bridge like a Hungarian gymnast.
Stiff as a corpse, wet, famished, and bruised, Doyle dragged himself out onto the road, stifling with considerable effort his irritation at the man's enthusiasm as Sparks flew through an exotic routine of improbable Yogic postures, accompanied by vocalizations that suggested the nocturnal braying of ill-bred cats. Slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, Doyle found his thoughts diminished to visualizing cream-drenched kettledrums of hot buttered oatmeal or elaborately protracted ways for Sparks to die, one of which featured a strikingly original use of the oatmeal.
With a profound exhale and a salute to the rising sun, Sparks finished his exercises and for the first time acknowledged Doyle's presence.
"We should be on the march," Sparks said.
He smiled and walked briskly down the road. It wasn't until Sparks had nearly disappeared around the next comer that the urgency of sticking close to the man cut through the foggy lowlands of Doyle's brain. He took off after Sparks, breaking into a run, his sodden boots squishing with every step. Even after catching him, Doyle had to maintain a trot to keep pace with Sparks's invigorated stride.
"Where are you going?" Doyle asked.
"A moving target presupposes motion, Doyle," Sparks replied, between deep, naturalist breaths. "Unpredictability, that's the key."
Lord, the man's insouciance was aggravating. "So where are you going then?"
"Where are you going?"
"I'm quite sure I don't know."
"Look at you; you're going somewhere."
"I'm left with the impression that I was going with you."
Sparks nodded. There was another long pause.
"So where are we going?" Doyle asked.
"We should get off this road soon enough, I can tell you that."
The narrow lane was bounded on either side by dense forest. "You think it unsafe?"
"At present that's a fair description of just about anywhere." Sparks halted suddenly. His head moved back and forth like a bird, registering exactly what sort of sensory information it was difficult to ascertain.
"This way," he said, and quickly ran off into the woods.
Doyle followed, alarmed. Sparks led them so deep in that the road was no longer visible. Stalking through a gully of second-growth ferns on the forest floor, he slowed his step, came to a halt, and gently drew aside a column of brambles, revealing a spotty gooseberry bush.
"Let's eat," said Sparks.
They denuded the bush, harvesting a handful of berries apiece. They were malformed and bitter, but Doyle savored each one like napoleon creams.
"You like your food, do you, Doyle?" Sparks asked, watching him eat. "You look like a proper trencherman."
"I wouldn't turn down a proper meal, no."
"Nourishment. There's a subject. There'll be a lot to say about that before too long. The general health."
"Jack, if you don't mind, I'd rather not talk about the general health just now."
"Not at all."
"I'd just as soon talk about my health in particular; my health vis a vis these determined attempts upon my life. My health as in, I'd prefer to go on having it, thank you very much."
"I understand completely."
"Good, Jack. I'm glad that you understand."
"I don't need to walk a mile in your shoes to see how bleak things look from where you're sitting," Sparks said, rising to his feet, stretching, ready to press on.
"I wish I could say that were some small comfort to me."
"Comfort's a luxury we're a bit short on at the moment—"
"Jack: Where ... are ... we ... going?" Doyle said, refusing to budge.
"Where do you want to go?"
"I'd prefer to hear your answer first."
"Not as easy as all that, Doyle—"
"That's fine, but to be honest with you, Jack, I was counting on—depending on, actually—your advice and counsel in this matter."
"Here it is, then: Where I want to go at this particular moment in time is not to the point. Not at all."
"Not to the point."
"No. The point is, where do ... you want to go?"
Doyle considered shooting him, but the consumed berries, despite their
Stiff as a corpse, wet, famished, and bruised, Doyle dragged himself out onto the road, stifling with considerable effort his irritation at the man's enthusiasm as Sparks flew through an exotic routine of improbable Yogic postures, accompanied by vocalizations that suggested the nocturnal braying of ill-bred cats. Slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, Doyle found his thoughts diminished to visualizing cream-drenched kettledrums of hot buttered oatmeal or elaborately protracted ways for Sparks to die, one of which featured a strikingly original use of the oatmeal.
With a profound exhale and a salute to the rising sun, Sparks finished his exercises and for the first time acknowledged Doyle's presence.
"We should be on the march," Sparks said.
He smiled and walked briskly down the road. It wasn't until Sparks had nearly disappeared around the next comer that the urgency of sticking close to the man cut through the foggy lowlands of Doyle's brain. He took off after Sparks, breaking into a run, his sodden boots squishing with every step. Even after catching him, Doyle had to maintain a trot to keep pace with Sparks's invigorated stride.
"Where are you going?" Doyle asked.
"A moving target presupposes motion, Doyle," Sparks replied, between deep, naturalist breaths. "Unpredictability, that's the key."
Lord, the man's insouciance was aggravating. "So where are you going then?"
"Where are you going?"
"I'm quite sure I don't know."
"Look at you; you're going somewhere."
"I'm left with the impression that I was going with you."
Sparks nodded. There was another long pause.
"So where are we going?" Doyle asked.
"We should get off this road soon enough, I can tell you that."
The narrow lane was bounded on either side by dense forest. "You think it unsafe?"
"At present that's a fair description of just about anywhere." Sparks halted suddenly. His head moved back and forth like a bird, registering exactly what sort of sensory information it was difficult to ascertain.
"This way," he said, and quickly ran off into the woods.
Doyle followed, alarmed. Sparks led them so deep in that the road was no longer visible. Stalking through a gully of second-growth ferns on the forest floor, he slowed his step, came to a halt, and gently drew aside a column of brambles, revealing a spotty gooseberry bush.
"Let's eat," said Sparks.
They denuded the bush, harvesting a handful of berries apiece. They were malformed and bitter, but Doyle savored each one like napoleon creams.
"You like your food, do you, Doyle?" Sparks asked, watching him eat. "You look like a proper trencherman."
"I wouldn't turn down a proper meal, no."
"Nourishment. There's a subject. There'll be a lot to say about that before too long. The general health."
"Jack, if you don't mind, I'd rather not talk about the general health just now."
"Not at all."
"I'd just as soon talk about my health in particular; my health vis a vis these determined attempts upon my life. My health as in, I'd prefer to go on having it, thank you very much."
"I understand completely."
"Good, Jack. I'm glad that you understand."
"I don't need to walk a mile in your shoes to see how bleak things look from where you're sitting," Sparks said, rising to his feet, stretching, ready to press on.
"I wish I could say that were some small comfort to me."
"Comfort's a luxury we're a bit short on at the moment—"
"Jack: Where ... are ... we ... going?" Doyle said, refusing to budge.
"Where do you want to go?"
"I'd prefer to hear your answer first."
"Not as easy as all that, Doyle—"
"That's fine, but to be honest with you, Jack, I was counting on—depending on, actually—your advice and counsel in this matter."
"Here it is, then: Where I want to go at this particular moment in time is not to the point. Not at all."
"Not to the point."
"No. The point is, where do ... you want to go?"
Doyle considered shooting him, but the consumed berries, despite their
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