Sam Swan’s mean as a hornet’s nest, everyone knows that.
Jake thought about that one for a while. Sam Swan wasn’t actually as mean as a hornet’s nest, because a hornet’s nest isn’t much more than a paper ball full of maggoty hornet larva. So Jake figured that meant Sam Swan was as mean as a whole mess of hornets, all from the same nest. His pa had once told him a story about being out with his friend Bill Winter, and they had made camp and gone looking for firewood, and Bill kicked up a wasp’s nest and the wasps started stinging and biting. Wasps don’t stop after one sting and die, like bees; they keep stinging until they’ve run out their ire, or until you’re dead. So Bill Winter tried to run away from the wasps, and ran clear to the river and jumped right in, Jake’s pa said; he’d seen it happen. And the wasps just waited above the water, and every time Bill Winter came to the surface for a breath of air they flew down on him and stung and bit, even drowning themselves in order to try to kill Bill Winter. Pa said Bill Winter nearly died he was bitten up so bad, his face and hands puffed up and wasps even in his clothes, crawling down his shirt-collar to get him all over.
Jake figured wasps and hornets were pretty much kin, so that’s probably what mean as a hornet’s nest betokens; mean as the wasps when Bill Winter kicked up their nest.
Jake was broken out of his reverie by a painful smash to his shoulder, strong enough to lump him forwards in his saddle until his balls hit the pommel.
Sam Swan was pulling his horse around to face him. He leaned forward close up to Jake and said real slow, did you get that, keee-iid.
Jake didn’t like how Sam Swan said kid, like it was two words. Kid is one short word, just three letters; even Jake, who didn’t have much schooling, knew that. Kid, K-I-D, kid. Kid goat, kid child. Jake knew it from his kid sisters Annabel and Mary-Rose, because he made sure they went to school every day, and sometimes he’d come by and get them after school was over, so he could see the Miss Regina the schoolmistress, who always wore white dresses with little flowers on them. He’d gave Annabel and Mary-Rose a bouquet of little desert flowers in April to take to her because he was too shy to bring them himself, and besides, she had beaux.
I’m sorry, sir. I was thinking.
Thinking. Y'hear that, boys? The keeee-iid was thinking. Laughter from the others. Sam Swan laughed too, sending a puff of his sour breath into Jake’s face. Sam Swan hit Jake on the shoulder again, got in too close again. What’re you thinking about, Perfesser? Got someone you’re sweet on, huh? You thinking about some giii-rrrul? He sat back and hooted. He’s in love, boys; he’s thinking about his girl, I bet you a hunerd dollars. More laughter. Sam Swan leaned in again, said so, Perfesser, why don’t you share what yer thinking with the rest of us, we sure could use a diversion while we wait, and Jake said No, sir. I was th, th, th, thinking about hornets, sir. Because he had been thinking about a girl, but he had also been thinking about hornets, so it wasn’t a lie.
Faster than Jake could blink, Sam Swan had his gun out, pulling back the hammer with a loud sharp click and pressing the barrel against Jake’s temple. It wasn’t cold, because the day was hot and the gun had been hosltered against Sam Swan’s body. So that barrel was warm, like a living thing. Sam Swan leaned forward again and Jake could hear Sam Swan’s saddle creak; could hear his own horse blow out a breath of air and stamp in idleness. Jake himself wasn’t bored, but that didn’t hardly seemed relevant.
It’s a sin to die with a lie between your teeth, Perfesser. Everun knows you’re dumber'n a pile of last week’s horseshit left out in the sun. Sam Swan paused, waited for the others to laugh before continuing. Sam Swan was proud of his way with words. We ain’t hired you in for your in-aleck-shu-uhl prowess. So you leave the thinking to those of us the good Lord above blessed with enough brains to know what end of a stagecoach’s going forards, you got it? You think that’s worth thinking about, Perfesser?
Yes, sir, Jake reckoned he did think that.
Extract from A Town Called Pandemonium
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