The Testament of Yves Gundron by Emily Barton

imagine you’ve never heard of it.”
    â€œMy brother, Mandrik le Chouchou, is the only man among us who has left the village. He has traveled the world, and never mentioned such a place.”
    Her dread tumor creaked and shifted, despite which she let out a sweet, musical laugh. “People say it’s not much of a city, anyway.”
    I asked, “What is it like there?” Because surely it wasn’t like here, if she went about dressed that way.
    She looked Heavenward for an answer, as if Boston were spread like the stars across the great sky. “I’m not sure what to tell you, or where to begin. I’m not sure what’s the right thing to say.”
    â€œTell us how things are, and don’t fret about the consequences.”
    She nodded, never taking her eyes from us as she thought. “I’ll see if I can explain. It’s not like it is here. It’s a large city, equipped with all the modern conveniences, and with a number of universities, which is how my family ended up there. There are lots of young people, though it’s conservative in some ways, too.” She stopped to regard us, and quieted her tone. “None of which means anything to you, does it?”
    â€œNot a word,” I solemnly agreed.
    â€œI’m sorry. I’ll try to think of a better way to explain.”
    Adelaïda, still from behind, whispered, “Does she speak English?”
    â€œI think so, though I cannot follow all her meaning.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said. “Will you stop me, when I’m not clear? I want to be clear.”
    â€œThere’s no need to be sorry. You are welcome here, even if we don’t understand you.” I fervently hoped that the emotion thus expressed would follow its expression. “The village is on holiday today, in celebration of one of my inventions. Will you come with us for sustenance and barley ale?”
    I think her mood picked up at the mention of the ale, for she thrust her chest forward and resettled the gruesome tumor on her back. “Sounds great, thanks.”
    Our idyll trounced, my wife and I joined hands and led the stranger back to the clearing in the grove, wherein our neighbors made merry. Perhaps, I reasoned, her oddity was purely one of form, and once we grew used to it we would like her. I hoped this would be so, for I did not like the discomfort she then elicited. I also hoped that discovering her on the day of my festival might be an auspicious sign, despite the cold tremor which tickled my spine when I thought of her tall, strong body clomping through the field behind me.
    â€œHow many are you, in the village?” she asked.
    â€œBut a few score, counting beasts and babes.”
    â€œAll born and raised here?”
    â€œAll, aye.”
    She walked silent a few paces, then added, “But you say your brother’s been all over the world?”
    â€œTo the Orient.”
    Children were still dancing at the Maypole, but the elder boys, Ydlbert’s among them, had wrested the straps from the tots, and were now jumping and spinning like heathens. Prugne, her freckled bosom half bared to the breezes, spun about like a top, calling joyfully to the skies. To appease the small ones, Mandrik had hitched a cart to Hammadi, who was festooned in garlands of white flowers and anointed with oils, and drove the children about like so many bushels of potatoes. Their small heads, russet- and flaxen-haired, peeked above the high walls of the cart, blissfully accepting the warmth of the April sunshine and the coolness of the breeze.
    â€œThey’re having a Renaissance fair, only they’re not,” Ruth whispered, unintelligibly, behind me.
    For a moment I hoped that our arrival would go as unnoticed in the general tumult as our departure surely had but a while before, but a dark, brooding hush soon spread about me like falling snow. The cartground creaking to a halt, bumping up against