He followed the stream as it plunged down the hillside and found himself in a broad clearing where the water emptied into a pond. He paused at the forest’s edge, seeing movement not too far from him, out in the high grass: a man was cutting hay with a brush hook. There was a child, too, and a dog playing with a stick on the far shore of the pond within sight of the laborer. The man bent and cut, rose, bent and cut again. At once, suddenly, without warning, the iron hook tore free of the handle and flew spinning through the air to land with a splash in the pond.
At first there was silence, only the chirp of a bird and the lazy humming of insects; then the man cursed so loud and long and so despairingly that the child and the dog left off their play and came running.
“What happened, Uncle? What’s wrong?”
“Some damn fool didn’t fix the handle to the hook. Now it’s flown off and into the water. We’ll never find it! That was the iron blade I borrowed from the steward so we could make our tithe this month by bringing in straw for the lady’s stables.”
“It’s lost?” The child’s voice quavered as the enormity of the accident struck home. “But we can’t replace an iron blade, Uncle. Can we?”
The man shook his head, unable to speak through his tears. He and the child went to the shore. Neither wore shoes or leggings. They waded through the reed-choked waters, the man pushing the stick along under the surface, the child groping through the vegetation.
“Where did it fall?”
“Ai, God! It happened so fast! What will we do? Ai, God. What will we do when the steward demands recompense?”
He stepped out from the trees.
The dog barked at once and trotted forward to greet him, snuffling into his hands as the man stood and pulled the child against his body, shielding it.
“What is it, Uncle?” cried the child. “Is that a wild beast?”
“It’s a man!”
“That’s not a man. It looks like a goblin!”
“It must be a beggar, child. God enjoin us to give bread to beggars.”
“Even if we’ve none to feed ourselves? What if he’s a thief or a bandit?”
“Hush, now. See how Treu greets him.” The man pushed the child behind him. He stood to his knees in the water, and from the safety of the pond hoisted the dripping brush hook handle so it could be seen he had something to use as a weapon. “Greetings, stranger. You’re welcome to our steading if you’ve a wish for a hank of bread and a cup of sweetened vinegar.”
“Give me the handle,” he said as he approached. He held out his hand, and the man got the strangest look on his face, puzzled and wary at the same time, but as he waded into the water with Treu wagging his tail happily at his side, the laborer let him take the handle.
“I saw where it fell.” He thrust the handle into a stand of reeds, and after pushing it here and there for a little bit the stub jostled something hard. He reached into water made murky by all the wading. Groping through pond scum, his fingers skimmed over a curved blade.
“Here.”
The laborer wept when he lifted the hook out of the water.
“Bless you, Friend! Bless you! You have saved my family. Come, I pray you. Come with me to my home, and we’ll feed you, for you look sorely in need of feeding.”
“So I am,” he said wonderingly. The water had sluiced a layer of dirt off his fingers and arms, and he could see his nails grown long, packed with dirt under the cuticles where before he had merely seen an encrustation of filth formed in the crude shape of a hand. His bare thighs and chest were equally filthy. A scrap of grimy cloth concealed his hips. Otherwise he was naked.
What was he?
He lifted his head to stare at the man, thinking that the laborer’s gaze might tell him something he needed to know, but the other two had already clambered out onto the shore and the child kept its distance, although the dog seemed eager enough to accept his strokes and patting.
“Come,” said the laborer.
He led the way through feather grass whose golden heads were stippled with black. The ground had a moist, squishy feel under his feet, as if it never entirely dried out, but the dew on the grass had burned off and it was beginning to be hot and humid. They crossed into the woodland and walked on a well-worn path in glorious shade. Here the mark of human hands shaped the land; where larger trees had been chopped down for planks and logs, light speared into open spaces lush with saplings and shrubs. No fallen trees rotted and there weren’t many branches on the ground either; the villagers had picked the ground clean for firewood. Some pigs rattled away over the ground, squealing.
