shouts of ‘yes’ from the congregation sealed the matter.
—Well, I must say I am heartened and delighted and much humbled by your reverence for the Sacraments. It strengthens not only my faith in the text, but my faith in you, my good people. Blessed are you, and faithful. You are truly children of the Sacraments.
Zealots, Jarvis thought, and cautioned himself again on his lack of charity. He caught a glance of Theophilus sitting down again in the gloom, a look of sour triumph on his face. Jarvis stifled another unkind thought and looked back to his text.
—Then if you’ll all turn with me to the beginning of canticle five …
The circumstance wasn’t noteworthy, but the sensation was.
Maggerty was hungry.
He had, more or less, ceased noticing hunger years before. The constant swirly, inky fog in his brain helped to push the subject away, and he had also managed to achieve a certain self-sufficiency that kept the deepest pangs in abeyance. He knew where to get fruit in the Arboretum, where to get vegetables from the larger local gardens, and where easiest to steal prepared goods from those shopkeepers who turned a blind eye when Maggerty ambled in. No one wished the Rhinoherd any ill and all did their distant best to see that he was provided for. Even in these conditions, if Maggerty got hungry enough, he would just eat grass with The Crash. It tasted unspeakable, but he had also learned the habit of ignoring his tongue.
So, in fact Maggerty was often hungry, but rarely noticed because there was always something in the way of provision, making it more accurate and more disturbing, then, to say now that Maggerty was aware that he was hungry. Acutely aware. The fruits on the trees were smaller than usual; the vegetables in the gardens also. The prepared goods were still theftworthy, but Maggerty had caught the eyes of more than one shopkeeper frowning at his repeat business. The grass was also different. There was still plenty of it, of course, there was always plenty of grass, but Maggerty’s tastebuds were becoming less successful at ignoring the bitterness, mainly because they had only been taught to ignore the sickly sweetness of the greenest grasses of Hennington.
No, there was no doubt about it. Maggerty was hungry, hungry enough to momentarily clear his fogged brain and require him to take notice. His stomach paced up his torso in gurgly steps. A little while later it paced back down. He followed it with his attention every time, fingering his wound distractedly. Beneath the grime and under the lowered face – but oddly enough not underneath a beard; it remained one of the central mysteries of the Rhinoherd that he never grew facial hair, never grew it for there was certainly no way he could be shaving it off – Maggerty frowned. It was an effort for so expressionless and calcified a face to show much emotion, but there it was, an honest-to-goodness frown.
Somehow Maggerty knew the leader of the herd was also bothered about the grass. He had been with The Crash long enough to have seen her assume her leadership, albeit reluctantly, and had followed the herd faithfully through her entire tenure as leader. He could tell when she was bothered, even when it seemed the other animals in The Crash couldn’t. There was a look to her, a shaking of the head, a leveling of the eyes, there was something that Maggerty keyed into through the murk in his brain, something that addressed the unsettled aspect of him, which was a considerable aspect indeed. Maggerty, that wariest of suspects, could follow wariness in others, even rhinoceros, especially rhinoceros, with nary a batted matted eyelash.
He plucked a pinkish-green cherry from a wan cherry tree tucked away in the northern corners of the Hennington Arboretum. The branch did not give up the under-ripe fruit willingly, and Maggerty nearly mashed it into nothing before he got it off the limb. When he finally ate it, it was so sour the tears temporarily blinded him. He let out a little gasp. After his vision cleared, he noticed the leader of The Crash regarding him. Not looking, but sniffing in his direction, her spearhead ears rotating this way and that, taking their measure of him. He croaked out some words to her.
—They’re green. Not ripe yet.
She looked off into the distance, but somehow Maggerty could tell she was still giving him her attention. She snorted, shaking her head and shuffling her front feet.
—What’s going on?
But of course she had no answer. She turned and moved off further among the rest of The Crash, all grazing happily in the green lea. They were in an area where a concentration of aeries hovered at the top of nearly every tree, homes to the massive Hennington Grey Eagle. She directed her attention to the treetops, as if pondering a question. Maggerty looked up as well. The huge nests seemed abandoned, ghost nests waiting to fall. The eagles were nowhere to be seen.
—Where did they go?
And again she had no answer.
Peter Wickham unplugged the charger from his motorcycle and maneuvered out of the garage. His waiter’s uniform was neatly folded into a back compartment. Underneath his protective jacket and helmet, he was dressed in an expensive pair of black pants and a white, frilled shirt that was ridiculous. Big Boss Thomas Banyon had selected it though and thus discussion of its merits stopped there.
Peter had been brought from over the border the year before by Thomas Banyon, ostensibly as a waiter, but really because one of Thomas’ regular young bucks had the gall to go and get himself murdered, under circumstances Thomas preferred not to spell out, leaving him short one Rumour boy to lease for general entertainment. Thomas’ experience was such, though, that the word ‘general’ rarely applied for long, and Peter ended up being not quite so ‘general’ after all. It turned out that Peter had a member just subtly shaped, curved, and pliant enough to be a perfect fit for those male and female clients whose tastes tended towards the mysterious pleasures of the anus. Thomas being Thomas, Peter had to work as a waiter anyway, so tonight he had pulled a full shift at Hennington Hills Golf Course and Resort’s Savannah Restaurant before heading out to what had turned into a regularly scheduled Wednesday-night clip. He pushed the cycle onto the freeway out of town heading for the immaculate but somehow sad home of one Luther Pickett, businessman.
Peter was remarkably unresentful of his clips. He wasn’t foolish enough to ever believe that Thomas Banyon would for one second make good on his promises of releasing Peter after the three-year work permit was up when Peter would be able, theoretically anyway, to look for work away from his sponsor. Peter brought in too much money and too many intangibles to the Golf Course and Resort, and he was well aware he would be used until his looks, talents, and penis were no longer so often requested. But that was the future; it would take care of itself. He shared in none of the griping the other employees of Hennington made about old men with bad smells or fat women with pudgy, inept fingers.
There was no doubt Peter had gone through his share of awful clips: the woman who, after sex, had walked into her bathroom and calmly died of a cerebral hemorrhage; the teenage boy who, halfway through the act, had begun to insist that Peter start punching him; the man who had held him at gunpoint demanding that Peter fuck his large, blonde dog, not believing Peter when he told the man that he had requested the wrong employee. Thomas, in an act that could have been mistaken for kindness, had released this last man from the clip list. You never threatened the entertainment. Never. Unless, of course, that was your particular brand of entertainment.
Despite all this, as Peter drove towards Luther’s home, he was heartened, even a little excited. Though never having been with a man during his whole
