The Hammer and the Goat. Peter Newman

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       The Hammer and the Goat

      The Hammer that Walks wakes up, her mouth dry. It is often that way after the dreams come. The Hammer’s dreams are not the same as other people’s, more like memories viewed over and over. A silver-green face stretched wide, split by horns, a stub-winged shadow that looms over her, holding her fears in one hand, her anger in the other, making them one.

      Making her.

      It is true to say that she has not seen the Usurper for almost a year now, but it is also true to say that she sees the Usurper every day. That its imprint is seared so deeply into her essence that she cannot help but see it whenever she closes her eyes.

      Sweating, she tries to sit up. Underneath fresh bandages, scabs pull tight on her skin, blotches of brown marking her flesh from collarbone to toe, freshly plugged holes where rivets once sat. She is not used to feeling weak, does not like it. As with most obstacles, the Hammer tries to fight, growling at her new opponent: herself.

      The struggle is brief, painful, but at the end of it the Hammer is upright. She paws the area immediately around her, growing more frantic until her thick fingers find the coin.

      Aware of the tremble in her limbs, the Hammer moves carefully, curling her right index finger as if there were a gun in her hand, invisible, and placing the coin on top. She touches her thumbnail to the underside of her finger, and makes some final adjustments. Fixated on her work, she does not notice the tip of her tongue peeking between lips.

      The coin is tossed and the Hammer looks up, hopeful. It wobbles as it spins, humming softly. She cannot make it sing the way the man does but even the hint of song is enough to bring her blunt teeth out of hiding.

      For the few moments it is airborne and alive, the coin distracts her, and the Usurper’s presence feels further away. Three blinks of relief before it lands, smacking softly into her palm.

      Then, almost immediately, the sense of rage returns, knotting muscles in her shoulders. Quickly, she places the coin on her finger, tossing it, watching, enraptured, savouring each second of distraction before catching it, tossing it again.

      Her lack of finesse begins to irk, the coin not quite resonant enough to satisfy. Movements become more hurried, the need to make song all-consuming.

      But the Hammer is tired. The coin slips through her green fingers like water, clattering on the floor.

      The Hammer hangs her head and moans. The man can make the coins sing. He should be here! The one called Harm with soft voice and softer bones should be here too. They claim to be her friends but they have left her here, alone.

      An indignant bleat makes her look up.

      The Hammer is not alone. The goat remains, watching her with dark eyes, uncharacte‌ristically kind.

      ‘Goat,’ says the Hammer.

      The goat trots forward, allowing the Hammer to stroke her flank. The two share a little food and some water, provisions left by the two men. Are they truly friends, she wonders, then shakes her head. They will not come back.

      The room she sits СКАЧАТЬ