The Red Cloth

Our farm lay half a day’s walk from Sentinel Hill. On good maps, it was marked. On bad ones, there was just a yellow patch. That year, the bad maps were right. The wheat had withered, the well tasted of earth, and my sister counted every sack of flour twice.

When the stranger knocked, I was filling the last lantern. He had a wound on his arm and a red cloth around his neck. I recognised the colour. My sister recognised the blood. She stepped aside before I could decide what to do.

He called himself Joren. Whether that was his name, I still don’t know. At the kitchen table, he held his wounded arm so still it seemed any movement might demand an explanation. My sister cut open his sleeve. I stayed by the door.

Outside, horses slowed. I knew the voice calling towards the farm: a militiaman who had traded firewood with us that winter. Joren reached for his cloth. Only then did I see how young he was. Not much older than my brother had been when he left.

I put the lantern in the window and went outside. The militiaman asked whether anyone had passed by. Behind me, I heard my sister wringing out a cloth. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘A wounded man. Come in.’ Joren had probably expected a lie. I didn’t have the strength for one.