Lucy regarded the village of Bury, resting—or collected, he thought, like leavings, debris—in the crease of the valley. It was such a scenic locality, and yet when he looked over the clustered hamlet he felt a sense of loss, a vague loathsomeness. Had he ever been anything other than an outsider here? No, is the answer. In a place famous for its propensity to beget brutish giants, Lucy by comparison was so much the inferior specimen. He couldn’t dance, couldn’t hold his drink, had no ambitions as a farmer or landowner, had had no close friendships growing up, and none of the local women found him worthy of comment, much less affection, save for Marina, and this had been the all too brief exception. He’d always known an apartness from his fellow citizens, a suspicion that he was not at all where he should be. When he took the position with Baron Von Aux he made the rounds to share the news and was greeted with benign matter-of-factness, rote well-wishing. His life in the village had been uneventful to the degree that his departure didn’t warrant the humble energy required to birth an opinion.
Now Lucy’s window was opened and his mother appeared, unspooling his bedside rug with a muscular snap of her wrists. The concentrated explosion of dust was backlit by the sun; it hung on the air awhile, and he stepped closer to witness its dreamy descent to earth. As the detritus—his own—coated his hair and shoulders, his mother noticed him and asked, “You’re still here? Won’t you be late for your train?”
“There’s time yet, Mother.”
She gave a quizzical look and stepped out of sight, leaving the rug to hang like a calf’s tongue from the sill. Lucy considered the vacant window for a moment, then took up his valise and wrenched himself away, following the path through the trees and down the valley, toward the station.
He met a man walking in the opposite direction, a shabby satchel in one hand, makeshift walking staff in the other. The man had a field worker’s complexion but wore his Sunday suit; when he saw Lucy he ceased walking, staring at Lucy’s valise as though it posed some problem for him.
“Did you take the room at the Minor house?” he asked.
Lucy didn’t understand at first. “Take it? No, I’m just leaving there.”
The man relaxed. “So the room’s still available, then?”
Lucy’s head banked to the side, the way a dog’s does when it hears a faraway whistle. “Who told you there was a room there?”
“The woman herself. She was putting up a notice at the tavern last night, and I happened to be stepping past.”
Lucy looked in the direction of the cottage, though he could no longer see it through the trees. When he had asked his mother where she was going the night before, she’d said she wanted to take the air.
“She seemed an honorable woman,” said the man.
“She is not dishonorable,” Lucy answered, still looking uphill.
“And you’re only leaving there today, you say?”
“Just now, yes.”
In a covert voice, the man said, “I hope you didn’t find the accommodation lacking in some way.”
Lucy faced the field worker. “No.”
“Sometimes you don’t uncover the lack until it’s too late. That’s how it was with the last house. It was slave’s rations by the end of my stay there.”
“You’ll be happy at the Minors’.”
“She seemed an honorable woman,” the man repeated. “I pray she doesn’t mind my being early, but I’ve found it best to get a jump on these things.” He gestured at the incline. “It’s just this way, is it?”
“The path will take you there,” said Lucy.
“Well, thank you, boy. And good luck to you.” He bowed and walked on. He was disappearing around a bend when Lucy called to him:
“Will you tell her you met me, sir? The woman of the house?”
“If that’s what you want.” The man paused. “But who shall I say I met?”
“Tell her you met Lucy. And tell her about our conversation.”
The field worker seemed to think it an odd request, but he tipped his hat. “Consider it done.”
As the man disappeared into the trees, Lucy was visited by an evil thought; and at the same moment the thought became whole, a rush of wind swarmed him, a column of air focused on his chest and face. It was true that at times a gust of wind was like a soundless voice commenting on some private notion or realization. Whether the wind agreed or disagreed with him, who could say. Certainly not Lucy; and neither was he much concerned about it. He continued down the hill. His mind was like a drum, a fist, a sail overflowing, pregnant with push and momentum.
At any rate, he was no longer bored.