Free Under Fragile Stone by Oisin McGann

prize-fighter of some renown. His success in this particular field came largely from the false sense of security his protruding belly offered his opponents, shortly before his quick, hard, meaty fists pummelled them into unconsciousness.
    His language skills were somewhat less developed. So when a pair of Gabbit women approached the gate of the compound with a donkey pulling a cart full of rubbish and shouted some gibberish up at him, he instinctively looked around for someone else to do the talking. The other two soldiers on watch at the gate were equally bewildered and just shrugged at him.
    ‘Gutt ye eny uld lumps fur dumpin’, hardhide?’ the taller of the women called up again.
    Cullum stood staring down helplessly at the pair. Known as dog-people by those who avoided or ignored them, Gabbits were itinerants. Moving from place to place in small communities, they salvaged the rubbish of towns and cities and made use of it for their own purposes. The two women had mottled pink and yellow skin, and were shorter and thinner than the average human. They had tiny heads, half the size of a normal skull. Their clothes were patchwork affairs, held together with buttons for easy rearrangement. They had their own singsong language that few could understand.
    ‘Does anybody here speak dog-tongue?!’ Cullum roared at a group of miners in the yard. 
    Halerus Jube came up the steps into the watchtower. He peered down at the two women, who were standing hands on hips, waiting for a sign of comprehension.
    ‘They’re here for the scrap,’ Jube told the soldiers. ‘They’re Gabbits, lads – what did you think they wanted?’
    He leaned over the rail.
    ‘Goofurnuffin’ stuff seek ye?’
    ‘Aye,’ the taller woman replied. ‘Takin out for makin’ back to mother. Hardhide here typically nearside of thickendom, not hawkin’ the talk.’
    Jube laughed and waved them in.
    ‘What was she saying?’ Cullum asked suspiciously.
    ‘Just sayin’ she wanted to take the junk away and make use of it – and she complimented you on your gentlemanly manner.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘No.’
    The two women had been to the camp before, so they made their way straight over to the pile of scrap with their donkey and cart. Despite the rusted junk, there were plenty of rich pickings for an inventive Gabbit; but when the two women tried to pull the choice bits out, they found the heap of metal waste was impossibly tangled with baling wire.
    ‘Unweavin’ be work for busy-handed scamps,’ the tall one said impatiently. ‘Pack back to the village this all, and set the pets on it.’
    The short one nodded; better to bring the whole lot with them back to the village and let the children untangle it, leaving their mothers to more important work. With some struggle, they dragged the mess of rusted and discarded scrap up onto the back of the cart. It did not seem to want to go, but eventually they managed it. Then they sifted through the rest of the heap and took some other bits and pieces of clothes, wood and glass and anything else they could use. With the cart full, they led the donkey back to the gate – ignoring the dark looks from the fat guard – and left the compound, taking the road west towards the hills where their tribe had set up their village.

5 T HE H OLY M AN’S V ISIONS
    Mirkrin had recovered his shape, but it would be some time before he was back to normal. There were dents here and there in his flesh and bruises covered most of his body. He lay off to one side, with his head on his wife’s lap, fast asleep, exhausted by his experience. Noogan was puzzled by the fact that the man’s clothes seemed to have bruised too. He failed to put two and two together.
    â€˜How come your clothes are bruised?’ he asked.
    â€˜We don’t actually wear clothes,’ Nayalla told him gently, her eyes never leaving her husband’s face.
    â€˜But you’ve got … oh.’ Realisation dawned.
    â€˜Centuries