Free Never Trust a Dead Man by Vivian Vande Velde Page A
Authors: Vivian Vande Velde
length long and traveling by air. But how did one transport a bat who wasn't up to transporting itself? Elswyth hadn't given him any sort of pack—apparently she had judged a pilgrim should travel light. He certainly didn't want to carry Farold in his hand all the way. Looking around, he saw the straw hat Elswyth had made from one of her squares of wool. Carrying Farold in the crown of the hat would be only marginally better than carrying Farold in the palm of his hand. He said, "Well, as long as you're going to hang on to that branch, could you just as well hang on to the brim of my hat?"
Farold once more opened one sleepy eye. "That would look silly," he pointed out.
"Do you have a better idea?"
Farold sighed. Selwyn put on the hat. Farold let go of the branch and fluttered to take hold of the back edge. He was hardly any weight at all, dangling back there. "I told you to have her make me into a dog," he said.
Selwyn circled around Penryth to go first to his own home. He had no idea how he would explain what had happened and convince his family that he was really himself, but he couldn't bear the thought that they were imagining him dead or, worse yet, in the process of dying.
As he approached, crossing their recently harvested field, he saw no signs of activity, not even smoke from the kitchen fire. A few chickens scratched in the yard, ignoring him.
He opened the door and called in, "Hello."
The only answer came from the direction of the back of his hat. "Can't you keep it down when normal people are trying to sleep?" Farold muttered.
Selwyn refrained from saying that Farold hadn't been normal even when he was alive.
He stepped into the house and immediately saw that no one was home, not even his grandmother, who rarely moved from her favorite place by the edge of the hearth. The room was not in disarray: The floor was well swept the way his mother always kept it, the beds made, the table cleared, the benches where the family sat for meals neatly tucked beneath the table where they belonged. Selwyn poked at the ashes in the hearth and found them completely cool. No one had cooked here this morning and then let the fire go out. That might mean that they had left yesterday or earlier—but he didn't think that was likely: No matter how angry they were at the villagers for sentencing him to death, they couldn't just leave a working farm and assume they would be able to start again someplace else. More likely, someone had decided that his family shouldn't be left alone, not while there was still a chance of his not being dead yet, for that might lead them to plotting to get him out of that cave.
Surely,
he told himself,
surely they are well and safe.
He found food: more evidence, if he had needed it, that his family hadn't deserted the farm, for no one sets off just as winter is lurking around the corner and leaves good food behind. There was half a loaf of bread, so hard he had to dunk it in water to get it soft enough to eat—indication that it had been sitting here since about the time he had been taken. There were also fruits and vegetables that he ate unprepared and raw until finally, finally, his stomach was full again.
"Hey!" a voice bellowed from behind him—not, this time, Farold.
Selwyn whirled around and found Merton standing in the doorway.
"What are you doing here?" Merton demanded.
"What are
you
doing here?" Selwyn countered, remembering the business with the knife.
Merton narrowed his eyes at him. He'd been carrying a rake—
their
rake—over his shoulder, but now he swung it out in front of him, its sharp metal tines pointing at Selwyn.
He can't recognize me,
Selwyn reminded himself
He sees a stranger—a stranger who's in a house that doesn't belong to him, eating food that isn't his.
Trusting Farold would have the sense not to speak, Selwyn lowered his gaze, to look meek and not out for a fight. He said, "Begging your pardon. You frightened me half out of my wits. I'm just a poor hungry
Farold once more opened one sleepy eye. "That would look silly," he pointed out.
"Do you have a better idea?"
Farold sighed. Selwyn put on the hat. Farold let go of the branch and fluttered to take hold of the back edge. He was hardly any weight at all, dangling back there. "I told you to have her make me into a dog," he said.
Selwyn circled around Penryth to go first to his own home. He had no idea how he would explain what had happened and convince his family that he was really himself, but he couldn't bear the thought that they were imagining him dead or, worse yet, in the process of dying.
As he approached, crossing their recently harvested field, he saw no signs of activity, not even smoke from the kitchen fire. A few chickens scratched in the yard, ignoring him.
He opened the door and called in, "Hello."
The only answer came from the direction of the back of his hat. "Can't you keep it down when normal people are trying to sleep?" Farold muttered.
Selwyn refrained from saying that Farold hadn't been normal even when he was alive.
He stepped into the house and immediately saw that no one was home, not even his grandmother, who rarely moved from her favorite place by the edge of the hearth. The room was not in disarray: The floor was well swept the way his mother always kept it, the beds made, the table cleared, the benches where the family sat for meals neatly tucked beneath the table where they belonged. Selwyn poked at the ashes in the hearth and found them completely cool. No one had cooked here this morning and then let the fire go out. That might mean that they had left yesterday or earlier—but he didn't think that was likely: No matter how angry they were at the villagers for sentencing him to death, they couldn't just leave a working farm and assume they would be able to start again someplace else. More likely, someone had decided that his family shouldn't be left alone, not while there was still a chance of his not being dead yet, for that might lead them to plotting to get him out of that cave.
Surely,
he told himself,
surely they are well and safe.
He found food: more evidence, if he had needed it, that his family hadn't deserted the farm, for no one sets off just as winter is lurking around the corner and leaves good food behind. There was half a loaf of bread, so hard he had to dunk it in water to get it soft enough to eat—indication that it had been sitting here since about the time he had been taken. There were also fruits and vegetables that he ate unprepared and raw until finally, finally, his stomach was full again.
"Hey!" a voice bellowed from behind him—not, this time, Farold.
Selwyn whirled around and found Merton standing in the doorway.
"What are you doing here?" Merton demanded.
"What are
you
doing here?" Selwyn countered, remembering the business with the knife.
Merton narrowed his eyes at him. He'd been carrying a rake—
their
rake—over his shoulder, but now he swung it out in front of him, its sharp metal tines pointing at Selwyn.
He can't recognize me,
Selwyn reminded himself
He sees a stranger—a stranger who's in a house that doesn't belong to him, eating food that isn't his.
Trusting Farold would have the sense not to speak, Selwyn lowered his gaze, to look meek and not out for a fight. He said, "Begging your pardon. You frightened me half out of my wits. I'm just a poor hungry