![]() No matter how little the peasants had, they shared their suppers with him and refused any offer of payment. Fingers shaking, Mister Bumblethorn rolled himself a fat spliff of redleaf. Once, adoring folk had thrust gifts of cheese and honeycakes at him wherever he walked: through the streets of grand Abadore, through the humble thoroughfares of nameless hamlets. Into the blank space of his empty stomach, memories began to flow like saliva. Worse, his water flask was empty as a thimble he held the thing upside down for a full minute and not a drop appeared, not a whiff of moisture. Mister Bumblethorn studiously ignored this.īleary-eyed, he walked across his tiny apartment to rummage through the cupboards, finding no food except some stale crackers. An antelope or a gazelle, tiny as a beetle, tumbled out of his coat sleeve and splatted on the floor below. He did not even remember getting into the bathtub the night before, much less falling asleep in it. He stood in the weak light of the shaded window, his massive blue coat rumpled but still imposing. ![]() Mister Bumblethorn slept through the morning, as he usually did, rising from his dry-as-dust bathtub just after noon. ![]()
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