Now the rain has stopped it is time to move on. The raindrops along the top of the door rest in a line, like sparrows on a branch and glisten enticingly. The beautiful green world is washed and refreshed. Time to go.
Young Tom comes out of the cottage ... six years ago he slithered out of his mother's belly into my hands. How he has grown, a strong boy, capable and quick. I can see how seriously he takes his duty - holding the cup of hot tea in his hands, carefully negotiating the puddles in the yard as he come to the barn where I have slept. He offers me the tea with a grave little bow, as he has been shown, then, before he is really upright again he plucks at me, slipping his hand into mine.
We go on a small adventure, out of the yard, across the field, past the incurious cows. My poor tea slips and slops over the edges of the simple mug as Young Tom tries to pull me along. I let myself be pulled, enjoying his desire to show me some child's treasure. I laugh as he stomps determinedly towards this important thing - I wonder... a bird's nest full of speckled jewels, the first honeysuckle, sweet as kisses, opening in the hedgerow?
I stare as the lad comes to a halt and points. Known as a healer I do not think I can heal what I see. I pull the boy back and approach myself, looking about the ground as I do so for any mark or sign. I know enough, more than many, how to read grass and mud. Helps me in finding elusive leaf or flower, to be able to read the land. But I wish I had my cousin's skill as I try to decipher what I see.
I commit what I can to memory before I place my hands on the corpse. Too late for any healing, nothing would have enough virtue to close those wounds or still the horror on that face. I bow my head silently for a moment, as young Tom chews on his knuckles, his eyes quietly taking in the scene. Then, practical as ever, I search the remains. Done, I pull young Tom to me, hoisting him up as best I can into my arms.
We return, he with arms and legs wrapped about me, me striding as well as I can encumbered. Thankfully today my leg is strong beneath me and we do not stumble. At the cottage I deliver the boy back to his parents, tell them of what I have seen, direct a quick burial.
I pick up my pack and staff, put what I have found deep inside and lift my sights to the hills. If he is about, my cousin will be in the hills. If I stand quiet enough in the rain up there he will come, suprising me even as I prick my ears to try to catch his approach. I need to take his counsel. And he may help me gather thick moss for drying to replenish my supplies. He has many uses, if one dares to ask.
