“Come,
child, we must see your mother.”
My
mother? Kren wondered helplessly as he was propelled forward by the steady claw
of the elder. Then they were through the door, and he suddenly realized where
he was.
It
was the back room of the Guesthouse, dimly lit and furnished with one shaggy
pallet of hay. He knew it intimately, having repaired it several times over the
years; to his workman’s eye there was no mistaking it. But it was nowhere near
as cavernous as it appeared. Suddenly his perspective swirled, and he saw how
things really were. The room seemed to shrink and the giant Morgs became of
normal size. It was he who was smaller.
That
realization happened in a split second. Then his entire attention focused on
the figure lying on the straw.
For
years Kren would have sworn that he had no memory of his mother. But his heart
gave a shattering cry of recognition as he looked at the tossing, groaning
Morgess writhing under the patched blanket that barely covered her body. He ran
eagerly to her side, but stopped just short in fear.
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