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harsh command, which he ignored. He struck down and split his mother’s forehead, burying the hatchet in an instant welter of brains and gore. Behind him he heard steps. He dropped the hatchet, ran from the kitchen, down through the night to the river. He pushed off the boat, jumped aboard and was carried out upon the water. From the shore came a cry, harsh, yet somehow soft and melodious. Jaro cringed low into the boat, even though the shore could not be seen.
    The wind blew in gusts; waves surged around the drifting boat and from time to time washed up and over the gunwhales. Water began to slop heavily back and forth across the bilges. Jaro, at last bestirring himself, bailed out the boat.
    Night seemed interminable. Jaro sat hunched, feeling the gusts of wind, the wallow of the boat, the splash and wetness of the water. This was proper and helped him in his perilous balance. He must not think; he must manage his mind as if it were a brooding black fish, suspended in the water deep below the boat.
    Night passed and the sky became gray. The broad Foisie curved, sweeping away to the north beside the Wyching Hills. With the sun’s first glare of orange-crimson light, the wind pushed the boat up on the beach. Directly at the back of the foreshore the landscape sloped up in bumps and hollows to become the Wyching Hills. At first glance they seemed mottled or even scabrous, overgrown as they were with a hundred varieties of vegetation, many exotic but most indigenous: blue scruffs of tickety-thicket, copses of black artichoke-tree, bumblebee-plant. Along the ridges stood rows of orange-russet scudhorn, glowing like flame in the low sunlight.
    For several days, or perhaps a week, Jaro wandered the hills, eating thornberries, grass seeds, the tubers of a furry-leaved plant which smelled neither bitter nor sharp, and which, fortuitously, failed to poison him. He moved listlessly, in a state of detachment, aware of no conscious thoughts.
    One day he came down from the hills to gather fruit from trees growing beside the road. A group of peasant boys from along the Wyching Belts took note of him. They were an unlovely lot, squat, sturdy, with long arms, thick legs and round pugnacious faces. They wore black felt scuttle-hats, with tufts of auburn hair protruding through holes above the ears, tight trousers and brown coats: proud formal garments, suitable for the weekly Cataxis, which was their immediate destination. Still, they had time for good deeds along the way. With hoots and whoops they set out to exterminate this nibbler of roadside fruit. Jaro fought as well as he could, and quite amusingly, so that the boys were encouraged to invent variations upon their methods. Eventually it was decided to break every bone in Jaro’s body, in order to teach him a smart lesson.
    At this point the Faths arrived on the scene.
5
    In the hospital at Sronk Jaro’s hurts had mended and the protective devices had been detached from his frame. He now lay easy on his bed, wearing the soft blue pajamas the Faths had brought him.
    Althea sat beside the bed, surreptitiously studying Jaro’s face. The cap of black hair, washed, trimmed and brushed, lay sleek and soft. The bruises had faded, leaving clear dark olive skin, long dark lashes shrouded his eyes, the wide mouth drooped at the corners as if in wistful reverie. It was a face, thought Althea, of poetic charm, and she fought the impulse to snatch him up, hold him close, pet him and kiss him. It would not do, of course; first, Jaro would be shocked by the outrage. Second, his bones, still fragile, might not withstand the kind of hugging she would like to give him. For the thousandth time she wondered at the events which had brought Jaro to Pagg Road, and how distressed his parents must feel. He lay quiet, eyes half-closed: perhaps drowsy, perhaps preoccupied with his own thoughts. He had described the silhouette as best he could; there was no more to be learned in this quarter. She asked, “Do