The Young Magician

CHAPTER ONE

The boy examined the blemished apple carefully and turned it over in his hands, screwing up his face with concern. Rolling through the mud had certainly done it no good, but with a bit of luck it could still pass a fleeting inspection-so all was not yet lost. He placed it carefully back into his basket and set his gaze back onto the street, peering left and right for any further sign of more escaped fruit.

Between the many hurrying legs around him, another apple was momentarily visible and in imminent danger of being squished, and the sight roused him immediately into action.

He hoisted up his basket and was away, darting between the heedless folk around him, scurrying to save the imperilled fruit before it could be kicked or squashed or stomped on any further. Reaching it just in time, he plucked the apple from harm’s way-just as a cluster of bleating lambs came dancing and prancing over the very spot. They kicked up the mud with their skinny hooves as they went, driven before the idle gaze of Mr Shuckle who came whistling and clicking his tongue behind them.

With the danger passed, the boy finally afforded himself a well-deserved rest and he set his basket down with a sigh. Tracking down so many lost apples had been draining work and he eyed the unwieldy basket beside him with disdain.

‘Samuel!’ an angry woman’s voice called out from afar, piercing the market din. The village folk were familiar with the cry, for it was often heard carrying across the noise of the markets on such days as this, full of frustration and wrath. Today, however, the woman sounded especially fearsome and Samuel’s only solace was that her hollering still sounded from far away. He still had a little time to make good of his misfortune before his mother found out.

He examined the last recovered apple with a frown and he flicked the dirt from its skin with his finger. Juices oozed from an angry bruise. He pushed at the discolouration with his thumb, hoping it was some trick of his imagination, but more juices fizzed into view with each prod. Alternatives scurried about in his mind: perhaps he could keep the apple and risk a scolding, or-much more appealingly-he could tuck it away into some dark corner and dispose of the evidence altogether.

He began to eye various crannies and hiding spots around the marketplace, but then he remembered: Mother always had some way of knowing about such things and was sure to find out sooner or later, perhaps even producing the offensive apple itself as evidence and scowling at him darkly.

So, disappointed, Samuel replaced the bruised apple back with the others. He did, at least, place the most finger-poked side down. Perhaps that would postpone its discovery until much later, when he could be far from Mother and punishment. That thought brought him a brief moment of consolation-but it was cut short by another furious shout.

‘Samuel!’ his mother called out again, much louder, much nearer and far more impatiently than before.

Samuel had become something of a legend for his exploits and many of the other boys envied his adventures, right up until the point when his mother caught hold of him. Then, they would not have filled his shoes for anything. Perhaps that explained why his friends were all now nowhere to be seen.

Across the street, visible between the legs of all the village folk, Tom peeped out from behind a barrel and waved his arms in warning, pointing back into the depths of the market crowd. Samuel’s mother was coming-and she could slap a boy’s backside before a boy could even begin to squeal with fright.

‘Samuel!’ a fearsome voice bellowed, and Mother was there, glaring directly towards him.

Like a squirrel spying a scrub-hawk, Samuel bolted into action and scurried from the path of danger. He zigged and zagged through the crowd and dragged his apple basket behind him, ignorant to the indignant cries and gasps of protest as he made his desperate way, leaving a trail of bruised knees and scratched legs in his wake.

Pausing from his flight, he thought he may actually have escaped (if only for the time being at least), but the notion turned out to be substantially ill-conceived. As he sat huddled amidst the busy market folk, thinking himself quite clever and safe, the people beside him-being the treacherous lot they are-moved apart like the curtains of some theatrical performance and his mother was revealed in all her furious glory, not half a step away from him.

‘Samuel!’ she growled, looming above and she pinned him by the shoulder with her iron grip. He tried to escape, but his legs flailed around uselessly beneath him. Unsubtle hands turned him about and brought him face to face with a frown and a pointed finger. She did not look at all impressed, by any measure. ‘If I have to call you one more time, I shall be telling your father!’ she scolded. ‘And don’t come crying to me when you get a sore backside!’

That was that. The final ultimatum had been given. Samuel went limp in her grip as all his resolve fell right out of him and onto the gritty street. She let him back onto his feet and he waved goodbye to his friends, who were each only now emerging from their hiding places. He trudged after his mother, apple basket still in tow, but markedly reduced in its contents. There would be no more fun this day.

The weight suddenly vanished from his hands as Mother lifted the basket up onto a bench top and she began talking excitedly with the Fish Lady.

All the children knew her as the Fish Lady. She sold fish, she smelled like fish and she even looked like a fish with her enormous, bulging eyes. Samuel looked at her and had to hold back a giggle, despite his sullen mood. Of course, he would never call her the Fish Lady. Not alone, that is-not without moral support. The Fish Lady could slap his behind as fast as look at him-perhaps nearly as quickly as his mother. He had learned that painful lesson long ago. The Fish Lady and his mother would then talk even longer about how naughty he was and what could be done with him and Samuel certainly did not want that today.

Still, despite his good behaviour, Mother and the Fish Lady set into a long discussion. To keep him from straying from her side, Mother’s hand kept a firm grip of Samuel’s shirt and it kept hold no matter how hard he squirmed or how long she talked. Time seemed to pass so slowly after that and Samuel wondered if such torture was even allowed.

He peered between the passing people and carts and loaded wagons for any sight of his friends. There was no sign of them now, but their songs and cheers of excitement rose intermittently above the monotonous chatter around him. Several other women had joined Mother’s side at the stall and were crowding around-pushing into Samuel and bumping him with their handfuls of shopping-to add their various pieces to the discourse.

‘Oh, he’s terrible,’ one lady was saying, shaking her head. ‘Someone should set that man straight.’

‘I know, dear,’ Samuel’s mother said and the others also chorused their agreement. They continued on in that vein, but the sound quickly lost meaning to Samuel and it joined with the drone of the market hubbub.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity of boredom, his mother took a few strung fish in hand and they moved on to the next stall, where-almost beyond belief-she began talking all over again. It continued on like that for the remainder of the morning, so that Samuel had nothing but regret for coming to the village today. He kept looking to the rooftops, wishing he could vault up there and spring away to find all manner of adventures instead of being stuck down here with his dreadful, boring mother.

He had no one to play with at home. His brothers were too old and too serious, always working and busy helping Father. Tom lived not too far away, but he was usually in the village helping his mother and father in their stall and rarely home to visit. Playing with his friends on market day was all Samuel looked forward to, but today Mother was in no mood for games and she had ruined everything.

‘I’m in no mood for games,’ she said bluntly as they returned to their cart. She hoisted Samuel up onto the seat and then walked around and untethered old Aaron from the hitching post. After climbing up beside her son, she looked at him with unveiled disappointment, then sighed and shook her head. Picking up the reins, she gave them a sharp flick and clicked with her tongue. The cart groaned as Aaron started forward and they began their bouncing, bumpy journey back home with the slapping of Aaron’s hooves sounding all along the dusty road.

Samuel looked back with disappointment as the village disappeared between the trees that lined the road and the chanting of ‘Fish Lady! Fish Lady! Fish Lady!’ could be heard rising above the background noise and chatter. There was, after all, safety in numbers.

Their house stood at the end of a long, curving track, overhung with apple trees, each drooping with ripening fruit. The orchards further west invariably matured first, but theirs, Samuel was always proud to note, were famous for their quality. Father, too, beamed with pride when people made comment on his fruit. The merchants often paid a good deal more for the fruit of his labours than for that of any other orchard. When Father was asked how it was that all his fruit was so good, he always replied ‘hard work and good land’, which seemed sensible enough to Samuel.

Their farm was quite near to the village, but still far enough into the hills so that he could roam freely in the endless woods without fear of coming across anyone else, and this was what he liked to do most of all. He could wander for hours and hours on the rising hillside, playing all sorts of games and having all sorts of adventures. Sometimes, he would take Tom up there and they would hunt each other, playing ‘soldiers’ or ‘gut the bandit’. Samuel had no idea why it was called ‘gut the bandit’ and not ‘get the bandit’, but his mother always made an unpleasant face when he mentioned its name, so that was reason enough to make it a game worthwhile.

The narrow front door of their house swung open as Mother brought the wagon to a lurching halt. Lee came out and walked down to meet them, rubbing old Aaron affectionately on his sweat-sheened neck. He was the tallest in the family and nearly as strong as Father, although much leaner. He was also the quietest, seeing to his chores methodically and efficiently, while Jason and James wasted a portion of each morning joking or quibbling before Father would have to clear his throat or cough and the pair would quickly get back to work. Father rarely lost his temper, but the few times he did kept everyone well behaved.

‘How is Jason faring?’ Mother asked Lee with some concern.

‘He’ll live,’ Samuel’s brother replied bluntly as he drew a great flour sack down from the wagon into his arms. His mother seemed worried for a moment, then rubbed her brow with her sleeve and turned to her younger son.

‘Perhaps you could do some chores for me today, Samuel,’ she suggested as she gathered up the string of fish and stepped down to the ground.

Samuel hopped from the cart. ‘Yes, Mother,’ he answered, nodding. He did sometimes do chores, but with his brothers and sister to do all the real work, he knew he was not really needed. Besides, he was far too small to do anything very useful.

Watching Lee carry the great sack of flour into the house, Samuel wondered what it would be like to be grown. He wanted to be as strong as his brothers-as strong as Lee-but he also noticed how they had considerably less time to play. Perhaps this was not entirely a fair trade. When he was grown, Samuel was sure he would still play games and wander through the woods and spend as many afternoons as possible lying on his back by the river, bathing in the sun, then running and splashing in the water as he pleased. There was something wrong for grown-ups to take matters so seriously and leave such little time for adventures. It just didn’t seem to make sense.

Dragging the apple basket from the seat, the daydreaming boy waddled inside. The wooden floor creaked as he stepped through the doorway. Their house squeaked a lot and made all kinds of other noises, especially at night and especially when it was stormy. Father was forever fixing one part of it or another and Samuel supposed it was just the way of old things to be so noisy and easily broken.

Mother was putting all the bought things onto the shelves and into the cupboards, while Lee could be heard grunting out the back, carting the sacks of dried corn they would give to the chickens through the winter. Mother turned from her chore and sighed as she looked towards the bedroom, where Jason lay soundly sleeping. She walked over to his side, brushing Samuel’s hair absently as she passed, and placed a palm to Jason’s brow, thoughtfully. After a moment, she sat on the very edge of the bed and took Jason’s limp hand in hers with a gentle squeeze.

Jason looked ever so dull next to Mother’s healthy shine. That’s what Mother had called it a few days ago when Samuel had asked why Jason looked so dim, while she was so bright. A ‘healthy shine’, she had said. Samuel remembered people saying that quite often, especially Tom’s father. He had told Samuel that he was a glowing lad several times, and once he had told Tom’s mother that she looked as radiant as the sun itself. Samuel did not think she was that bright. She was as bright as a star or a distant candle perhaps, but not like the sun at all.

Jason slept peacefully as Mother bent and whispered in his ear, then kissed him softly on the forehead. Then she turned her attention to Samuel, still standing in the living room with the basket in his arms.

‘Why don’t you go and feed the chickens then, while I finish putting these things away?’ she asked. ‘And then help Lee in the barn. Did you hear that Lee?’ she called out a little louder through the window. ‘Samuel is going to help you in the barn.’

Lee’s response was an audible moan of disappointment.

Mother gave a stern look at Samuel. ‘Don’t leave your brother to do everything, as usual. It’s about time you learned to be responsible.’

He nodded and pushed the apple basket up onto the table, then trotted outside, rubbing his nose on his sleeve. His mother watched him leave and smiled. After a few long moments of staring into empty space, she lowered Jason’s hand back to his side and came out of the bedroom to return to her task. As she passed the table, she absent-mindedly plucked up an apple from Samuel’s basket and was surprised to feel something soft and wet underneath. She turned the shiny red fruit over in her hands and smiled knowingly as she spied the ugly-looking bruises that had been hidden skilfully underneath.

Lee was still unhitching Aaron from the cart, so Samuel grabbed up a heavy bucket of scraps from beside the water trough and set off towards the barn. He had to grasp the vessel tightly in both hands and lean right over towards one side just to keep from tipping over and it thumped his leg with each step as he walked, making it all the more difficult. Being big must be one reason why the grown-ups did all the work. Everything was much harder for small hands and small legs.

The chickens snapped up the scraps eagerly before the pieces had even hit the ground. They clucked and flapped their wings with great excitement, frantic to peck up the tiny morsels. The geese were far less excitable, instead carefully picking up the scraps that almost landed on top of them, raising their long necks to the sky as they swallowed. When the chickens came too near, however, the geese would hiss and stretch out their wings until the chickens darted away again. They were funny birds, the geese, but Samuel liked to feed them the most.

When the bucket was empty, Samuel set it down and watched the birds peck up the last pieces and then begin scratching at the ground. His gaze moved slowly from the dark brown soil to the sunlit treetops up on Miller’s Hill where so many of his adventures had been born. There, the trees made stairways with their trunks and bridges with their branches. Leaves became walls and gaps became windows. Outstretching roots formed cells for prisoners or mysterious caverns where adventures were waiting to be had. Only scant moments passed before any thoughts of chores were long gone and Samuel’s legs had carried him beyond the edge of the woods, where he vanished amongst the trees and shrubs.

Over by the emptied cart, Lee scratched his head quizzically, surveying the empty space where his little brother had been standing only some few moments before.

Deep in the woods, each and every narrow and crooked path had its own destination that Samuel knew as well as Mother knew her kitchen cupboards. On his right, he passed the dark, almost-hidden tunnel that he had forged through the thorny blackberries, which led to the deer glade. He wandered past the wide, stony path that wound its way up to the lookout on the rocks where he could survey the barren gully. He even went past the rain-scoured path that led to the wild orchard, which only he and Tom knew about, where they could sit and eat their pick of fruits all day long, even if many of them were bird-pecked and wormy.

Today, however, he had just one destination on his mind. He continued ever on, inwards and upwards and deeper into the woods, taking the long, narrow and difficult path on which he had to scale rocks as high as himself and duck under the mossy, fallen trunks of giant trees and then push through masses of cool and shady ferns. It was the most difficult path of all, but by far the most rewarding.

At last, panting and tired, he stepped up onto the great shattered stump, ten times as wide as he was tall. A giant of a tree must have stood there at one time, but now its shattered stump was all that remained. The forest had very few such trees remaining, but Father said that further into the mountains, in the hard-to-reach valleys where tigers and bears still made their homes, such trees grew abundantly.

Here, the woods were below him and he could look back down onto the farm far below. Tom’s house sat beside the snaking, dark line of the river and other farms and cottages peeped out from beneath the trees all the way to the village. He turned his back on them all, however, to see what was immediately below.

At the great stump’s far edge, where it was green with moss, the ground fell abruptly away. Down there was Bear Valley; he had named it after once seeing a great brown animal below. It had been wading in the shallow waters and had raised its head towards him and sniffed the air before turning and lumbering into the trees. How the great creature had clambered into the gorge, Samuel still did not know, even after launching an exhaustive investigation. The treacherous route that led down from the great stump was the only way into the valley that he could find, despite his many hours of searching and scouring the slippery rock faces. Thin trees forced their way from cracks in the sheer stone and stretched up, like gesturing arms towards the sky, but it would be a dangerous route to attempt to climb these almost-vertical walls-for a bear or a boy. Father had said bears were more nimble-footed than they seemed, but surely not even they could mount those treacherous surfaces. Samuel had asked a few sly questions and Father had said that such wild animals did not live around here any more as people had hunted them for their meat and fur and they had enough sense to keep away from the homes of men. Father had not seen one in Stable Waterford for many a year and only occasionally would one of the wild huntsmen emerge from the mountains with a pelt or a claw to sell.

Samuel counted this as his special place, for no one else he knew had seen a bear and no one knew of Bear Valley. No one had probably ever been here before, beside himself. The thought made him feel special and exalted-he was the King of Bear Valley and what adventures he would have!

As he carefully descended to the valley bottom, the skies gave a sour rumble from far away. Samuel stopped his descent for a moment to eye the great stained rock face at the head of the gorge. Down this dribbled a tiny stream which fed the pond on the valley floor. Far above, the icy mountaintops were hidden in a veil of frost, and the pale clouds had begun spilling over the rises and creeping down into the forested valleys, obscuring all that lay beyond them. There was no hint of the existence of the peaks and spires that watched the valleys tirelessly from their eternal heights-just a solid, greying curtain that was slowly enshrouding the sky.

With a gulp of dread, Samuel hoped it would not rain today, as there was still much adventuring to be done. He hoped the mountains would keep it to themselves for once, for looking out over the village the sky was still fine and blue, with the barest hints of curling, white wisps here and there.

It took some time to carefully climb down and, with a grunt, Samuel leapt the last step onto the pebbled floor. His feet crunched with each sandy footfall as he crossed the fallen moss-covered trunk to the other side of the stream.

He spied a long, black eel twisting sinuously in the shallow waters below; it made a shiver ran up his spine. Samuel did not like eels. They looked as if they were just waiting for someone to fall in so they could gobble them up. It took an especially hot day and a total absence of eels before he would even dip his toes in the water here. He often swam with Tom behind their house where the river was large and dark, but he had never seen any eels in those waters-just a few small nipper-fish and they were not scary at all.

He sat on the rocks and watched the water trickle down over the natural ledges. Occasionally, he plucked up a stone and sent it flying into the pool’s centre, or set sticks to float like boats down the various tiny waterfalls until they vanished into the cracks under the great stones that blocked the valley’s exit.

After a time, as Samuel sat squatting on his heels, throwing handfuls of tiny pebbles at his floating sticks, he noticed something curious seemed to be happening. At first, he thought it was his imagination, but the skinny cascade of water dribbling down into the valley appeared to be growing. As he observed, the water began making fresh paths, falling faster and splashing louder as it slapped down into the pond. The sky boomed again far off, and Samuel realised that it must be raining hard up on the mountain. Down here in the narrow valley, all he could see was the greying sky rolling above. The thought occurred to him that he should be going before it began to rain here, too, but he quickly forgot the idea upon spying the fascinating sight of the growing, gurgling waters. Even if it did start raining, he was so fleet-footed and so nimble-toed, he was sure he could get home before his shirt was barely wet.

The waterfall was running ever more violently with each moment-more than Samuel had ever seen it-and it crashed down from far above with ever-increasing vigour. The rock face was now hidden behind a sheet of white water that bubbled and gurgled and hissed as it fell. It plunged into the pond with a noise that was quickly becoming a roar. Samuel noticed that his clothes had become all wet from the mist that was being thrown up and his skin was covered with a sheen of water. The little stream running from the valley was growing too, now surging against the exit stones, and Samuel had to step onto the higher rocks as the water quickly grew. All the pebbled and sandy spots were now underwater and only the higher, dark stones that jutted up between the valley walls still remained dry.

It was then that the mist all around became much heavier, settling on his skin in clouds of vapour, and Samuel realised that it was beginning to rain here, too. In a panic, he remembered that it would be much harder to climb from the valley. It had been fun throwing rocks and watching the waters grow, but he thought he should like to be back out of the valley before it filled with water entirely.

He hopped from rock to rock and hurried across the fallen trunk, waters lapping at its base, and began up the crumbling slope. Rocks and soil became dislodged under his feet and fell away, bouncing into the pond. The slim trees and branches he used to help him balance were wet and slippery, sliding through his fingers, making the ascent all the more treacherous. His heart was pounding against his ribs when, exhausted, he finally reached the great stump and pulled himself onto it. He could see the stream that fell into the valley from up here. It now resembled something more like the river behind his house than the trickling brook he was accustomed to. The water crawled slowly to the cliff’s edge where it leapt in enormous volumes to far below. The valley floor was now invisible amongst the mist and waters that billowed into the air. He then had a dreadful thought. No one knew where he was at all. If he should slip and fall into the valley below no one would ever find him-or his bones. The thought made him shudder.

The rain was falling heavily and Samuel dreaded his punishment as he lowered himself from the great stump and began to hurry home, cold and wet, in the dull afternoon light. Somehow, everything he ever did always turned into trouble. Mother would be very angry indeed.

The next morning found Samuel and his mother again bouncing towards the village behind Aaron. It was sunny now, but the trees and grass were still glistening and the air carried the fresh scent of the recent rain. A few small threads of cloud still lingered here and there and even above the mountain tops the sky was a perfect blue. Samuel had been in sore trouble when he had come home the night before, saturated from head to toe and covered in mud and muck. His bottom stung with each bump on the road after the spanking that Father had given him.

Samuel could tell that Mother was still in a bad mood after all his mischief. She had missed her women’s meeting and every time she looked over at him, she just sighed and shook her head.

Stable Waterford was much quieter than it had been yesterday. Market day was the only time when the village was really exciting. Other days, there was no one to see and nothing interesting to do. He almost wished he could be at home doing his chores.

‘I just have to talk to a few of the ladies, so you wait here,’ she told Samuel.

‘Can I go see Tom?’ he asked as she tethered Aaron by the trough.

‘Very well,’ she replied, much to Samuel’s surprise, ‘but we won’t be here very long, so don’t get into mischief. I’ll come and get you when it’s time to leave.’

Samuel gave a cheer and skipped down towards the basket store, trotting down the road and in through the front door. Tom was sitting beside his mother on a small, three-legged stool, helping her weave some small containers. Tom’s mother’s fingers moved so quickly, Samuel wondered how she did not make mistakes. Tom’s father had said it took years of practice to become so good at weaving things. Even Tom could make quite impressive things, given time.

Upon seeing Samuel, Tom smiled and looked expectantly towards his own mother.

‘Go on, then,’ she said, nodding towards the door, and the two boys were soon frolicking out into the street.

The village was virtually deserted compared to the previous day. A few carts and horses were tied before stores, but otherwise, they had the street to themselves.

‘You have to see something!’ Tom gasped.

‘What is it?’ Samuel asked, suddenly excited.

‘Follow me! I hope we’re not too late!’ Tom said and led the way towards Old Mr Keen’s Inn, where, curiously, a small commotion was in progress. ‘Look!’ Tom called as he pointed.

They both stopped dead in their tracks as they came before a strange-looking man sitting on a small rug before the front door. Some people had gathered and were waiting expectantly. The boys pushed to the front to observe.

The man sat cross-legged and wore a purple, pointed hat with a tiny bell at the top. His brown, bony chest lay bare and he wore great baggy, purple pants, with bells on his purple shoes. He had a chestnut tan, but most surprising to Samuel was that the man had a healthy shine like no other he had ever seen. It was so clear that Samuel felt he could almost touch it, like a curtain of sparkling water that surrounded the man. Most people had a normal shine, while the old people and the sickly people had a dull shine. This man must, indeed, be healthy to appear so bright.

‘Look at that!’ Samuel declared with awe.

‘I know,’ Tom agreed. ‘He’s amazing. Wait until you see what he does.’

Everybody gathered around. Suddenly, the man’s eyes popped open and he leapt to his feet. There was a gasp from the audience. Without a word, he somehow produced a shiny, red ball from the very air and held it out for all to inspect, raising one eyebrow as if to reinforce just how mysterious he was. The audience was gape-mouthed. Another flash of his hand and there were now two balls. He began to juggle them in one hand with his other hand tucked behind his back as he grinned mysteriously for all to see.

Now there were three balls leaping between his hands. He threw the balls behind his back and under his leg without a pause and even balanced one on his nose, smiling wildly and making exaggerated expressions all the while. A fourth ball, then a fifth appeared and they all formed a circle that seemed to rotate between the man’s hands all on their own. All at once, he pulled open a great pocket in his baggy, purple pants and the balls all dropped neatly inside and disappeared one after the other. The small crowd clapped their hands and called out their appreciation and wonderment, as did Samuel, but the man was not finished yet.

He produced a long, sharp knife and made a show of jumping around with it and cutting the air, shouting as he did and looking somewhat savage. The crowd took a step back, unsure, while Samuel and Tom both giggled. The man then produced an orange with a twirl of his wrist and, before Samuel could blink, he had thrown it up and sliced it in quarters. Then, motioning dramatically for silence, he dropped to one knee and, bending his head back, pushed the blade inside his mouth and down his throat. Gasps came up from all around. Withdrawing the blade again without so much as a squirt of blood, he bowed, to the cheers and congratulations of all. He held out his purple hat and revealed his thick, short, curly, black hair. Each person took their turn to drop in a coin or two. When they were done, Samuel and Tom stepped forward.

‘Well, now,’ the performer said, reaching down and touching Samuel lightly on the head with the palm of his hand. ‘Who do we have here? And who is your friend?’ he then asked, looking at Tom.

‘Are you a magician?’ Tom asked before Samuel could reply.

The man laughed and smiled mysteriously. ‘I am merely a humble vagabond-a traveller and student of the world and entertainer of curious children.’ He towered high above the two small boys and their mouths hung open as they crooked their heads back to look up at him.

‘Do you make a lot of money?’ Samuel asked as the tall, dark fellow began counting all the coins from his hat.

Again, the man laughed and now bent over to roll up his little rug. ‘Very little, actually, but just enough to make it worthwhile. Just be sure not to try my tricks,’ he told them with a warning finger and a stern eye. ‘I learned everything I know over many years. It takes much practice and doing anything with knives can be very dangerous, especially in little hands.’

‘What happened to your skin?’ Tom asked, scratching his nose with the back of his hand. ‘Why are you so brown?’

At this, the strange man squinted one eye shut and opened the other wide, eye-balling Tom closely, as if in fascination. ‘Why are you so pasty and pale?’

Samuel was a little worried by the remark, but Tom only giggled at the man’s exaggerated expression.

‘How do you throw those balls?’ Tom asked enthusiastically. ‘Can you teach us?’

‘Questions! Questions! Children are ever full of questions!’ the man complained, but it was all in jest. ‘Start with one ball and practise every day until you can do two, or three, or five or six or seven. All good things always begin very small. Now, I’m sorry, I must go, children! I’ve no chance to show you more tricks today. Be good for your mothers!’

With that, he turned and strode into the inn with his sparkling surrounds vanishing after him. Samuel was still standing in awe, when he heard Tom gulp. It was only a moment’s warning and Samuel had no time to move before a firm hand had snatched his ear and had it stinging with pain.

‘Samuel!’ his mother growled and began to drag him back up the street by his ear. ‘How many times have I told you not to go running off?’

The whole way home, she did not say a word. She was obviously very angry with him and so Samuel did not say anything in return. They both merely sat in silence as Aaron drew them home.

Samuel addressed the task of chopping wood with a certain lack of vigour. He had been chopping for some time and there was not much kindling to show for his efforts. Father and his brothers did it much better, so why couldn’t they come and do it? It wasn’t his fault Tom had convinced him to go and see the strange man. He raised the small hatchet once more and let it drop, its head stuck part-way into the thick branch.

Father came striding down from the orchards with a spade over one shoulder and he shook his head when he saw Samuel’s efforts.

‘You should listen to your mother,’ he said, squatting beside his son. The usual healthy shine around his back was strange. It looked different. ‘She only wants the best for you,’ Father continued, heedless of his son’s examinations.

‘Did you hurt your back?’ Samuel asked.

‘I hurt it badly a long time ago and it sometimes gives me trouble, today more than usual. Does it look hurt?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Samuel replied. ‘But not too bad. Not as bad as Jason was.’

His father laughed. ‘That’s good, because Jason was very sick, indeed, but now I think he’s almost better.’

Samuel nodded in agreement.

Father smiled and stood and then gave Samuel a firm pat on the shoulder. He lifted his spade back onto his shoulder and continued past the house towards the river, rubbing his back absent-mindedly with one hand. Before his father had even disappeared, Samuel decided his tiny pile of kindling was quite sufficient for his mother’s needs and wandered off to play amid the apple trees in the warm afternoon sun.

The next day, Jason finally rose from his bed for the first time in several days. Despite his weakness, he insisted on accompanying Father into the orchards to help and Mother had finally agreed after he had promised not to do anything more than sit and watch. At least the fresh air would do him some good. Samuel was delighted that Jason was almost better, for while his mother had been busy caring for Jason, he had been burdened with all the extra chores. When Jason was fully better, Samuel would be free to explore and play games and have adventures as before.

It was particularly fine later that afternoon and, as Samuel was engaged in the fine art of lining up sticks on the front step and then tipping them successively over the edge, the sound of horseshoes came clip-clopping up the road towards the house. There was a stranger perched atop a frisky young thing of a horse, which was trotting along between the apple trees. Upon spying Samuel, the visitor waved his hand in greeting.

‘Mother!’ Samuel called out. ‘Someone’s here!’ And he ran out to meet the stranger eagerly.

His mother came out after him, patting clouds of pale flour from her hands and apron, for with the others all gone to Tom’s house to help mend their fences, she had busied herself with some baking.

‘Good morning to you, Madam,’ the man hailed as he brought his mount to a stop before them, its flank glossy with sweat. He spoke strangely, deep-voiced, and curling his words as some of the foreign merchants did when they passed through the village. His clothes, once fine, were stained and more than a little dirty, as if he had been wearing them for a few days too many. His mouth was engaged in a constant chewing action and Samuel had no idea what he could have been eating.

‘Good morning to you, too, Good Sir,’ Samuel’s mother replied. ‘What can we do for you?’

The man was grinning. ‘I see you run a fine orchard, but it’s just directions I’m after. Could you kindly put me on my way towards Cotter’s Bend, if it’s at all possible?’ As soon as his words had stopped, his chewing resumed.

‘From which way did you come?’

‘From Lowren, Madam.’ His smile was far too big, seeming to almost reach from ear to ear-and his teeth were awfully yellow. Samuel kept staring up the man, open-mouthed, like a fish splayed out in the markets.

‘Then you go back up to the highway and keep on for a short time that way back towards Stable Waterford, and the road to Cotter’s is shortly after. Just ask further once you get to the village-if you find yourself getting confused.’

The man tipped his hat, still grinning, still chewing, and, turning his snorting mare, started her dancing back up the track. Samuel’s mother promptly lifted her skirts and returned inside to her baking, shaking her head and mumbling to herself. The man, almost out of view, leaned from his saddle and plucked an apple from a nearby branch. He then stopped a moment, and half-turning his mount, he touched his forehead in salute and waved back to Samuel. Samuel was sure he could see the man grinning even from here, but for some reason he found himself not inclined to wave back.

Turning once more, the man clicked his tongue and set his frisky ride trotting back towards the road. What a strange man he was, Samuel thought to himself, and what a strange healthy shine he had, too.

That night was fine and dry and crisply cold. The countless, tiny stars were bright and clear, far more numerous than usual, and looked like a glittering blanket strung between the mountain tops. They winked down at him and Samuel wondered what they really were-tiny holes in the veil of night, or swarms of fireflies hovering high in the sky? Everyone had their own explanation, but Samuel was yet to be convinced. His eyes grew fuzzy and he had to look down, rubbing them with his tiny fists. Quickly picking up some firewood, he hurried back inside and placed the pieces beside the crackling stove.

The music from James’ fiddle was making a merry tune and was complemented well by Sarah’s soft humming as she worked on her embroidery. Mother was busy at the stove, clanging the pots together as she cooked, while Father, Jason and Lee were at the table, discussing tomorrow’s work. The harvest was imminent and they would all soon be busier than ever. James would occasionally stop his playing and add something to the conversation.

‘Don’t you think it’s about time you taught your son how to shave, Peter?’ Mother asked from her cooking. Peter was what she sometimes called Father.

Father looked at an embarrassed Lee and inspected him for a moment. Lee self-consciously rubbed the wispy hairs that curled out from his chin.

‘Aye, so it is.’

‘What?’ Jason laughed. ‘There’s barely a hair there!’

‘That will do, Jason. Leave your brother be,’ Mother told him and Samuel laughed. It was funny when his family told each other off like that. Many of his friends told Samuel how their families argued and fought, but Samuel’s family seldom did so. At worst, there were some raised voices or a few bad words, but everyone was quickly happy again. It’s true, his mother would get very angry with him on market day and when he was lazy and he received the occasional spanking, but if Samuel tried very hard to be good, everyone was happy almost every day. He knew that his family cared about each other.

James abruptly stopped his playing and looked out the window. ‘I think there’s someone here,’ he said. Sarah stopped her sewing and there was a sudden eeriness in the house.

Father pushed his chair back and stood, clearing his throat as he did. ‘Well, I’ll have a look.’ He barely managed a step towards the door before it burst inwards and men came storming in, shouting at the top of their lungs and waving sticks wildly before them. Sarah and Mother both screamed and Samuel’s heart leapt up into his throat.

Father began to shout at them, when the first man struck him. Father raised his hands to protect himself, but fell to the floor as the man hit him over and over. The other ugly men hurried past. Samuel saw one of them was the man who had asked for directions and he still bore his wicked grin-wilder, more maniacal, than before.

Samuel’s brothers were wrestling with the men while Sarah was huddled up and screaming in the corner where the fiddle lay broken. Samuel scuttled under the table, watching the legs of his brothers and the men struggle back and forth amid their grunts and shouts. Father lay on the floor by the doorway, staring towards Samuel. His wide, white eyes glared through a mask of blood. His healthy shine was gone.

‘Peter!’ Mother screamed, just before being struck also.

In through the doorway stepped another man-tall and well dressed. He had short, neat, dark hair atop a high forehead and he bore just a hint of a smile upon his lips. He nudged at Father with his foot, then stood in the doorway and watched on with calm deliberation.

Something had Samuel by the back of his shirt and he was dragged out from under the table. In a moment, he was out of the back door and into the cold night air. The grisly scene, still visible through the doorway, shrank away from him as he was dragged away down towards the trees. He struggled and screamed until he was turned about and he found that it was his mother who had him. She plucked him up to her waist and they were once again running from the house and into the darkness.

A shout rose clearly above the grunting and swearing, carrying through the still night air.

‘Jason!’ It was Lee shouting and Samuel thought it sounded awful. Lee’s voice was thin and desperate and sounded too short, as if something dreadful had stopped the sound part-way.

Mother was sobbing and heaving as she struggled with Samuel through the paddock. Samuel saw the stars, nestled beside the narrow sliver of moon that had crested the hills and a few goats bleated with curiosity as they passed. Mother did not stop running or crying, even after they made it amongst the trees and Samuel could hear, just as well as she, the men’s calls that followed behind them.

Dark laughter echoed after them through the trees. Mother’s breathing became more rapid and frantic as her steps became irregular and she began to stumble. The branches scratched Samuel’s face and he cried and sobbed as much as she. There was a jolt and a moment of vertigo and then Samuel crashed onto the ground. Mother regained her feet and this time she began dragging Samuel by the hand. His heart thudded hard inside his chest as he struggled to match pace with her-she was nearly pulling his arm from its socket. After a few frantic moments, she lurched to a halt and dropped to her knees as surely as if something had struck her. Samuel was sure a drum was beating in his chest, booming in his head.

‘Go on, Samuel!’ she sobbed between labouring breaths, her hair matted to her face. ‘Go to Tom’s house!’

Samuel could only nod through tears as he let go of her hand and ran off down the narrow path that snaked towards Tom’s house-blackness snaking through blackness-while his mother lurched away in the opposite direction.

A laugh sounded closer, not far behind and a coarse cry of ‘Got you!’ broke the silence. Mother’s shrill scream then cut the air and curdled Samuel’s blood.

‘Where’s that little mongrel?’ another voice could be heard demanding, but Mother’s sobs only carried though the trees in reply.

Samuel stopped, suddenly afraid for her and he turned and ran back towards them, holding one hand over his own mouth to try and subdue his sobbing. Crawling through the bushes as silently as he could, he could see them through his tear-filled eyes, standing in the wan moonlight. Two men stood over his mother, who knelt in the dirt. She held her face in her hands and was wailing and pleading all at the same time, making her words incomprehensible amongst her grief. A terrible shadow had surrounded her healthy glow and it ate at her like a disease, creeping in towards her and smothering her light. It emanated an inescapable vileness that seemed to stab Samuel in the heart; it was almost as horrific as the men themselves. Samuel tried to squeeze his eyes shut to blot out the scene, but his eyes refused to obey him and he felt frozen in place.

‘Oh, forget the little crapper,’ the taller man said. The moon shone down through a crack in the trees and lit his face. His crooked nose threw a twisted shadow across his face, but that could not hide the silver scar that ran all the way from his eye to his chin.

The other man spat on the ground and smiled widely towards Mother. Only now did he stop his incessant chewing. ‘Now don’t make any trouble or I’ll make this worse, witch,’ he hissed and leapt upon her.

She screamed and beat upon his shoulders as he laughed and wrestled on top of her. All the while, the scar-faced man watched on dispassionately. Soon, Mother stopped her cries and was silent. Her healthy glow was gone, consumed entirely by the blackness around her.

A silver blade shone in the spitting man’s hand and he bent and wiped it on Mother’s skirt hems. She remained silent and unmoving. ‘Suit yourself,’ he told her and he looked quite indignant. ‘Hell-damned bitch wouldn’t keep still.’

‘Now she will,’ the scar-faced man returned bluntly.

‘That’s what we’re here for. Don’t be upset just because I got to her first. It was my turn, anyway. Ah, damn it! I think I got blood on me! Well…what about the boy? Shall we track him down before he makes trouble? The boss wants to be sure they’re all good ’n’ dead.’

The scar-faced man then looked directly at Samuel and raised an outstretched finger. ‘We won’t have to look far. He’s just there.’ His wicked smile returned as he glared towards Samuel and he held his knife up, as if to show it off in the moonlight. He nodded at Samuel and bared all his crooked, yellow teeth.

With a start, Samuel backed out of the bushes and scampered through the trees, their branches biting his face, cold tears streaming down his cheeks. Great boot steps crashed through the undergrowth behind and then the spitting man was beside him, grinning as he easily matched Samuel’s tiny steps. His smile vanished as he collided with a thick trunk and dropped like a sack into the shadows. Samuel was away again and willed his legs even faster beneath him.

With horror, he realised he had strayed from the track to Tom’s house and the river suddenly loomed below him. For an instant, he teetered on the edge, almost tumbling into the silent waters, soil collapsing from under his bare feet.

‘He’s over there!’ came a shout and Samuel leapt back into life, clambering along the top of the steep bank, grabbing the bushes and branches for support.

The soil crumbled under his shuffling feet and Samuel tottered backwards. He snatched out for an anchor and grabbed hold of the long, spiny leaves of a black-jack tree. They slid between his fingers and cut deeply. He let go with a yelp and fell, splashing into the darkness below.

‘Over here!’ came a voice.

The water was so cold Samuel almost yelled again, but he put one hand over his mouth and held the noise in as best he could. He knew the men would be attracted by his splash and so he ducked under the water and kicked his feet, swimming like a trout. Underneath, the river was absolute blackness and ghostly silent. When he had swum as far as he possibly could, he carefully surfaced, filling his desperate lungs as silently as he could. The craving in his chest slowly eased as he took longer and more deliberate breaths-yet the noise of each still seemed deafeningly loud. He kept his mouth barely out of the water and scanned the banks for the men. They were standing a bit further back, illuminated in the pale moonlight, searching for him near where he fell. Samuel carefully back-paddled away from them, keeping close to the bank where his feet could just touch the bottom. Every trickle and every tiny sound he made carried easily across the water, but somehow the men still did not look towards him.

‘Ah, damn him!’ he heard one man finally say, his frosty breath forming a cloud before him. ‘It’s too cold and it’s as black as sin out here. I can’t see anything and I’m not getting wet on a night like this for some brat. Let’s just tell the boss we gave him the test and he failed. That will keep him happy. What’s one more dead kid?’ The other nodded and they were gone-vanishing abruptly into the trees.

Samuel stayed in the river for a long time, numbed and shivering. At first, he was too terrified to move, but after a time he realised if he stayed where he was, he would probably freeze to death. He waded along until he recognised the flattening in the bank with the dark shape of the swing rope hanging over it. He dragged his heavy legs onto the river’s edge and realised he was almost paralysed with cold. His body was so cold it burned like fire. Hugging his arms around him, he hauled himself from the river and hurried as well as he could up the rough, winding path towards the faint light of Tom’s house.

He banged on the door with his trembling fist again and again until, after what seemed like an age, it opened in before him. Tom’s father was there looking down at him with obvious surprise, still chewing on a mouthful of his dinner.

‘What’s this?’ he began, and then Tom’s mother appeared beside him, opening the door wide.

‘Oh, you poor thing!’ she said and pulled him in, pushing her dumbfounded husband aside.

Tom was sitting at the table with his dinner in front of him; his fork hovered by his mouth with a bite of meat still on it. Tom’s mother stood Samuel by the stove place and began to drag his wet shirt off. Samuel was still too shocked to speak and he let her move him around like a cloth doll.

‘Now get out of those wet things and dry off before you catch a cold,’ she instructed.

With that, Samuel began to cry. His teeth chattered between great sobs and he started shaking and shivering uncontrollably.

‘Oh, what is it, Samuel?’ Tom’s mother asked. ‘Not too close or you will burn yourself, dear. Here.’ And she put a thick rug around his naked, shivering body.

Tom’s father was looking out the window with concern. He dropped the bar across the door and continued to eye the darkness outside.

‘Some…bad men,’ Samuel began. ‘Some…bad…men,’ he stuttered, but could not manage to push out the words.

Tom’s mother’s brow knitted with worry. ‘Shh,’ she said, hushing him. ‘Take your time.’

Samuel swallowed hard-it hurt-and he tried to speak more clearly. ‘Bad men came and hit everyone. They hit Father down and hit Mother. They hurt everyone and I fell in the river.’

‘These bad men, they hurt your mother and father?’ Tom’s mother asked carefully.

Samuel nodded, feeling a surge of tears come pouring down his face. Tom’s mother turned and looked to her husband, who fetched up a long-handled poker from by the fireplace and began to put on his coat.

‘I’ll go get Owen and his lads and we’ll go have a look,’ he said and strode out into the cold night, plucking up his hat on the way.

Tom’s mother barred the door behind him, and then looked out the window for long minutes before returning to the stove. ‘Here, Samuel,’ she said, grasping a ladle and scooping some steaming stew into a bowl. ‘Get something hot into you. Tom’s father will see to everything.’ Her words sounded comforting, but her face was pale as she glanced towards the door.

Samuel sat up on the bench next to Tom with the rug pulled tightly around him, and gingerly pushed a few chunks of potato into his mouth, chewing upon the soft, warm pieces. Tom opened his mouth to speak, but a firmly raised finger and a stern look from his mother kept him quiet. She sat looking out the window until quite late while Tom and Samuel watched the fire embers burn low. Samuel had faint memories of being lifted from the table and being laid onto a soft, warm bed. His dreams that night were at first alarming, with a tall and vile man standing in the doorway, grinning in at him, but eventually such disturbing visions gave way to a deep and thoughtless slumber.

The sounds of stomping boots woke Samuel early the next morning. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, surprised to find himself in Tom’s bed. He hopped up and pulled on some of Tom’s clothes that were laid out nearby, and then hurried out into the main room. Tom’s father was just hanging his hat beside the door.

‘Morning, Samuel,’ he said soberly as he removed his long coat and hung that up as well. It was covered with a patina of dew.

Tom’s mother came from her room in a long, warm gown. She had on thick woollen slippers that made no sound as she moved about, unlike her husband with his great noisy steps. Her hair was knotted and all over her face, just like Samuel’s mother when she first woke up. A glance though the doorway showed Tom still asleep in his mother’s bed.

‘Well?’ she asked.

Tom’s father could not help but show some worry on his face, and ushered his wife back into their room.

‘Stay there, Samuel,’ she instructed as she shut the door behind them and they began talking in hushed voices that Samuel could not hear.

A short time later, Tom’s father reappeared and, after again donning his outdoor wear, he went outside and was shortly riding away on one of his horses. Tom’s mother came from their bedroom and she called Samuel to sit by her at the table. Her eyes were lined red, as if she had been crying and she held a handkerchief balled tightly in one hand.

‘Tom’s father went to see what happened. He and Mr Cooper and his lads all rode over last night.’ Her voice took a softer tone. ‘Your house was on fire when they reached there and they couldn’t find any trace of your family. Many bad things happened last night, Samuel-terrible things. The fire at your house was too big to do anything about. It’s burned down somewhat by now, so they will have a look inside when they can. Hopefully, everyone managed to get out in time. We’ll see. I’m sure everything will be all right.’

Samuel began to sniff and his eyes felt hot as he tried to hold back his tears. Tom’s mother took hold of him and pulled him tightly to her bosom.

‘Now, now,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t cry, Samuel. Everything will be all right.’

‘What about Aaron?’ Samuel asked between heaving sobs. ‘Did the barn catch fire, too?’

‘No, Samuel,’ Tom’s mother answered. ‘Aaron is all right. The barn didn’t catch fire. We’ll take care of him.’

Tom came out of his mother’s room, looking sleepy-eyed, and hopped up at the table opposite them. He spied Samuel crying, but not knowing what else to do, Tom cut himself some bread and began to have his breakfast.

Samuel was kept busy over the next few days with chores and duties at Tom’s parents’ house, even learning how to do a little basket weaving. These days seemed strange and distant, as if at any moment Mother would come to fetch him and he would go back home to find his family waiting there. He kept asking about them, but Tom’s mother only said that no one had found them yet. It was after a few more days again that Tom’s mother finally sat Samuel down, having sent Tom outside to play, and began to talk with him softly.

‘I’m afraid your mother and father won’t be coming back, Samuel,’ she told him. ‘Nor will your brothers or sister.’

‘Where are they?’ Samuel asked.

Tom’s mother’s eyes were all shiny and watery. ‘I’m afraid they were in the house when it burned, Samuel,’ she said.

Samuel nodded, looking blankly at her and not knowing what to say.

‘We’ve told your aunt and uncle in Stable Canthem about it and they’re going to send for you in a few days. You can stay with them for a while. How does that sound?’

‘Will I be able to come back?’ Samuel asked.

‘Of course, darling,’ Tom’s mother replied, ‘but I’m not sure just when. That will be up to your aunt and uncle. I’m sure you’ll have a fine time there. They own an inn, so you can help them out a bit and have lots of new friends there in such a big town.’

Samuel did not know what to say, and so merely sat in silence until Tom’s mother left him be.

Four soldiers came knocking at the door later that day and Tom’s parents asked them in. The soldiers looked untidy and smelled like horses and wet leather. They had scruffy beards and kept eyeing Samuel suspiciously.

‘Seen or heard anything new?’ the sergeant asked.

‘No,’ Tom’s father replied. ‘Not a word. Everyone’s a little worried now; staying in their homes and such.’

The sergeant nodded. ‘That’s understandable. What are you going to do with the boy?’ he asked.

Tom’s father looked to his wife. ‘We’re sending him to the city,’ he replied, ‘so his family can look after him.’

The sergeant nodded again.

‘What have you found, Sergeant? Any news of the culprits?’ Tom’s mother asked anxiously.

The man sucked at his top lip and scratched his nose before answering. ‘Nothing. If there’s not enough trouble here already, there’ve also been some killings in Cotter’s Bend. My men are spread so thin, I don’t even know where half of them are any more. I’ve sent word to Haywood for more men. These pox-ridden curs will show up eventually, and then we’ll hang ’em good and proper.’ With that, the sergeant stood and made for the door. ‘For now, keep your door barred at night.’

Tom’s father closed the door behind the sergeant and his men. He looked to his wife with mixed anger and despair. ‘You and your damned friends, Woman!’ He opened the door again and slammed it behind him as he stormed outside.

Tom’s mother came by Samuel’s side and squatted beside him, at eye level. She held both his hands in hers. ‘Don’t worry, Samuel,’ she said earnestly. ‘They’ll soon catch those men and punish them. Everything will be all right.’

Samuel nodded dumbly. His world felt strange and numb-as if from the moment he had fallen into the river, all warmth had been clawed from his marrow and dragged away into its depths and its own icy touch had leached into his bones. No clothes or fire or bedding could warm him and he felt that his life had been reduced to a tiny, trembling thread.

It was well over a week before a stranger appeared atop a wreck of a wagon, asking after Samuel. Tom’s mother went out to speak with him and when she looked back towards the house, Samuel knew it was time to leave. Tom’s mother rushed back in, while the grey-haired old man remained on his wagon and she quickly stuffed a few things into a tiny bag for Samuel.

‘Now you be good for your uncle and aunt,’ she instructed as she rushed about. ‘And if you get into any trouble, you just send word to us.’

Samuel nodded dumbly as she finished packing his bag and pulled him outside. He was lifted up and hoisted onto the wagon and Tom’s mother smacked his cheek with a wet kiss, pushing his bag onto his lap.

‘Farewell, good lady,’ the old man croaked with a wave of his arm and the wagon lurched forwards, drawn by an animal that looked at least equal in age to its owner.

‘Farewell, Samuel!’ Tom’s mother called out. ‘I’ll say goodbye to Tom for you!’

Samuel kept watch of her over his shoulder until the roadside branches obscured her from view. He wished he could jump down from the wagon and run back through the woods to his home, but something inside Samuel told him he was powerless to move. He would have to cling to the wagon like a bug on a leaf and just hope it led him to somewhere better.

Samuel turned to face forwards, still clutching his bag in his lap, and found the wiry old man looking him in the eye.

‘Better make yourself comfortable, boy,’ he said. ‘It’s a fair way to Stable Canthem and a bumpy road, to be sure. If you keep sitting like that you’ll have blisters on your arse before we round the next bend.’

An odour wafted from the old man, a stale smell like a wet sack left in the corner of the barn for far too long. Samuel’s heart beat strongly in his chest; the old man was strange and scary and his healthy glow was thin and yellowed. Samuel edged away from the old man as much as he could and pushed his bag down beside him, wedging it into a corner so it would not shake free.

The village was only a short way ahead, but instead of crossing the bridge towards it, the wagon turned aside and began down the busy road that led to the Great Highway. It was only a few minutes before Samuel was passing ground he had never before stood upon or played upon. His heart was full of uncertainty. He could not help the feeling that tomorrow he would return home and his family would be there, as they ever were, waiting for him. Surely, all this was just some kind of dream and he would eventually wake up in his own comfortable bed. Yet, the wagon continued to crawl along the highway, being passed in both directions by other wagons and people on horseback and sometimes even by people on foot, and Samuel had no idea where he was going, nor what the future would bring.