Periodically he'd stomp back through the gritty soil and watch the sleepers.
And then he saw Vorbis sit up, look around him in a slow methodical way, pick up a stone, study it carefully, and then bring it down sharply on Brutha's head.
Brutha didn't even groan.
Vorbis got up and strode directly toward the bushes that hid Om. He tore the branches aside, regardless of the thorns, and pulled out the tortoise Om had just met.
For a moment it was held up, legs moving slowly, before the deacon threw it overarm into the rocks.
Then he picked up Brutha with some effort, slung him across his shoulders, and set off towards Omnia.
It happened in seconds.
Om fought to stop his head and legs retracting automatically into his shell, a tortoise's instinctive panic reaction.
Vorbis was already disappearing round some rocks.
He disappeared.
Om started to move forward and then ducked into his shell as a shadow skimmed over the ground. It was a familiar shadow, and one fiIled with tortoise dread.
The eagle swept down and towards the spot where the stricken tortoise was struggling and, with barely a pause in the stoop, snatched the reptile and soared back up into the sky with long, lazy sweeps of its wings.
Om watched it until it became a dot, and then looked away as a smaller dot detached itself and tumbled over and over toward the rocks below.
The eagle descended slowly, preparing to feed.
A breeze rattled the thornbushes and stirred the sand. Om thought he could hear the taunting, mocking voices of all the small gods.
St. Ungulant, on his bony knees, smashed open the hard swollen leaf of a stone plant.
Nice lad, he thought. Talked to himself a lot, but that was only to be expected. The desert took some people like that, didn't it, Angus?
Yes, said Angus.
Angus didn't want any of the brackish water. He said it gave him wind.
“Please yourself,” said St. Ungulant. “Well, well! Here's a little treat.”
You didn't often get Chilopoda aridius out here in the open desert, and here were three, all under one rock!
Funny how you felt like a little nibble, even after a good meal of Petit porc rôti avec pommes de terre nouvelles et légumes du jour et bière glacée avec figment de l'imagination.
He was picking the legs of the second one out of his tooth when the lion padded to the top of the nearest dune behind him.
The lion was feeling odd sensations of gratitude. It felt it should catch up with the nice food that had tended to it and, well, refrain from eating it in some symbolic way. And now here was some more food, hardly paying it any attention. Well, it didn't owe this one anything . . .
It padded forward, then lumbered up into a run.
Oblivious to his fate, St. Ungulant started on the third centipede.
The lion leapt . . .
And things would have looked very bad for St. Ungulant if Angus hadn't caught it right behind the ear with a rock.
Brutha was standing in the desert, except that the sand was as black as the sky and there was no sun, although everything was brilliantly lit.
Ah, he thought. So this is dreaming.