The Boy

He called the child by name. The child did not turn. He called again.

Queer; he had known the boy since he was naught but a wee-ane.

Curious, he dismounted the horse and fastened the bridle to the gate's stone post.

He quickened a step and followed the path of the lad across the field. Reaching the gate to the field, "Frances" - he bellowed to his friend. The child broke into a trot. The man, puzzled, climbed the gate and followed.

He knew all of the children of the vale. He had loved many of them; those who had been brought to hear him, those who he had observed in church of a Sunday. Some of them, he had attended their baptismal introduction to the Lord, some he had spoken with in quiet corners and given them his blessing.

Across the field he panned, the crop was long, reaching the up to the child's waist. The sun was waning, shadows lengthening and a breeze fluttered across the field, the barley swishing under its' passing. It had been a hot day. The man had arrived earlier, under the sun's glare. A home-coming of sorts; he felt a pull to return. Something was amiss. There was an uneasy air to the vale.

The breeze came again, chilled the back of his neck. The boy disappeared behind a hedge. The man continued, curious as to his guilt.

At the bottom of the field, where the hedgerow grew tall and mingled with the ancient trees, the ground gave way to a lazing burn. The ground was boggy despite the time of year and the air was cool. Midges swarmed, zigzagging with a madness, possessed by some lust no man could know.

The boy, on the cusp of becoming a man, yet still possessed of the skinny limb and golden forelock which marked him as a child, made his way through the shadow not turning toward the road but seeking a hiding place.