The two men were out of breath, so there was no possibility for inquiries, to the displeasure of both parties. They were very interested in one another, in the way innocent men are when they encounter jovial thieves. Neither felt comfortable with a stranger who had witnessed what they had, because neither could be sure of the extent of the other's involvement. However, this was also why they couldn't let each other out of sight. Gregor felt especially embarrassed about his fit of laughing, and Goldmund was a little more on edge than he would've been for that same reason.
Eventually their trekking across mountains and hills lead them to a river, which Gregor ran to with haste, while Goldmund eyed it with disinterest. Gregor looked back as he knelt with his face down against the water, barely able to stop himself to notice Goldmund's absence by his side.
"You going to get a drink?"
"We'll have to boil it first."
"Boil it? This is fresh water, there's no point in boiling it."
"No? There's human waste in that water, from a village upstream. You take a sip of that, you'll die from disease before dehydration."
"Nonsense, I drink from this river all the time! I'd- No, I was wrong."
"Wrong about what?"
"That was another river. This is a different one."
Goldmund snorted. "Come on, the village isn't far."
Gregor got up, eyeing the river longingly, and then followed Goldmund, who had already started walking.
A bar awaited them, the rest of the village was invisible to their eyes, for the tap had transcended, and all reality centered around it. Everything else flickered, but the bar was solid. Goldmund felt so transparent he considered walking straight through the door like a ghost, but decided against it, because he didn't want to frighten anyone. Gregor thought of flying to their destination once he saw it, but of course he could no longer do that.
Goldmund's entrance wouldn't have had the effect he'd thought it would, for there was no door to the bar. A barmaid greeted them, they took a seat, and they indulged themselves. The two travelers told anecdotal stories and conversed about mild topics and grew to like each other in their intoxicated states. Both knew that trust was not yet shared between them, but the inspection of the townsfolk kept them both safe from each other, if one of them was indeed a larger part of the events which took place that morning. Goldmund bought them rooms at the bar for the night, for Gregor had no money. A dreamless night awaited them.
Goldmund woke to the sound of the barmaid's scream he could only identify as hers because he saw her out in the hallway.
"What is it? What is it?" the rough voice of the bartender barked as he passed her, going toward Gregor's room. His next exclamation prompted Goldmund to jolt out of bed and see what had happened.
Gregor's door was open, and the bartender stood in front of it, paralyzed. Goldmund looked over the man's shoulder to see what had drawn such cries. A cockroach the size of a man sat on Gregor's bed. As soon as its glassy brown eyes reflected Goldmund's horrified face, the bug rose an inch and crawled up the wall, toward an open window. The barkeeper snapped into action, jumping beside the bed and kicking the roach off the wall. It fell onto its back and began rocking.
"Persistent feller, aren't ya?" The barkeep reached over the turning bug and grabbed the sheets on the other side. He pulled them up around the bug and tied the sack shut. The bug stopped moving, and the barkeeper proceeded to haul the bag away, to god knows where.
Goldmund followed the barkeeper out of the bar. They walked into the woods along a path of mire. The sheets grew black and their backs damp. Leaves reached out over the path to pat their heads as they past. Roots crossed the path, rising out of it defiantly, there to spite those who wore away the ground above it. Poison ivy littered the ground and wrapped around trees and threw itself off of branches into the path, deceitfully inviting travelers to take a swing. The bartender stopped in no close proximity to a clearing.
"You'd better quit followin' me, old man," he said to Goldmund.
"I want to know what that thing is."
The barkeep whipped around, his gnarled nose threatening Goldmund between eyes wide and red like bloody eggs.
"I don't."
The bartender drove his foot into the sack, still maintaining eye contact with his guest. A harsh squeal exited, and they both looked down at it.
The contours of the sack outlined the shape of a man, and the two men shared a revelation. The barkeeper began dragging the thing the other way and Goldmund followed, no longer protested.
Goldmund had been waiting for hours, pacing back and forth in front of the jailhouse as more and more people filtered in. At noon a bell rang, and the town was empty except for him. A guard beckoned him to come inside, so he did. The front of the brick building was just a hall with cells for drunks on the side of it, to the left only, and then the hall twisted left and split into two halls, one which led to the dungeons, and the other to the courtroom. Every seat was full, so he had to stand in the back. A judge sat forlornly above the people, to the left of a small stage, with nothing to distinguish him but a gavel and the high chair he sat upon. He was an old man with a naturally angry face. His scowl presided over the court.
No one spoke. The door beside the stage opened and two burly men stepped out, dragging a third by a harness tied around his neck. Gregor's skin was uncovered and purple. Hard lumps rose from his back and chest, conjoining, as if he were a sack, and something was trapped inside, bulging in its beaten haven. His eyes were pleading, sorrowful, and repenting. There was pure, honest fear in his face; he had no control over the events taking place. The men jostled him to his knees in front of the audience, which looked upon him silently, and if Goldmund could tell by the tension seen only from the backs of their heads, unsympathetically.
"Witness one!" the judge said sharply.
The Barkeeper stood up and hopped onto the stage.
"I gave this man a bed last night that he paid for, and that was good and well, but when my barmaid opened the door this mornin' he was gone and replaced by a giant bug!" The crowd roared in surprise, and immediately quieted down. "I was taking it out back to take care of it when all of a sudden it turned to a man, him!" He pointed at Gregor. "He's a shapeshifter, a puppet of the devil I tell you!"
The audience roared in approval. The judge banged his gavel.
"Witness two!"
The barmaid got up and began telling her story. Goldmund made for way he came in. The guard out front stopped him.
"Where are you going? Court is in session."
"I'm sorry, I'm just a traveler. I've got a weak stomach."
"Then throw up, vagrant. You're not leaving this court until the man is sentenced."
Goldmund turned back and went down the hall a third time. This time, however, he went into the dungeon. He had been planning on raiding the village's armory once he made up his mind to save Gregor, but this would have to be good enough.
The dungeon was a spacious room, with not much torture equipment, only whips mounted across the walls and a box full of goodies in the corner that had no value if your enemies could fight back. Goldmund grabbed one of the whips, put it beneath his shirt and under his pants and made sure his belt was fastened taut around his waist. He took a few practice strides without it falling down, and then left the dungeon.
"I sentence thee-"
"Stop!" Goldmund shouted. "The man is innocent, the bartender and his maid are insane!"
The crowd responded negatively to his comments. A few off them grabbed him as he past, trying to drag him down to the floor. He brushed them off, intending to release Gregor. The barkeeper stood in front of him.
"You shoulda told the truth," he said, punching Gregor's savior in the jaw, knocking him to the floor where he stayed, a whip sticking out of his ass.
The arch of thistles and twigs tightened around oak branches yawned over the town like a disembodied chapped upper lip, the raging rapids splashing from its maw like spittle, drawing mist into the air, dampening the trodden wooden planks that didn't creak but squelched, weren't warped but soft in the least comfortable way. The naked prisoners stood bent over the crowd, their feet sinking into the wood. Their knees shook and they clutched their blue bodies feebly, not out of embarrassment, only for the bit of warmth it gave. The crowd's eyes were red and hungry. Spoons were clutched in each hand, thrust into those of a small child. Looney grins and outstretched necks and cocked heads and the reverend's cold indifferent gaze as he pulled up their arms, wrapped their chains in the thistles above, and stepped back without inspecting his handiwork.
The reverend read a passage from the bible, but it was muffled by the roaring waters. The prisoners were then doused in grease, and the front row of the crowd rubbed together stones that they had chosen as children and always brought out for these special occasions.
The light haired one screamed, and tore his hands from the arch, gripping a stick yanked from the heavens. The reverend got it in his eye, all the way to the back of his head, till he could feel the pressure as it pressed against the top of his spine. The perpetrator dropped the reverend into the raving crowd, the gnashing teeth, and the sparks of sparks of fire, and tackled the other prisoner, sending them both into the river.
The old man turned on his back in the tumult, forcing the other body above him as the rocks scraped his sides and dug into his back like claws reaching out from the murky abyss. Flames enveloped him and the shadow above spread out over the surface of the water, losing all shape and form, becoming a tarp of utter blackness.