holy robes from being despoiled by unholy dung. Trembling lambs glared white in the gray light. The air was thick with sheep stench and bleats.
âWhat are we doing here?â Flea asked. He hated the sheep market; the lambs seemed to know what was about to happen to them.
âMy official duties for the day are to go and buy a sheep for our feast.â
âShouldnât take long.â
âAnd a couple of other pieces of business. Thatâs where you come in.â
âWhat do I do?â
Jude looked at Flea. âKeep your eyes open and your mouth shut. If it works out, Iâll be back in favor and that might help you.â
âHow?â
âIf your gang wants to hang out with mine and I say youâre part of my gang, then your gang will start sucking up to you as sure as this little lambâs going to be grilled.â Jude turned swiftly to business. âHere! What do you want for this one?â
He was calling to a Wild Man, a nomad from the eastern desert dressed from head to toe in black. The manâs daughter, with hair the color of desert sand and eyes lined heavily with black pencil, was kicking her heels against a wall. She stuck out her tongue at Flea. Her feet were bare, her clothes were rags, and the chain that looped from her nose to her ear was gold.
âWhat are you staring at?â Flea asked.
âYour face,â she said. âWhat are you doing with Jude?â
Flea glanced across at Jude, who was haggling in a relaxed, practiced way.
âHelping him.â
âHah! He must be desperate,â the girl jeered.
âHeâs paying me.â
âWhat? A mite? Two?â
âHalf a shekel,â Flea lied.
The girlâs eyes widened and she jumped down off the wall. âFather! Double the price! The rumors are true. Itâs the end of the world and Judeâs throwing his money away!â
The two men looked at her and laughed. Then they touched hands and Jude walked off with his head up, not looking to left or right.
Flea had to jog to keep up with him. âHow do you know them?â he asked. It wasnât often he felt superior.
âUnlike you, I have a lot of friends.â
âBut theyâre not ⦠our people. Theyâre unclean.â
Jude laughed. âYouâre not so clean yourself and, anyway, do you really think you know who you are?â
âHuh?â
âWho are your parents, Flea?â
âI donât know. Dead, I think.â
âRemember them?â Jude asked coldly.
âNo, butâ¦â
âSo for all you know, youâre a Wild Boy yourself.â
âIâm not!â Flea said, suddenly hot. âI canât be.â
A lump blocked his throat. He had a memory that he guarded like a dog guards a bone: a courtyard, a storehouse, towering earthenware jars, a woman who looked at him from a doorway. He knew that once this had been his home and she was his mother, but he didnât like to think about it too often because the feeling choked him.
Jude pulled Flea around and saw the look on his face. âIâm sorry,â he said. âThat was wrong of me. I just meant that it doesnât matter whether youâre high priest or Wild Boy or child of the streets. Whatâs in here: thatâs what counts.â He thumped his chest.
Flea said nothing.
âWhat?â Jude asked. âYou want me to beg forgiveness? Crawl on my knees? Why are you staring at me like that?â
âJust imagining what youâd look like hacked to bits.â
âHow many?â
âFifty.â
âOuch. Iâm hurt.â
âGood.â
âCut to the quick.â
âThatâs such a lame joke.â
âIâm all in pieces.â
âIt was funny at first, now itâs not.â They walked on.
âAnyway,â Flea continued. âWhat did the Wild Girl mean about the end of the world?â
âHold your idiot
Tim Lebbon, Christopher Golden