They served our prisoners first, made sure the children got the best cuts and generally undermined any attempt to intimidate the captives.
You will answer my questions or suffer my wrath. More gravy?
“That was supposed to last us for the rest of the month,” said Terry as she munched through a large mouthful of succulent, albeit stringy, goat.
“Where do you get your food from?” asked Maurice as he picked his plate clean. “I didn’t see any other animals. Is there a town nearby?”
“Yes.” She stared at the white bone which was all that was left of her Uncle. “It’s about an hour’s walk from here. But we don’t buy our food from there. Uncle Stan was the last of our goats. He was the boys favourite.” She looked over at her boys stuffing their faces. “We had a large herd once, but times have turned hard.”
“I thought the masters took care of you,” I said. “Don’t they provide you with all the goats you can eat?”
She shot me a nasty look. “Of course they do. They are benevolence incarnate. But times of hardship are a test of our faith. You have to be willing to suffer, to surrender yourself to their will. So begins the Cycle of Replenishment.”
“This Cycle of Replenishment,” I said, “does it involve you starving to death, coming back to life and then starving again, over and over?”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “You know of the Cycle?”
“No, I just thought of the stupidest thing possible and bingo! You people are beyond help.” I addressed the others. “You can see how far gone she is, right? There’s no way we’re ever going to convince her she’s wrong.”
“Yeah,” said Claire, “so?”
“So, we can’t just leave them here. First chance she gets, she’ll report us to whatever authorities they have for rounding up dodgy foreign types—by which I mean us—and it’ll be off to the gulag. Or the goulash, more likely.”
It didn’t know where I was. This was the first good thing to come out of this conversation. The relief calmed me. “I would but I’m planning to go away for a while. Maybe when I come back?”
“But there’s nowhere to go. All portals lead to Nekromel, as they say.”
I’m not sure who ‘they’ were but every portal that led here hopefully also led away from here.
“That’s alright, I like exploring. There has to be something on the other side of the ocean. There always is.”
“Ohhh,” said the Jester in a way I didn’t like. “You’re by the sea. That narrows it down considerably.”
Shit.
“The people from your world can be so shy, but I simply won’t take no for an answer. I’ll send a flock of the masters’ own personal guard to fetch you.”
Double shit. However, he had said something that did catch my attention. “There have been other people from my world here?”
“Surely. They are still here. Somewhere. So very shy. Now, is there anything else you’d like to tell me? ”
Two eyes suddenly appeared. They weren’t glowing red, or with vertical slits for pupils. Just two, large, lidless orbs that appeared inches in front of me, unattached to any face.
I screamed and stumbled backwards.
There was a faint crackle of blueish electricity that lit up two curved arms of what might have been a jester’s cap. Or they could have been large horns, curled downward. The darkness below the eyes began to split open.
I felt something warm and smooth under my left hand. I grabbed onto it and held tight. My mind was drawn to it, as it always was whenever that familiar softness came under my touch.
I woke with a start. I raised my head and looked over at Jenny lying beside me. My hand was inside her top, squeezing her left breast. Her face was screwed up in a wince.
“Uh, sorry.” I let go of her. How I’d managed to navigate my way through her clothes while I slept, I had no idea.
Jenny let out a rush of air. “Ow.” She rubbed her tit.
“You should have woken me.”
“I didn’t mind. It’s not the worst thing you’ve done in your sleep.”
Her words put thoughts of my recent encounter to one side. “What do you mean? Like what?”
“It’s probably best you don’t know. I saw this documentary about Katharine Hepburn once. She was an actress.”
“I know who Katharine Hepburn is.”
“Well, she used to live with Spencer Tracy. He’s—”
“Yes, an actor. Does this have anything to do with—”
She held up a finger to indicate I should be patient. “Spencer Tracy was a terrible drunk and when he was completely plastered, he hit her. She covered the bruises with make-up and he had no recollection of what happened. She never told him because she knew if he found out it would destroy him.”
Now I felt really uncomfortable. “What did I do, Jenny?”
Jenny sighed. “Well, if you really must know… You curl your fists and put them up to your face and make mew-mew sounds.” She showed me.
I dropped my head. I’d been sure she was going to tell me I’d beaten or forced myself on her.
“See, I told you it was better not to know.” She grinned at me. Demon. Foul, foul demon.