Not Much of a Conversationalist

Deep green sparks fell in the afternoon light, but Thomas found himself more concerned with the man who no longer needed a crutch. Yesterday, Thomas had needed his glasses to see the man who’d been pursuing him. Today, he could see him with the naked eye. Damn, he was fast! Even injured, he’d been gaining on Thomas. While fleeing, Thomas had been trying to formulate a plan. What was he going to do when the man caught up with him? With the full moon bright, both had kept moving overnight. There was nowhere to hide, the scrub plains stretching out all directions, featureless to the horizon. Both of them had no choice but go eastward toward Lake Uncertainty, the only place where there might be water.

If there was no water, Thomas knew that there’d be no point in continuing to flee. There was no other water for at least another five day’s run/walk; he’d never survive that long. Better a fast death meted out by his pursuer than a slow death from dehydration.

“Imagine yourself over the top of your home!” That’s what the man had shouted when he’d first attacked. Thomas had no idea what that meant when the man had first struck with what Thomas thought was a shillelagh of all things. The man had aimed for his head but Thomas had been able to move enough that he’d only suffered a glancing blow to his left bicep. That’s when he’d been able get in a whack at the man’s left leg with the hoe he’d been using in the garden. The man’s second blow had knocked the hoe from his hands and Thomas had started running even as the injured man lurched forward using his weapon as a crutch, screaming again about the top of your home.

“Could this be the same man who ranted at my brother?” thought Thomas. When Henry had visited a couple of months ago, he’d told Thomas about a tall, muscular man who’d shouted something about a house before throwing a punch. A bystander had intervened, pulling out a flintlock pistol, and the tall man had fled. His brother had offered no more details, the conversation had soon turned toward what the heat wave might mean for the crops at harvest time. Thomas now wished he’d pressed Henry for more details; maybe there would have been some way to reason with his pursuer.

The man was getting closer.

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