“A story?” Paris blurted incredulously. “How, may I ask, is a story payment for transportation?”

“It is not a matter of how, but why.”

“Why then?”

“The intricacies of the transaction may, in time be revealed to you, traveler.  At this point you must simply decide whether this is a cost that you wish to pay.”

“A story? And you will allow me a space in your wagon, for as far as you are travelling?

“Per day.”

“Per day?” Paris questioned, “What do you mean?”

“One story per day of travel,” the stranger said, as if it were the most obvious answer to the most inane of questions.

“Will I be required to begin a story immediately? After all, it is the middle of the night.”

“Each story that you tell will be your fare from dusk to dawn.  As I have stated, we make camp and sleep during the day.  Each story that you tell, shall be completed by dawn, whence we will rest.  This night you may rest in the wagon, and begin your tale at dusk on the morrow.”

Paris dreamily pondered his two clear options, travel with this strange man, and his companion, or return to his bedroll, dwindling supplies, and long journey on aching feet.

With a delay of no more than several long seconds, Paris made his decision.

“I accept your terms stranger.  But, I should like to know your name.”

“My name is Ignatius, and my companion is Lucius.”

At the mention of his name, the man-shape on the seat of the wagon shifted, and turned his covered head towards the duo.  Though illuminated by the lightly swaying lantern, Paris could see little of the man’s features, as, his face and head were wrapped in cloth, in a similar manner to Ignatius’s initial presentation.  The shrouded figure dipped his head to Paris, and as he did, Paris thought that the section of cloth that covered his face rose slightly towards his brow.

“Shall we?” Ignatuis queried.

Paris nodded.

“It will take a few moments to shift things around in the wagon for you,” Ignatius commented, “Luc, a hand please.”

The man called Lucius let loose his hold on the reins, and in one fluid, dexterous maneuver, swung his legs to the left, pushed his hand off the wooden bench at his back, and launched his body from the seat.  Both of his feet landed simultaneously with a muffled thud, yet Lucius did not stop moving.  As soon as he landed, he was in motion towards the back of the cart, not hurriedly, not languidly, but with rote deliberateness.

While Paris watched Lucius, Ignatius had already been in motion.  In a seemingly coordinated fashion they met at the back of the wagon at the same time.  Paris had no idea how Ignatius could have covered that distance so quickly, particularly without his noticing, but there they were.  The pair began to rearrange sacks and boxes, bundles and bags, and before long, Ignatius turned to Paris and waved him towards them.

Still suffering from moderate shock at being rustled from sleep, and from the curious midnight offer of transport, Paris slowly gathered his belongings.  Ignatius and Lucius waited, soundlessly, as he completed his collection, then shambled towards them.

“Will this be enough room?”

Paris looked at the small panel of wood that they had excavated from the mound of supplies, nodded and said, “I’m sure this will be fine, thank you.”

“Once you are settled, we will depart.”

Paris flung his pack towards the front of the bed, then hopped up to its floor.  He squeezed himself into the small space, and nodded to the waiting men at the foot.  They hoisted the gate, then, with two simultaneous “clinks,” locked it in place.  They circled around towards the horses, taking crescent shaped paths, one of the waxing moon, and one of the waning.

The wagon creaked and swayed as the two men resumed their posts on the seat.  Paris heard a shrill whistle, then a swift crack of leather, and the wagon jolted forward.

Though Paris felt incredibly exhausted, the strange events of the night settled into his mind like bees in a hive.  He tried to forcibly stop his internal cogitations by focusing on his weariness, making his mind blank, even performing a counting ritual, but consternations about the two odd men, considerably close by, and their true purpose and intentions, nagged at him.

As is the case with most states of unwanted sleeplessnes, time passed, in a way that Paris could not measure.  He may have been awake for an hour, it also may have been three.  He may have fallen asleep at a point, or his thoughts may have been so intent on sleep, that he believed he actually he had found rest.  His anxiousness persisted, but at some point in this bizarre hovering between consciousness and unconsciousness, he succumbed to the rhythmic lull of the wagon wheels, and drifted away from his thoughts.

When he woke he was on his side, face almost pressed against the wooden side.  He shifted to his back, scrunched his eyes, then opened them.

Floating just above him a terrifying set of glowing, orange, cat-like eyes met his.   His eyes adjusted to waking sight, and the glow of the eyes revealed a hooded face, but with the face cloth removed.  Paris could only assume that this was Ignatius’s travel companion, Lucius.  Below the eyes, a slit opened in the shadowy face.  This slit became wider, broader, and revealed two rows of razor-sharp teeth.  The teeth were the fluid color and lustre of mercury.  Forming at the tips of these incisors, were orange tinted droplets of saliva.

Paris was petrified.  And when the vicious maw came towards his throat, he tried to raise his hands in defense, only to find his arms had been transmuted to lead.  He felt the multiple punctures of sharp teeth into his flesh, and tried to cry out, finding his vocal cords incapable of making sound.  As the creature who was Lucius performed his exsanguination, Paris found that one faculty was still intact, that of his hearing.  Before he slipped into darkness, he heard a savage crunch-crunch sound, that of the monster gnawing at his flesh.

Paris’s eyes shot open, and he blinked away the sweat that coated his eyelids and forehead.  An orange haze was spreading in the sky, punctured by ever receding black spikes of night.  Paris slowly lifted his arm, and wiped the remaining, salty, perspiration from his brow.  As he was acclimating to true consciousness, the rhythm of the wagon wheels was slowing.  Not long after, Paris could feel the navigators guide the wagon sharply to the right.  Then, they stopped.

A voice floated over his head, “Are you awake traveller?  We are stopping here for the day.”