She shook her head but did not speak. After a moment Thrace replied, “I made this for Hickory, Thad’s son. It was his Wintertide gift, his favorite. He carried it everywhere.” Plucking the last bits of grass from the doll, she rubbed it. “There’s blood on it,” her voice quivered. Clutching the doll to her chest she said softly, “He forgets—they were my family too.”
———
Royce guessed it was still early evening when they returned to the village common, but already the light was fading, the invisible sun quickly consumed by the great trees. The little girl and her herd of pigs were gone and so were their horses and gear. In their place, they found a host of people rushing about with an urgency that left him uneasy.
Men crossed the clearing carrying hoes, axes, and piles of split wood over their shoulders. Most were barefoot, dressed in sweat-stained tunics. Women came behind, carrying bundles of twigs, reeds, thick marsh grasses, and stalks of flax. They too traveled barefoot with their hair pulled up, hidden under simple cloth wraps. Royce could see why Thrace made such a big deal out of the dress they bought her as all the village women wore simple homemade smocks of the same natural off-white color, lacking any adornment.
They looked hot and tired, focused on reaching the shelter of their homes and dumping their burdens. As the three approached the village, one boy looked up and stopped. He had a long handled hoe across his shoulders, his arm threaded around it.
“Who’s that?” he said.
This got the attention of those nearby. An older woman glared, still clutching her bag of twigs. A bare-chested man with thick, powerful arms lowered his pack of wood, holding tight to his axe. The topless man glanced at Thrace who was still wiping her red eyes, and advanced on them, shifting the axe to his right hand.
“Vince, we got visitors!” he shouted.
A shorter, older man with a poorly kept beard turned his head and dropped his bundle as well. He looked at the boy who first spotted them. “Tad, go fetch your pa.” The boy hesitated. “Go now son!”
The boy ran off toward the houses.
“Thrace honey,” the old woman said, “are you alright?”
The bearded man glared at them, “What they do to you girl?”
As the men advanced, Royce and Hadrian moved together, each one looking expectantly at Thrace. Royce’s hand slipped into the folds of his cloak.
“Oh no!” Thrace burst out. “They didn’t do anything.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing. Disappear for weeks and you pop up crying dressed like—”
Thrace shook her head. “I’m fine. It’s just my father—”
The men stopped. They kept a wary eye on the strangers, but shot looks of sympathy at Thrace.
“Theron’s a fine man,” Vince told her, “a strong man. He’ll come around, you’ll see. He just needs some time.”
She nodded, but it was forced.
“Now, who might you two be?”
“This is Hadrian and Royce,” Thrace finally got around to saying, “from Colnora in Warric. I asked them here to help. This is Mr. Griffin, the village founder.”
“Came out here with an axe, a knife, and not much else—the rest of these poor souls were foolish enough to follow, on account I told them life was better and they was stupid enough to believe me.” He extended his hand. “Just call me Vince.”
“I’m Dillon McDern,” the big, bare-chested man said, “I’m the smith round here. Figure you fellas might want to know that. You got horses, right? My boys say they took two up to the manor a bit ago.”
“This is Mae,” Vince said, presenting the old woman. She nodded solemnly. Now that it was clear that Thrace was all right, the old woman slouched, the look in her eyes became dull and distant as she turned away with her bundle of twigs.
“Don’t mind her. She’s—well, Mae’s had it hard lately.” He glanced at Dillon who nodded.
The boy sent running returned with another man. Older than McDern, younger than Griffin, thinner than both, he dragged his feet as he walked, his eyes squinting despite the dim light. In his hands he held a small pig that struggled to escape.
“Why’d you bring your pig, Russell?” Griffin asked.
“Boy said, you needed me—said it was an emergency.”
Griffin glanced at Dillon who looked back and shrugged. “You find emergencies often call for pigs, do you?”
Russell scowled. “I just got hold of her. She gets riled up with Pearl all day, hard as can be to catch her. No way I’m letting her go with night coming on. What is it? What’s the emergency?”
“Turns out there ain’t one. False alarm,” Griffin said.
Russell shook his head. “By Mar, Vince, scare a body to death. Next you’ll be swinging from the bell rope just to see folks faint.”
“Twarn’t on purpose,” he dipped his head at Royce and Hadrian. “We thought these fellas were up to something.”
Russell looked at them. “Visitors, eh? Where’d you two come from?”
“Colnora,” Thrace answered, “I invited them. Esra said they could help my father. I was hoping you’d let them stay with us.”
Russell looked at her and sighed heavily, a frown pulling hard at the corners of his mouth.
“Oh, well—ah, that’s okay, I guess,” Thrace stumbled looking embarrassed. “I can ask Deacon Tomas if he’ll—”
“Of course, they can stay with us, Thrace. You know better than to even ask.” Tucking the pig under one arm, he placed his hand to the side of her face and rubbed her cheek. “It’s just that, well Lena and me—we was sure you were gone for good. Figured you’d found a new home, maybe.”
“I’d never leave my father.”
“No. No, I ’spose you wouldn’t. You and your pa—you’re alike that way. Rocks, the both of you, and Maribor help the plow that finds either of you in its path.”
The pig made an attempt to escape, twisting, kicking its legs and squealing. Russell caught it just in time. “Need to get back. The wife will be after me. Com’on, Thrace, and bring your friends.” He led them toward the clump of tiny houses. “By Mar girl, where’d you get that dress?”
Royce remained where he was as the rest started to go. Hadrian gave him a curious look but continued ahead with the others. Royce remained on the trail, unmoving, watching the villagers racing the light: fetching water, hanging out clothes, gathering animals. Pearl wandered past the well, her herd of pigs reduced to only two. Mae Drundel came out of her house, her kerchief pulled free, her gray hair hanging. Unlike the rest, she walked slowly. She crossed to the side of her home, where Royce noticed three markers like those of the Caswell’s. She stood for a moment, knelt down for a time, then walked slowly back inside. She was the last villager to disappear indoors.
That left only Royce and the man at the well.
He was no farmer.