Dabbing at his face with a kerchief and tossing his staff lightly into Mr Sadiqi’s safekeeping, Michael made a signal for a brief respite. From his recline in the shade, Nicolas produced a waterskin and a canteen tin at Michael’s request and threw them up into the air for I and he to catch.

“You write that song yourself?” Fat Mike asked of Single Nick.

“No I-”

“Because it is: not good,” Michael finished. He took a modest sip, and Nick took similarly modest umbrage.

The water was drawn cool from our well, and subsequently warmed unpleasantly with the day. But it was clear, and clean, and safe. Potable: that’s the right word for it. Though I’d known already that rushed is the wrong way to rehydrate, I emptied my canteen quick into my thirst. My stomach burbled once, and then stilled; with that and a few moment’s respiration, I was much renewed.

Meanwhile, Mr. Sadiqi had put himself into thought and taken me into contemplative assessment. I felt his attention in the way it is natural to intuit such things, and I grew nervous: likely assuming his disappointment where he had none.

“This is a poor test of my arm and my courage, sir. I think. If you’ll forgive my supposition.” My posture did not speak to my sense of conviction, so I tried to correct it here. “Surely I’d not have need for this and that, to dance and prance and parry, not if it was just a beast. Not if I was alongside y’all. Sir.” And here is when that posture unraveled. “On a hunt. Sir.”

“While it is very fine for you to offer, my boy,” the first hand tipped his head and flicked his gaze, and in that way seemed to communicate to the other two men. “I seem to remember – we are overdue for springtime reclamations; and as we all know, they cannot be performed until after surveyal.”

I was surprised by this. The Mister and his hands had long since salvaged from every ruin for miles. “But haven’t we swept over everything a million times already?”

“Well, we’ve still got some buildings standing off property which we’ve held off razing – and might find use for in the future. Sometimes things take shelter in them overwinter.” He smiled. “Sometimes men too. In fact, many of our hands started just that way: as… guests and neighbors.”

Single Nick let out a snort.

“Well it’s been long enough I’m likely needed somewhere. Mr. Baker, as far as I can see, you don’t seem very busy. How about you take Todd here by number 503 on Glenbrook?”

Nick’s guitar quit, and the man himself complained. “Hey now, Mr. S, five o’ three is a long hike. You sure you want us to go all the way...”

Mr Sadiqi produced a small hard smile which was unblinking.

“On it sir,” Nick deflated. He rolled to his feet and struck the dust off himself with a soft pair of leather gloves, then shrugged his guitar such that it swung round by its strap to his back. “All right, young Mister. You’re on field trip with old Nick here.”

I did not object. Instead I thanked Hand Michael for his tutelage, and made ready. Nick jogged off, and fetched up an iron bill-hook, two straw hats, and a long knife from the Hands’ Commons: which was exactly as it sounds, the shared residence for the help. As he did, I stripped off and changed my shirt, and then I refilled our water from the large communal ceramic jug which sat near to the same building. Then Nick handed me the knife while I was re-lacing my boots for walking, and it went (leather-sheathed) tucked into my britches.

As we set out together, I heard the fading sound of Mr Sadiqi at conference with Michael in low voices.

“How’re you thinking Mike? You getting any sense that he was drawing on Her grace? He’s getting quicker, I think. Quicker, I’m sure of it.”

“It’s hard to tell, Mr. S. Hard to tell in general. But with any boy getting older: it’s just as like for him to be growing into his own strength. Maybe it’s time to consider – those kids are kept so close to the Mister...”

“I know, Mike, I know. But I can’t just pitch them into the wild in the hope they catch Her notice.”

“It worked for me, sir.”

“Michael, for pity’s sake,” I heard Mr. Sadiqi laugh, “my intention is not to see one of them mighty, it’s to see all of them living.”

I lost ground to Nick’s pace, but resisted the desire to turn back. Missing Michael’s reply, I could only strain my ears to hear what last I could of the first hand.

“Listen, a wise man once said it so: ‘only a fool asks the victor how he won and is satisfied, without knowing also how the vanquished achieved their grief.’”

---

The Hands’ Commons was a low, single story building with an asphalt-shingled roof that was ever in need of patching. What windows it had once were mostly pinned up with wood ply or board, and the whole thing was flaking terribly in its white paint. The Commons were some distance south-east, I suppose in excess of a furlong and less than a statute mile, from the Residence. The stable and barns were north and east of us, and we were set out instead towards the west.

None of the remaining old concrete pathways moved in practical directions, so we took along a narrow trail of beaten earth instead. Our pace was swift, as both Nick’s legs and impatience were longer than mine. If I’d not been made to hurry, I imagine I’d have put more questions to him. But I was out of breath, and Nick was a man who was made happy by the sound of his own voice, so I made myself satisfied to listen.

“As far as we can tell, we’ve been clear of goblin nests since two thousand and… fourteen? Fifteen? Obviously, we still get them wandering in from abroad, but hoo boy, clearing out a whole brood of them out of a two story, four bedroom wreck? Everything moldy and rotten, and the little ones coming at you? That was a whole different level of – well, it wasn’t fun.”

“Wish I could have seen it.”

“Naw. You should be glad you didn’t. Back in the day, the good old days I mean, I think we called ‘em bigfeets. I’m not sure though. I’d never seen one, but they were a big deal: supposed to be all over up in the mountains and such.” Nick kicked at a thorn which was starting to reach over the trail, without stopping to cut it back. “Then again, bigfeets were around for a long time before The 'Vasion and they’re supposed to be hairy all over, so they could be something different.” He shrugged. “The ‘vaders, the ones who talk anyway, you know what they call them? Y Series four-dozen-five. You believe that?”

I didn’t see a reason to disbelieve it. “I guess?” I shrugged. We passed by the well to our right, and then soon after a burnt out charcoal ruin to our left. Twice as we passed, we were turnt to the sky by a distant crack which sounded like thunder and twice we were concluded it was not.

“That is some cold, analytical, stuff. Which you wouldn’t expect, all the ‘vaders I’ve met are all superstitious as hell. Real mystical, like a psychic from Rhode Island: you get me, with a thick side of Hollywood ham.”

“I – no, I have lost your meaning completely,” I frowned. “You’ve heard one speak before? Which kind can talk?”

“Oh yep. Bunch of ‘em. They’re filthy all over either side of the Appalachians, North to South. I met some of those horny-goat sorts on the way from Alabama.” Nicolas turned briefly, walking backwards and curling a finger on either side of his head, then returning to his forwardly course. “This kind was extra goaty, because they do come in all types, but those sons of bitches love to gamble. Let me tell you. And they fuckin’ love to drink, I’d say twice as much as that.”

My feet stopped. My mood fouled. “They’re the enemies of Earth, kin to the Devil. If you met them, why didn’t you fight them?”

The cloud overhead persisted in its gray, though the wind was stirring into a chill breeze. The originating cause for which my chaperone was called Single Nick was that he was missing the ring finger on his left hand to the first joint. He snorted and then placed that hand on his chin and rubbed at it. Then his eyes narrowed as he came to understand my conviction. Then he spat and turned away.

“A man would have to be some kind of extra dumbshit to start a fight in Holler country, kid.” Growling, he launched ahead into angry strides. “Besides. Fuck. It’s not so simple as all that.”

“I can’t seem to see what makes it complicated,” I replied, full of righteous anger and surety. I do believe my voice only cracked a small bit as I said it too.

The earth was stripped bare of vegetation in this acre we were passing through. There was a tin shed out on the packed, hoof-beaten clay. One of the hands was atop it, re-thatching the roof with river-grass. I did not know him well, but Nicolas waved and called out greetings and it was only polite I did so the same. We passed quick along by.

“Listen kid, I can see you’re in your hero phase. Just got that first big whiff of testosterone and you don’t know what to do with it. Fight something! Fuck something! Show everybody you’re special.”

“There’s nothing I need to prove to -”

“Show the whole world you got your pubes in,” Nick cut me off vilely. “Yea, you do. We all do, ‘cause that’s the way it works. Have the sense to take some advice from folks who’ve lived through it already.”

“Fine. Oh teach me, elder, sir.”

“Your hormones make you stupid. Stupid in ways you can’t even see, but which will physically pain you to reflect on once you strike into the clarity of aged wisdom. And you’re gonna stay impaired like that for five more years, that’s a guaranteed minimum. Unless Her Lady has changed that too, but I doubt it.”

“Just because-”

Nick raised his mitt and smugly interrupted. “Yes, because. That’s exactly so, because.”

I fumed. Nick was a layabout and a coward, foul of mouth and a musician besides. What did he know? Certainly, I thought: if I faced the enemy I would not fear. I’d have to practice, surely some little more yet, but I’d strike down anything; an ogre, a communist, even a dragon maybe. Someday, surely.

He’d see.

We passed on from bare dirt, and into cropped scrub prairie grass. The turf was bulbous and pitted, and tested our ankles as we crossed. Presently, we came upon Maynard, who was rolled in the dirt and his work leathers flecked with straw. He was grappled with his fist and knee against the haunch and neck of a surviving vampire mole, which was otter-slick and struggling and squealing to fury. The ruined bodies of two other moles lay scattered afield, and a fourth was upside down, alive and hogtied about its paws with sturdy rope.

Standing above them both was the Mister, who was casual and comfortable in his linen. Fortitude lay rested flat betwixt his hands like he was presenting his staff of office, and his hat was white and fine.

“What, ho! Finely met, sir! A good repast to you, sir!” Nick called out. For all that he spake me crassly, his tone in address of the Mister was comparably obsequious.

The mister barely at first acknowledged us with a grunt, focused instead on the animal under contest. Then, “that the boy with you?” He bellowed, having caught sight of me.

“Yessir,” I replied, being in no mood for Nick to represent me. “First hand’s got us sent to glen an’ brook, five-o-three.”

As Maynard secured the upper hand more firmly, he signaled. The Mister advanced and put the barrel of his weapon forward towards the beast.

“Glenbrook Avenue? Then why han’t the boy got a proper spear, you twit.”

The mouth of Fortitude thrust against the rump of the mole, and it wailed like it was struck by hot coals. Nick flinched also, though in rebuke and not I think, in sympathy. Finally, the fight went out of the beast and Maynard let it up.

“Sir,” Nick begged in apology, “it’s not the first hand’s errand for us to clear it, but to surveil it. This is our most prosperous time to instill some kind of responsible habits of caution into him, that we hadn’t the sense to practice.”

The mole was changed and changing, as any creature does when it submits to Her Lady’s grace, and the Mister’s dominion. It’s fur would lose its slickness and depth of color, its claws and teeth would dull; and though those domestications would take weeks to effect, first and fastest went the bright in its eyes. Whatever pride or instinct flashed in them once, turnt milky dull as the cloud above. Its body shuddered, and then it stumbled free from Maynard.

“That so,” the Mister rumbled. He studied the mole for signs of its placidity and submission, and made his sign to Maynard for approval of the next animal. “When you plannin’ on growin’ up boy? You happy to be coddled forever by women and old men? Happy to suckle at my coin whilst real men earn their keep?”

My cheeks burned. I could not know whether it was worse to rise to the Mister’s bait or to suffer his disdain. The answer would turn on his mood, and I had no context to forecast whether one course or the other might trigger the fullness of his attention.

Old Maynard rose up in our stalemate and prised his vakero out a nearby corpse. He wiped its point on fur and then flora, and trotted it over to make me an offering of it. “Better if you just take it then, on loan for the day,” he told me.

I took it up with thanks, though it was long and clumsy for my carrying. “It will be diligent then, such that my labor turn more neatly to your profit,” I then answered the Mister. Whatever heat I had felt, I took care to withhold from my voice and express instead in my grip.

“Hmph,” the Mister only waved us off dismissively, which was the best we could have hoped from him. Then, Nick and I resuming our course, we soon passed from the Mister’s company and into view of the western fence.