Crybbe

chapter viii

His own light was in his eyes.

'You know, Mr Powys,' Humble said, 'Mr Trow was dead right about you.'

The hand-lamp was tucked into the cleft between two tree roots. Humble was sitting in the grass a few feet away from the lamp.

He couldn't see Humble very well, but he could see what Humble was holding. It was a crossbow: very modern, plenty of black metal. It had a heavy-looking rifle-type butt, which was obviously what Humble had hit him with. Back of the neck, maybe between the shoulder blades. Either way, he didn't want to move.

'What he said was,' Humble explained, 'his actual words: "Joe Powys is very obedient." He always does what he's told. Someone tells him to go to the Tump, he goes to the Tump.'

Powys senses were numbed.

'Well, that's how I prefer it,' Humble said. 'Making people do fings is very time consuming. I much prefer obedience.'

'Where's Andy?' Powys was surprised to discover he could still talk.

'Well, he ain't here, is he? Somebody indicate he might be?'

Humble lifted his crossbow to his shoulder, squinted at Powys. He was about ten feet away. The was a steel bolt in the crossbow.

Powys cringed.

'Pheeeeeeew,' Humble said. "Straight frew your left eyeball, Mr Powys.'

Powys didn't move. You live in fear of the unknown and the unseen and, when you're facing death, death turns out to be a yobbo with a mousetrap mouth and a lethal weapon favoured by the lower type of country-sport enthusiast.

'But it won't come to that,' Humble said. 'Seeing as obedience is one of your virtues. I won't say that's not a pity – I never done a human being with one of these – but if I got to postpone the experience, I got to postpone it. On your feet, please, Mr P.'

'I don't think I can. I think you broke my collar-bone.'

'Oh, that's where you keep your collar-bone these days, is it? Don't fuck with me please, get up.'

And Powys did, accepting without question that this guy would kill him if he didn't. Humble stood up, too. He was wearing a black gilet, his arms bare. Humble was a timeless figure, the hunter. He killed.

'Now, we're going to go down off the Tump, Mr Powys, on account you can't always trust your reactions up here, as you surely know. We're going to go down, back over that wall,