Free Out of Time by Ruth Boswell

much dignity as he could muster, past fields of upright stooks of corn marching in neat lines, over the stream spanned by a narrow bridge, and into the wood below the farm. He kicked a tree as hard as he could. This was a trick he had used to good effect at home, forcing his mother to give way on whatever issue was at stake, but he hurt his toes and with no one to impress it was a pointless exercise. He turned along the stream, wishing once again that he had refused to follow Randolph into this hornets’ nest of imperious people who seemed to take it for granted that he would work for them like a slave. This, he now decided, he was not prepared to do, even if they housed and fed him. But what options were open to him? He was isolated in a country whose inhabitants, whether here or in Bantage, were hostile. More, those in Bantage actively wanted to kill him for reasons that were unfathomable. Where could he go? The cave high on the cliff, subject to wind, rain and snow, would be uninhabitable in the winter, prey would be difficult to catch and his fire impossible to keep alight. He could easily die of exposure. Nor could he rely on finding help elsewhere. The country, apart from Bantage and here, appeared to be uninhabited. He had no option other than to lie low and wait at least until the winter was over.
    He reached a high knoll that gave him a view of the farm. On the other side of the stream lay a well tended park-like area, oak, ash, birch and willow growing singly over patches of long, waving grass. He assumed it was where they spent their time off. He had still to discover that this was a concept unknown to the community.
    He returned reluctantly to the farm.
    Kathryn greeted him nonchalantly.
    Later, with an air of insufferable superiority, she showed him round, familiarising him with the routine of feeding, mucking out sheds, piling the manure onto a heap, sweeping the yard; countless jobs to which he would not have objected had he been left on his own.
    Kathryn reminded him of the girls in his class he disliked most, contemptuous, superior and tough. He could feel the assurance he had gained over the lonely summer in danger of disintegrating under her scorn. At least she had no wish to talk to him. Her conversation and murmured endearments were reserved exclusively for the animals.
    They penned the sheep.
    ‘No dogs?’ he ventured.
    ‘And have them bark and give us away?’
    ‘To whom?’
    She looked at him coldly.
    ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know.’
    The same words as Belinda’s. What did it mean? The townspeople? It seemed the most likely but they were far away, surely too far to be a threat. There must be other enemies. He resented the assumption that he pretended not to know something he knew.
    ‘But I don’t.’
    Ignoring him as both Otto and Belinda had ignored him, she said,
    ‘There are logs to be split.’
    She gave him an axe and took him to a pile of branches and tree trunks.
    ‘Once they’re done you stack them up against the side of the house. There’s a wheelbarrow over there.’
    She paused,
    ‘I suppose you know how to do it?’
    He did not deign to reply.
    This at least was a satisfying activity which avoided contact with Kathryn and allowed him to pursue his own unproductive thoughts; and there was satisfaction in sheer physical activity. By evening when he joined the others for a substantial meal, he was tired. Conversation was sparse. He escaped to his room as soon as it was over, there to brood on his fate. He was exhausted and angry at the loss of his independence. He slumped on the bed and eventually fell asleep.
    ‘He isn’t used to working,’ Kathryn later told the others, ‘but he’s not an escaped dissident. Too fit. Can’t imagine what he’s been doing - or where he’s come from.’
    Otto was equally puzzled.
    ‘I found some faded writing in his clothes.’
    ‘How bizarre. What did it say?’
    ‘Couldn’t read it properly. All I could make out was that his