IT WAS WORSE than the bread of that day: the burnt bread with God’s blessing. It was the white bread with God’s curse. He had snapped off a crust and put it in his mouth and sat under a tree out of the sun.
The bread was bone. There was nothing in his mouth to soften it. His tongue stuck to the lump. He moved it around. Bone. He granched it with his teeth, and tried to swallow, but his throat would not. He chewed the lump to splinter, the splinter to shard, the shard to crumb, and spat, but he could not rid his mouth. He had to scrape out the dust with his fingers.
The sun had moved, and he shifted away.
He took a piece of beef, but the brine was too harsh. He pulled at grass, cutting his hands, and pushed it into his mouth. It changed the taste, but gave him no juice. He gagged on the dryness and heaved it from him. He turned his palms, and, with slow care, picked each bead of blood on his tongue. It was salt, but he could feel the moist for an instant as it was taken up. He sat against the trunk and closed his eyes.
The sun hurt his lids. It had moved again. He looked at the shadow, and at where he had first sat. There was only the air beating down. Where he had shifted, too, was in the open light.
Yay! Bugger this for a game! Sun’s going backards!
Skrike or laugh, said Grandad. You’ll learn.
He collapsed against the tree. A wind blew from the land; and on it was a sweet and biting scent. He sniffed. It was the smell in the sound of the bee at the churching.
Gripe, griffin, hold fast!
William kept the compass straight, and ran in the sun, along the shore, laughing, though his skin cracked.