The Reward of The Oolyay Read Online Free

a moment, mushing the Y’yoz root around in his mouth contemplatively.
    “I was having sex,” he said at last. The response was simple and honest- Teftek decided not to follow up on it and, after a moment, Pojlim’s head disappeared back under the truck.
    Teftek checked his pocket-ticker: Base 15, Unit 42. Late , he thought. As he brought his ticker away from his eyes, a child that seemed bleaker than anything he had ever seen stood almost directly in front of him. The child's cheeks were recessed so deeply that they seemed like canvas stretched across bone. The child’s eyes were not a Vesh’s eyes. They were neither white, nor red, nor even (like those very blessed, gorgeous models from the inner-cities) a hue of purple or orange; they were black. Pitch black. Outstretched toward Teftek was the child’s tiny, malnourished arm; rubbery white skin hung from his birdlike bones, and scrawny fingers looked rheumatic with bulbous knobby joints. A single finger protruded off the hand that pointed away from all the others, directly at Teftek’s forehead, as if attempting to drill into his brain.
    “You are the death-priest,” the child said, his eyes seeming to look through Teftek towards something far away.
    “What?” Teftek asked, shifting nervously and feeling deeply uneasy in the child’s presence.
    The tiny little boy dressed in black, thick wool kept his hand firmly pointed at Teftek’s head.
    “You are the death-priest?” he asked. Teftek realized now that this was a question and he relaxed just a little. Then a very old, tottering Hagayalick Necrologist strode up behind the boy and lifted his tiny frame up. The boy looked at the Hagayalick and repeated, “You are the death-priest?” Teftek relaxed slightly, not noticing Pojlim, who was secretly observing Teftek’s fright with slight amusement.
    “Forgive him,” the ancient Hagayalick Necrologist interjected. “He is waiting for The Seeker, Inlojem…but I told him to go to your transport truck. Are you…uhm… The Captain, Teftek?”
    “Captain Teftek,” Teftek corrected. “Not, The Captain , just Captain.” Most older Vesh had titles which seemed almost regal in nature, but were considered part of their names. These roles were ascribed to them during their youth in religious societies, but in the Uyor Sevoign these titles were either discarded or never given in the first place. Teftek would never find out that Pojlim was actually named The Grafter, Pojlim, because he had sewn a finger back onto an elder of his village when he was a child.
    “Of course, Captain Teftek,” the relic of a Vesh said, stressing Captain far too heavily to mean any sort of respect. “This is The Prophet, Iogi.” He took Iogi off the ground and handed him to Teftek, who stood awkwardly with the child facing him, the boy's armpits resting on Teftek’s hands.
    “You are the death-priest.” The child repeated. Teftek wasn’t sure whether it was a statement or a question anymore. The child just said it. Teftek handed Iogi to Pojlim, who had crawled out from under the truck to observe the wonderful awkwardness.
    “Right, we’ll get him to where he needs to be,” Teftek assured the old Necrologist.
    “Oh? Well…that’s good,” The priest replied dismissively, He was already walking away as three other children crowded around him. These children were much better nourished than Iogi, and they immediately began complaining about trivial discomforts while yelling at the old Necrologist for the smallest of offenses and pulling on his robes.
    “Where’s Inlojem,” Teftek barked, his voice carrying above the complaints of the other child prophets who swarmed the Necrologist like Snap-fish.
    “What? Oh…” The Necrologist turned around, with three children hanging from his arms and back, his old frame seeming as if it would collapse right there. “He is…”
    “I am here,” Inlojem stated, pushing past the other Necrologist and walking directly toward Teftek. A