
    “You and that blasted ear-fondling,” Torplug said, his voice the edge of a frozen knife. “Savagery. And you snore, too. Like a drunk,” he hissed.
    Zhy’s face colored, and he opened his mouth, but Qainur turned back to face him. “Yes, you do, you grounded goat!” It’s ‘ground goat’ you big oaf. You grind goats, and then they are ground. And whoever heard of grinding goats anyway? Zhy thought with a deep scowl. Qainur added a scowl of his own and then raised his fists in the air. Instead of striking, he cracked each knuckle on each hand. “To Hell with you, Zhy.” And he promptly turned away to face the wall.
    “I—”
    “A little harsh, Qainur, but ...” and Torplug sniffed loudly. “If we annoy you so much, you can leave.” His face was devoid of emotion.
    “I…” He looked down at his hands. Soft. Woman-like. Why? Why did I let them get to me like that? This was supposed to be an adventure? But the sniffing and the knuckle cracking, and—he reached up to thumb his earlobe and then let his hand fall. “I am sorry,” he said, barely more than a whisper. “I think we have traveled long—maybe too long—in each other’s company.”
    Torplug allowed himself a small laugh. “You are right there. And it was bound to happen. Qainur, a well-traveled mercenary. Never traveled with anyone. Me, I deal with people all the time and can put up with their odd habits. Most of them anyway. Good to get it out of the way.”
    Qainur grunted. There was silence, and then he shifted his bulk again to face them. “Aye.”
    “I can let it go ...” Zhy added. “I’m sorry. Sometimes sounds get to me. And I suppose I should not get annoyed with you if I do this—” and he touched his ear. He cracked a smile.
    The small-man laughed again, but this