Hullbertson walked for a while on a dirt road. He walked not without ease, but with and overcertain gait and a darting, calculating look. As if gravity itself were willed by the very dirt below his feet, dirt with unknown motives. It was a forcibly cheery, but defiant lope.
An equivocating breeze whipped some dust up at him, a reminder. Of what?, Hullbertson thought. The sun refused to hide among the clouds. Or did the clouds conspire with the sun to provide no shade? Mustn’t show my hand.
“Mustn’t let my dribbly thoughts dribble out! HA! Mustard gas all of you!”
Hullbertson flinched at his own voice. Some call him strange. It’s a word. They call him other things too. Words that come from the trees are not easy to translate. They are often vague but hint at a black secret. I wanted to uncover their secret, Hullbertson thought.
“I was afraid! They made me see the future! The dogs barked and I barked back! It was a code!”
The dirt relented and the sun went behind a cloud.