“Good Lord!” he cried, and pulled her head back by her hair.
“We love you!” she said, and punched him in the eye.
He shoved her backwards as hard as he could, sending her sprawling into the water. She stayed there a moment, a quizzical look on her face, then rose, languid and poised. She looked over his shoulder at the group that had gathered on the bank behind.
“Tear him to pieces,” she said, and calmly turned and walked away.
The others removed their robes, letting them drop to the ground in twelve red puddles. Gertrude leaned over and rested his hands on his knees, pretending to be winded as they inched forward. The man who had escorted him to the woods (Jamal?) lay face down in the stream behind the circle, his boots anchored in the sand. His gun was still strapped to his back. Tha
