Tevun-Krus #35 - Best of '16

Icheb - A Short Story by @torontojim

Brother Joseph stood on the edge of the cornfield, taking respite from the heat in the shadow of the now wild, overgrown crop. He took a swig of water from the old plastic bottle, and then mopped his sweaty brow with a dirty cloth. Looking at the Catholic priest he travelled with, he sighed heavily and then handed over the mostly empty bottle of water.

"Thank you," the priest croaked through his parched throat. The water disappeared in a single gulp.

They, like the others of the group, looked up at the sharp sound of the Torlan fighter that whizzed by overhead. It had appeared too suddenly for any of them to run and hide, but the pilot ignored them and their band of weary followers. Instead, a furious elctro-pasmic torrent was unleashed on the position of the Sammarin camp they had quietly crept passed the night before.

"Those poor people," Father Murphy muttered, crossing himself as he did so.

"Demon magnets for more demons," Brother Joseph rumbled, and then spat on the ground as if the words themselves had been bitter on his tongue.

"They are good people, Joseph, it's not their fault ..."

The Baptist minister cut him off, "Yes, yes, I know the arguments. The Sammarins brought kindness and peacefulness with them along with starships full of hard workers just looking for a home. A real blessing for our world." His last sentenced was delivered with rolling eyes and a curled lip.

"It's not their fault," Father Murphy began, "that the ..."

"What do you mean it's not their fault?" The protestant spun on the catholic cleric. "If those demons hadn't come here, and our asinine governments hadn't welcomed them with open arms, then their masters would never have pursued them here! Their demon masters wouldn't have turned our world into a shooting gallery for the Sammarin vermin! Then our world wouldn't have become ..."

Father Murphy, the black, Irish cleric, held up both of his hands, "Please! Brother Joseph, let's not have this same argument again. We know that application of brotherly love is the first rule we must apply to those in need. That's from our Master's own words. The Holy See applauded the world's acceptance of the poor wayfarers who arrived in our orbit and ..."

His face reddened, he could no longer contain his rage. Joseph Davis took one step forward and his balled fist flew, aimed squarely at the priests jaw.

Before becoming a man of the cloth, Michael Murphy had been a hardworking, hard drinking miner from Omagh, County Tyrone, in Northern Ireland and he hadn't lost his street fighting reflexes. However, instead of pummeling the American Baptist preacher into a bloody pulp, he adeptly dodged the flying fist. Adding a slight push of his hand onto the follow through of the American's swing, the younger protestant found himself prostrate and tasting dirt. He quickly bounced back to his feet, shocking those around the two men with his liberal violation of the third commandment, quickly dropping into a boxer's stance.

"ENOUGH!" Carmella shouted at them. The half human, half Sammarin love child of a long dead two-species couple strode up to the men and stood between them. Father Murphy had no desire for the hostility to continue, and Brother Joseph quickly stepped back from the orange-skinned abomination of the devil, wearing a purple paisley dress and a frown.

"You two are grown men, men of God! How dare you," she was addressing Joseph, "sully your oath with this barbarism!"

The other thirty followers watched in silence, torn between supporting the respective leader of their two flocks; afraid for what a rift in the group would mean for their survival; abhorred that it was the half-breed that had been the one to intercede. Having the woman in their presence, with her oddly shaped eyes, a ridge bone on her forehead, and skin the colour of a tangerine, was not an item of contention: they all hated her presence equally because of the danger she brought them. But Father Murphy had insisted, refusing to leave her injured on the side of the road where they found her. For the last three months she had been with the group, drinking their water, eating their food, sharing the warmth of their evening cook fires, and contributing just as much as any other, perhaps more. For some reason that medical science had not had the time for the opportunity to find out, the human-Sammarin hybrid's had exceptional night-vision and were incredibly successful hunters. Much of the food that crossed the group's taste buds had been brought down, dressed, and placed in the metaphorical larder by Camella and the other hybrid woman, Poteni.