Freewalker by Dennis Foon Read Free Book Online Page B

wreck the sword? It was made to slice people, not plants.”
    Roan shrugs. “It will need a good cleaning and sharpening every night, but it’s a strong blade, it’ll survive.”
    After two days’ walk, their dour expectations of the swamp have been wildly inverted. The marsh is anything but a nightmare of mosquitoes and festering water. Biting insects are mercifully few and the trees, though sparse, are festooned with bright flowers in full bloom. Golden butterflies flutter around them, fluorescent dragonflies dart through the ferns, tiny violet waterlilies float free on the water’s surface, and there’s enough solid high ground for them to walk at a brisk pace. In the waning light, they make camp on a rise near the water. The trees here are completely unfamiliar, with thick, curling branches and leaves that close up when touched.
    â€œWell, that dragonweed was so effective all the biting bugs fled the swamp.”
    â€œIn this case I’m thrilled to be wrong.”
    â€œSo when does this odor wear off?”
    â€œNext bath.”
    Roan groans.
    In the evening mist, a warm fire of dry fern crackles. The aroma of cooking catfish, yanked from the water with bare hands alone, has Roan and Lumpy transfixed. Their crickets perch on their shoulders, still, not a feeler moving.
    Across the fire from Roan the mysterious boy slowly takes shape.
    â€œY OU’RE COMING. ”
    â€œY ES. ”
    â€œN OT ALONE ?”
    â€œI’ M WITH A FRIEND. I S THAT A PROBLEM ?”
    â€œI S HE A W ALKER TOO ?”
    â€œN O. A RE WE VERY FAR ?”
    â€œW HAT IS FAR ?”
    Then the boy is gone. Roan looks up. Lumpy pokes at the fire, completely absorbed in his activity, unaware of Roan’s experience.
    â€œI saw the boy.”
    â€œA boy? What did he tell you?”
    â€œHe doesn’t seem to mind that I brought you along.”
    â€œWell, that’s a relief,” says Lumpy. “I’d hate to think I wasn’t wanted.”
    â€œIt’s a good sign. We’re going in the right direction.”
    â€œWell, believe it or not, I’m having a great time and,” he grins as he shifts their fish out of the fire, “it’s about to get even better.”

PREPARATION FOR THE UNKNOWN
    THE ARCHBISHOP CONSTRUCTS, IN CELEBRATION OF OUR ASCENDANCE, A MONUMENTAL STRUCTURE TO EQUAL THE LOST GREAT PYRAMID OF GIZA. IN ORDER TO REFLECT THE VITALITY THE ELDEST BRINGS TO US DAILY, HIS GREAT PYRAMID WILL BE OF GLASS AND BEAR HIS HOLY LIGHT.
    â€”PROCLAMATION OF MASTER QUERIN
    â€œM ORE SPEED THIS TIME. Go!” Willum shouts. Stowe runs full-out toward the half-wall, leaps onto the springboard and vaults up, her hands reaching for the top of the wall. Swinging her legs high, for an instant she hangs upside-down in the air, and feels in that moment as if she could rest there, suspended. Then she flips over, landing on her feet on the other side.
    Willum stands by the parallel bars, taking note of every miniscule element of her technique. “Once again.”
    â€œThat was my seventeenth vault today.”
    â€œMake it eighteen. And this time, name the six Constructions of Darius.”
    Taking her position, Stowe says: “The Ramparts.” She runs to the half-wall: “The Whorl!” Vaulting up, she shouts: “The Spiracal!” Twists in the air, yelling: “The Antlia!” And lands perfectly on the other side of the wall. “The Gyre and Ocellus. That makes six,” she smiles. But her triumph is soured by Willum’s expression. “What was wrong with that?”
    â€œYour heels were released too quickly off the board. Again.”
    Stowe thumps onto the polished oak floor of the small gymnasium. “I’ve done enough.”
    Willum, a rope in his hand, strides over. “Fine. Then you’ll work on stamina.”
    He’s tense, his face is drawn. Has news of the incident with the clerics reached