breeze.
Nevertheless, clothing was clothing, and since this...creature was not a human, but a parody of one, he felt no compunction in knocking it to the ground. He tore it apart, watching the hat, a gray thing with a wide brim, roll away in the wind. He lacked the strength to chase it. He struggled to tug out the stuffing that formed the creature’s body within the garment, then struggled even harder to get the clothing onto himself. Once pulled up, it covered his legs only to his shins. The back of it strained as he shoved his arms into the sleeves, pulling it up over his shoulders. It was far too tight, but he was grateful nonetheless for the covering it provided. He could zip it only halfway up his chest.
The effort of clothing himself had exhausted him. He lay back down in the dry vegetation he had pulled from the doll, letting his Kahinya replenish him as best it could. Light would help, and heat. To generate the latter, he crawled on.
Presently, there was also light, and faint warmth from a rising sun. He lay still, absorbing it.
The ground under him vibrated. A humming sound filled his ears. He struggled to sit, fighting against the weakness that still held sway over his limbs. The act of sitting sent his brain swirling away into darkness again for long, unbearable moments where all he was aware of was being lost, being alone, being one, not part of a community of souls, not even part of the all important Octad. Falling back into the greenery, he shook his head, rose up more slowly, and sat, peering through the stalks of the plants at a large, orange machine. It bore down on him, creating detectable tremors in the ground, indicative of its weight and power—and danger.
He fought to collect himself, to translate out of its way, but he had not enough strength left.
Forcing his battered body, his bewildered mind, to action, he staggered to his feet, reeled sideways and stumbled out of the path of the machine. Before he fell again, he heard a shout. The noise of the machine changed, it came to a halt and the ground tremors stopped.
A man leapt down from a high perch atop it, strode through the vegetation and stopped before him, looking up at Minton from under the brim of a hat.
“Well, hell!” He planted large, work-worn hands on his hips. “What have we here? What are you, some kind of nut? Trying to make crop-circles or something in my winter rye? Gotta tell you, buddy, it works better when the stuff is ripe, like grain in the fall. Gotta tell you, too, it’s crazy to do it barefoot here in northern Minnesota, even in May. There was ice on the pond this morning and—hey, are those my old coveralls from the scarecrow I left out last fall?”
The man waited for a moment, then tapped Minton on the chest, between the sides of the garment that failed to cover him. “Hey! You listening to me?”
“I am...listening.”
“Yeah, but are you understanding? What are you doing out here, anyway, dressed only in my scarecrow’s suit and your diamonds, Susie?”
Minton tried to make sense of the man’s words. Scarecrow? “Diamondsusie?” he said aloud.
“This.” The man reached for Minton’s Kahinya and Minton stepped back, clapping a hand to his necklace as he finally developed enough presence of mind to know he must not tell this man the truth. Or let him see it. All he said was “Please. Do not touch my Kahinya.”
“Your...kah-what-a?”
“Kah- heen -yah.”
Desperately, weakly, he sought answers from within the man himself, chose one of the wild speculations from the brain that was spilling them out in an unending, uncontrolled stream.
“I picked up a hitch-hiker. He knocked me out, high-jacked my...rig, stripped me and dumped me at the side of the road.”
The man shook his head in disgust. “Too much of that happening nowadays. Used your chip to key your rig to his own, I suppose.”
Not quite certain of how to answer, Minton shrugged noncommittally.
“So here you are, two full sections
Nevertheless, clothing was clothing, and since this...creature was not a human, but a parody of one, he felt no compunction in knocking it to the ground. He tore it apart, watching the hat, a gray thing with a wide brim, roll away in the wind. He lacked the strength to chase it. He struggled to tug out the stuffing that formed the creature’s body within the garment, then struggled even harder to get the clothing onto himself. Once pulled up, it covered his legs only to his shins. The back of it strained as he shoved his arms into the sleeves, pulling it up over his shoulders. It was far too tight, but he was grateful nonetheless for the covering it provided. He could zip it only halfway up his chest.
The effort of clothing himself had exhausted him. He lay back down in the dry vegetation he had pulled from the doll, letting his Kahinya replenish him as best it could. Light would help, and heat. To generate the latter, he crawled on.
Presently, there was also light, and faint warmth from a rising sun. He lay still, absorbing it.
The ground under him vibrated. A humming sound filled his ears. He struggled to sit, fighting against the weakness that still held sway over his limbs. The act of sitting sent his brain swirling away into darkness again for long, unbearable moments where all he was aware of was being lost, being alone, being one, not part of a community of souls, not even part of the all important Octad. Falling back into the greenery, he shook his head, rose up more slowly, and sat, peering through the stalks of the plants at a large, orange machine. It bore down on him, creating detectable tremors in the ground, indicative of its weight and power—and danger.
He fought to collect himself, to translate out of its way, but he had not enough strength left.
Forcing his battered body, his bewildered mind, to action, he staggered to his feet, reeled sideways and stumbled out of the path of the machine. Before he fell again, he heard a shout. The noise of the machine changed, it came to a halt and the ground tremors stopped.
A man leapt down from a high perch atop it, strode through the vegetation and stopped before him, looking up at Minton from under the brim of a hat.
“Well, hell!” He planted large, work-worn hands on his hips. “What have we here? What are you, some kind of nut? Trying to make crop-circles or something in my winter rye? Gotta tell you, buddy, it works better when the stuff is ripe, like grain in the fall. Gotta tell you, too, it’s crazy to do it barefoot here in northern Minnesota, even in May. There was ice on the pond this morning and—hey, are those my old coveralls from the scarecrow I left out last fall?”
The man waited for a moment, then tapped Minton on the chest, between the sides of the garment that failed to cover him. “Hey! You listening to me?”
“I am...listening.”
“Yeah, but are you understanding? What are you doing out here, anyway, dressed only in my scarecrow’s suit and your diamonds, Susie?”
Minton tried to make sense of the man’s words. Scarecrow? “Diamondsusie?” he said aloud.
“This.” The man reached for Minton’s Kahinya and Minton stepped back, clapping a hand to his necklace as he finally developed enough presence of mind to know he must not tell this man the truth. Or let him see it. All he said was “Please. Do not touch my Kahinya.”
“Your...kah-what-a?”
“Kah- heen -yah.”
Desperately, weakly, he sought answers from within the man himself, chose one of the wild speculations from the brain that was spilling them out in an unending, uncontrolled stream.
“I picked up a hitch-hiker. He knocked me out, high-jacked my...rig, stripped me and dumped me at the side of the road.”
The man shook his head in disgust. “Too much of that happening nowadays. Used your chip to key your rig to his own, I suppose.”
Not quite certain of how to answer, Minton shrugged noncommittally.
“So here you are, two full sections
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