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but just what if? It would mean that a man s efforts meant nothing, that all his exertions and enthusiasms
were of such insignificance as to be less than noticeable to the rest of Creation.
Reaching down, he fingered another blade of grass that was struggling to emerge from the soil just
beyond the edge of his blanket. Fingered it, but did not pull it. He could have done so easily, with the
least amount of effort imaginable. Curl a finger around the insignificant stem and pull. That was all it would
take, and the blade would die. What did that matter in the scheme of things? They were surrounded by
uncountable billions of similar blades, many grown to maturity. And if this one was pulled, two more
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would spring up to claim its place in the sun.
But what if it contained a world, a world unto itself? Insignificant in the design of Creation, yes,
meaningless in the context of the greater veldt, but perhaps not so meaningless to whatever unimaginable
minuscule lives depended on it for their own continued existence and growth.
Absurd! he admonished himself. Preposterous and comical. His finger contracted around the blade even
as his lips tightened slightly. It hung like that, the slightly sharp edge of the blade prominent against the
inner skin of his forefinger.
Slowly, he withdrew his hand. The blade remained rooted in the earth. It was nothing more than that: a
single finger-length strand of grass. No horse or hare would have been as forgiving, no hungry kudu or
mouse would have hesitated before the small strip of nourishing greenery. But Simna ibn Sind did.
He was not sure why. He was only sure of one thing. The next time he and his impassive traveling
companion were lying in some empty open place preparing for sleep, he was going to cram his bedsheet,
or blanket, or if need be clods of earth, into his ears so as not to have to listen to what the herdsman had
to say. It was an evil thing to play with a man s mind, even if, as it appeared, Ehomba had done so
unintentionally.
Blades of grass as individual worlds! This world as nothing more! What lunacy, what folly! Fortunately
he, Simna ibn Sind, was immune to such rubbish. Slipping his forearms beneath his head to support it, he
turned onto his belly and tried to get comfortable. As he did so, he found himself wondering how many
blades of grass he was crushing beneath his chest. His closed eyes tightened as he vented a silent, mental
scream.
Tomorrow he would do something to unsettle Ehomba twice as much as the herdsman had unsettled
him. That promise gave him something else to think about, to focus on. With visions of cerebral revenge
boiling in his thoughts, he finally managed to drift off into an uneasy, unsettled sleep.
When he woke the following morning his good humor had returned, so much so that all thoughts of
retaliation had fled from his mind. Sitting up on his blanket, he stretched and let the rising sun warm his
face. Ehomba was already up, standing on the other side of the campfire staring into the distance as he
leaned leisurely against his long spear. Staring north, where they were headed.
A humble man, the condescending Simna mused. Some would say single-minded, but it was as easy to
think of him as highly focused. As he prepared to rise from where he had been sleeping, the swordsman
happened to notice the skin of his left forearm. As he did so, his eyes bugged slightly.
A neat line of red spots ran from wrist to elbow. Some were larger than others. All were grouped in
twos. The pattern was plain to see. What sort of biting insect would make such marks? He rubbed his
hand over the pale splotches that were already beginning to fade. They did not itch, nor had whatever
had made them penetrated the skin.
The repeated double pattern reminded him of something, but for a long moment he could not remember
what. Then it struck him: They were exactly the kinds of marks the fangs of a snake would make.
Hopping back onto his blanket (as if that would provide any refuge or protection!) he looked around
wildly. When he bent low he found that he could make out marks in the grass and the dirt. Many marks,
familiar patterns in the ground, as if he had been visited during the night by a host of serpents. A host who
had left their signs upon him as a warning, and a commentary.
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Straightening, he scrutinized the surrounding grass, but could see nothing moving. Only the tips of the
blades disturbed by the occasional morning breeze, and the flitting of hesitant, busy insects.
All right, he called out to the open veldt, I apologize! Snakesdo have brains! Now leave me be, will
you?
With that he turned to see Ehomba staring back at him.
Well, he groused as he snatched up his blanket and shook it free of dirt, grass, litter, and assorted
would-be biting fellow travelers no bigger than the motes of dust that swirled in the air, what areyou
laughing at!
I was not laughing, Ehomba replied quietly.
Ha! Roughly, the swordsman began rolling his blanket into a tight bundle suitable for travel. Not on
the outside, no, but on the inside, I can hear you! You re not the only one who can hear things, you
know.
I was not laughing, Ehomba insisted in the same unchanging monotone. Turning, he gestured with his
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