The pungent reek of incense from a street-shrine was in
the smells. The heavy, acrid odor that made my skin crawl. In the hills
behind Charin, the Ghost Wind was rising.
Borne on this wind, the Ya-men would sweep down from the mountains, and
everything human or nearly human would scatter in their path. They would
range through the quarter all night, and in the morning they would melt
away, until the Ghost Wind blew again. At any other time, I would
already have taken cover. I fancied that I could hear, borne on the
wind, the faraway yelping, and envision the plumed, taloned figures
which would come leaping down the street.
In that moment, the quiet of the street split asunder.
From somewhere a girl's voice screamed in shrill pain or panic. Then I
saw her, dodging between two of the chinked pebble-houses. She was a
child, thin and barefoot, a long tangle of black hair flying loose as
she darted and twisted to elude the lumbering fellow at her heels. His
outstretched paw jerked cruelly at her slim wrist.
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