The slim raven

Long days and pleasant nights, stranger.

And may you have twice the number.

Unlikely, the dweller replied, and voiced a curt laugh.

don't have nobbut corn and beans, he said. Corn is free, but you will have to kick something in for the beans. A man brings them out once in a while. He does not stay long.

The dweller laughed shortly. Afraid of spirits. Afraid of the bird-man, too. I saw him. The bird-man, I mean. He fled me.

Yes, he lost his way. Claims to be looking for a place called Nera-ska, only sometimes he calls it Blue Haven or Heaven, but I cannot make out which. Has thee heard of it? The Slayer shook his head.

Well . . . he dont bides and he dont bites, so fuck him. Is thee alive or dead? Alive, the Slayer said. You speak as the Nera do.

I was with them awhile, but that stood no life for me; too tight, they are, and always looking for holes in the world.

This was true, the Slayer reflected. The Nera folk were good nomads.

The two of them looked at each other in silence for a moment, and then the dweller put out his hand. Agri is my name.

The Slayer shook and gave his own. As he did so, a slim raven croaked from the low peak of the sod roof. The dweller gestured at it briefly.

That's Jack. At the mention of its name, the raven croaked again and flew across to Agri. It landed on the dweller's head and roosted, feet firmly twined in the wild thatch of hair.

Latch you, Jack croaked brightly. Latch you and the horse you rode on. The Slayer nodded amiably.

Beans, beans, the musical fruit, the raven recited, inspired. The more you eat, the more you toot.

You teach him that?

That's all he wants to learn, I guess, Agri said. Tried to teach him The Lord's Prayer once. His eyes traveled out beyond the hut for a moment, toward the gritty, featureless hardpan.

Guess this is not Lord's Prayer country. You are a Slayer. That right?

Yes. He squatted down and brought out his makings. Jack launched himself from Agri's head and landed, flittering, on the Slayer's shoulder. Thought your kind was gone. Then you see differently, don't you?

Did ye come from In-World? Long ago, the Slayer agreed. "Is anything left there"?

To this, the Slayer made no reply, but his face suggested this was a topic better not sought.

After the other one, I guess. Yes.

The impending question followed: How long since he passed by?

Agri shrugged. I dont know. Time is funny out here. Distance and direction, too. More than two weeks. Less than two months.

The bean man's been twice since he passed. I would guess six weeks. "That's s probably wrong."

"The more you eat, the more you toot," Jack said.

Did he lay by? the Slayer asked and Agri nodded. He stayed to supper, same as you will, I guess.

We passed the time. The Slayer stood up and the bird flew back to the roof, squawking. He felt an odd, trembling eagerness.

What did he talk about?

Agri cocked an eyebrow at him. Not much. Did it ever rain and when did I come here and had I buried my wife?

He asked if was she of the Nera folk and I said yes because it came off like he already knew. I did most of the talking, which is not usual."

He paused, and the only sound was the stark wind. "He's a sorcerer, is he not"? Among other things."

Agri nodded slowly. I knew. He dropped a rabbit out of his sleeve, all gutted and ready for the pot. Are you?

A sorcerer He laughed. I am just a man.

You will never catch him.

I will catch him.

They looked at each other, a sudden depth of feeling between them, the dweller upon his dust-puff-dry ground, the slayer on the hardpan that held off down to the desert. He reached for his flint.

"Here". Agri produced a sulfur-headed match and struck it with a grimed nail. The Slayer pushed the tip of his smoke into the flame and drew.

Thanks. You will want to fill your skins, the dweller said, turning away. Springs under the eaves in the back. I will start dinner.

The Slayer stepped gingerly over the rows of corn and went around back. The spring was at the bottom of a hand-dug well, lined with stones to keep the powdery earth from caving.

As he descended the rickety ladder, the Slayer reflected that the stones must depict two years of work easily "hauling, dragging, laying.

The water was clear but slow-moving, and filling the skins was a long chore. While he was finishing the second, Jack perched on the lip of the well.

Screw you and the horse you rode in on, he advised. The Slayer looked up, stunned. The shaft was about fifteen feet deep: easy enough for Agri to drop a rock on him, break his head, and steal everything from him.

A crazy or a router would not do it; Agri was neither. Yet he liked Agri, and so he pushed the thought out of his mind and got the rest of the water God had willed.

Whatever else God willed Waska's business, not his. When he came through the door of the hut and walked down the steps (the hovel proper was set below ground level, designed to catch and hold the coolness of the nights), Agri was shoving ears of corn into the embers of a tiny fire with a crude hardwood spatula.

Two rough plates had been set at opposite ends of a dun blanket. Water for the beans was just beginning to bubble in a pot hung over the fire.

I will pay for the water, too. Agri did not look up. The water is a gift from God, as I think thee knows. Pappa Doc gets the beans.

The Slayer grunted a laugh and sat down with his back against one rude wall, folded his arms, and closed his eyes. After a little, the smell of roasting corn came to his nose.

There was a pebbly noise as Agri dumped a paper of dry beans into the pot. An occasional kra-kra-kra as Jack walked restlessly on the roof.