The Testament of Yves Gundron by Emily Barton Page B

that’s—”
    â€œBeware her trickeries,” said Stanislaus, clearing his throat. “They may be vile.”
    â€œStanislaus,” Mandrik interjected, “she hasn’t done one frightening thing. Why not trust her?”
    â€œCome up out of who knows where, and so strangely clad? I do not know if she means well or ill—only that we should be cautious until we are sure.”
    â€œWhen my grandmother arrived,” my brother added, “she, too, was accused of strangeness, yet died a well-respected woman.”
    Jungfrau snorted. “In your family, any kind of freak can be respected.”
    â€œPerhaps you’d best feed her,” said Prugne Martin. “She looks a sight too thin.”
    But already Ruth was working at a strap across her chest, and when it sprung, it released the awful tumor to the ground with a resounding thud. Bartholomew said, “Mercy.” The crowd instinctively recoiled, but as a gasp escaped me my heart also rejoiced to see the long, gentle curve of her back reaching over the apparatus. Her black shirt fit snugly, and I saw the sweet bumps of an ordinary, bending spine.
    â€œWhat do you call this?” Adelaïda asked, leaving my side to point one hesitant finger toward what had, a moment before, seemed too dreadful to name.
    â€œMy backpack.”
    Adelaïda half frowned and sat down at a safe distance from her onthe grass. Anya, from the back of the crowd, called, “Be careful, Adelaïda.” What a difference between the figure of my wife and that of the stranger—the one plump, golden, full of sweetness, the other dark and hard, despite her odd beauty, as the Reaper at his grim work.
    Ruth worked open a fastener that made a strangely bright sound. Adelaïda startled slightly and drew farther away. Ruth, too, startled, and said, with a shy smile, “It’s only a zipper.” She worked it open and shut a few times. It sang.
    An amazing array of objects left the sack—more slender pants, balls of woolly fabric, and many items wrapped in small parcels with a luminous sheen.
    Adelaïda sang:
    Oh, the stranger came bearing her Backpack ,
    â€™Twas the strangest sight I’d ever seen —
    â€œSilence, sister, I pray you,” Mandrik urged her. He bent down reverently to touch a shiny package, his knees creaking though there was no sign of rain.
    â€œThat’s a Baggie,” Ruth said, “with granola.”
    He leaned closer toward her, a gentle expression upon his lips. “You needn’t tell me the names of things.”
    â€œAdelaïda,” she said, pronouncing it strangely, “asked me what the backpack was.”
    â€œI am not Adelaïda.”
    She colored slightly. “I can see that.”
    â€œHe’s like an anchorite,” Ydlbert offered, “only not locked up.”
    â€œMore like a freak, if you ask me,” Jungfrau interjected.
    â€œI wouldn’t be wise with the holy man,” I warned him.
    â€œWhat’s the difference between a holy man and a freak?”
    â€œIf I knock out your teeth, will that help you understand? Oh, but I forget me, you don’t have any teeth.”
    Mandrik clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. His cheeks were flushed. “Do you know nothing, Yves?” he called back to me over his shoulder. “As our sainted father would have told you, wasted breath is wasted breath, and a fool’s a fool.”
    Ruth extracted a tightly folded paper and held it a moment in her hands. “I’m not sure I should show you this.”
    Stanislaus said, “What do you seek to conceal from us?”
    â€œNothing, I—”
    â€œFor nothing is hidden from the eyes of the Lord.”
    She paused, then opened her paper to an absurd breadth, which revealed blues, greens, and browns as vivid as any in God’s creation, and the names of fairy places in an even, minuscule hand. The crowd drew