‘Do you remember me?’ Marek suddenly asked the man from the village. He had grown bolder the more he had drunk. ‘I used to live in the pasture with all the lambs. I remember you. There was thistle growing in your front yard, wasn’t there?’
The man wiped his hands on his shirtfront and regarded Marek, whose face was waxy in the candlelight. He bristled a bit to see the lopsidedness of the boy’s eyes. He had heard of the trouble with the lamb herder, the slaughter of the ram. Nobody had ever mentioned Marek by name. But the man did remember the boy, bent and creepy. He’d seen him regularly scurrying like a cat down the road, looking for someone to pity him. He’d thought there was something wrong with the boy, that he was dumb and ought to be sent up to the monastery where he could be cared for, out of sight. He recalled remarking to his wife, ‘Don’t let that boy into the house. He’ll only waste your time with his grief.’ The man was afraid of strange people. Anyone deaf or crippled or ugly, he felt, was cursed. This was the attitude of most northerners. His wife, of course, being a native, understood that lameness or strangeness was a mark of grace. If one suffered purgatory on Earth rather than after death, heaven was easier to access. She, too, had seen Marek scrambling up and down trees, kicking rocks and picking flowers, shuffling down the road. She wasn’t afraid of him. She thought he was lucky to live so freely. But then he’d disappeared. Husband and wife had assumed that the boy had died during the famine like so many others. But there he was, fattened, with shorn hair.
‘Yes, I think I remember you now,’ the man said politely.
‘Do you remember my father, the lamb herder?’
‘Quiet,’ the priest interjected. ‘It’s not a party for reminiscences. We are here to feast for Christ.’
Marek looked at Villiam, who scowled again. Marek pounded the table. Villiam laughed falsely.
‘My boy, Marek, has a fondness for wine, it seems,’ Villiam said.
‘Your boy?’ the woman asked.
‘Mm. And for the pastures. He likes the outdoors, don’t you?’
Marek wilted. Of course Marek liked the outdoors, but what did Villiam know about it?
‘Sure I do,’ he said.
‘And Emil,’ Villiam said, clearing his throat. Emil sat up. ‘Do you like the outdoors?’
Emil looked toward his parents, who nodded encouragingly for him to answer. They were not entirely perplexed by the lord’s claim to Marek: men of power often enjoyed the company of boys, and there were great gifts to be gleaned from a lord’s affections.
‘Tell the lord if you like the outdoors,’ the mother said quietly.
‘Yes,’ the little boy said.
‘How wonderful!’ Villiam cried. ‘A boy who likes the outdoors. And where is your favorite place outside?’
‘The lake,’ the boy said, a little more confidently.
‘And do you swim like a little fish?’
Emil didn’t respond. He was remembering the summer and the horror of his hunger. Marek didn’t look at the little boy. He didn’t want to feel jealous or guilty. Emil took a bite of venison and chewed it slowly. Villiam watched his lips, anxious for his reply.
‘Tell him,’ the mother said.
‘No,’ Emil said. ‘I can’t swim.’
‘Then we must teach you,’ Villiam said. ‘After dinner, come and have a bath with me. I’ll show you how to float. My bathtub is so big, it can fit two grown men.’
At this point, Marek gave up on helping Villiam control his darker urges. He himself had never been invited to swim.
‘Can I swim, too?’ Marek asked. ‘Why can’t I swim?’
Villiam turned red and banged his own fist on the table, then chuckled and forced a smile. ‘Nobody’s asking you, that’s why,’ he said through clenched teeth.
The mother spoke up, blushing a bit. ‘Our boy might be dirty,’ she said. ‘He’d ruin the lord’s nice bathwater. He may splash you by accident, or he may drown.’
‘We camped beside the lake during the drought,’ the father said. ‘The children weren’t allowed in the water.’
‘Maybe they could sing you a song instead,’ the mother offered.
‘That’s quite all right. I don’t like it when children sing,’ Villiam said in reply.
‘What nonsense!’ the priest cried out, as though he had been waiting to explode. ‘You love songs. Your whole life you’ve forced us to sing you songs all day long.’