DAIN RUTTERKIN

Chapter 1

My name is Dain Rutterkin. I come from the village of Haven, on the banks of the River Lethe. My upbringing is not strange in and of itself, though I most decidedly am. My father is a pig farmer. His father before him raised pigs, and his grandfather before that. Pigs rut. And so we are called "Rutterkin." My mother roasts the pigs my father brings in for supper. She also cleans the house, washes the clothes and mends them when needed, and sows vegetables in the backyard. My father looks like a pig, though I do not. Perhaps he resembles a pig to me because whenever I see him, he is surrounded by pigs. My mother is very beautiful and I am happy for that. Better to be that than to be a swine.

As I said, our village of Haven lies along the path of the River Lethe. Perhaps that is why my memories of infanthood are blurred; it is said that those partaking of the waters of Lethe gradually lose all memory of their past. Anyway, it is but a short walk from the farm to the main road that leads into the village proper. I go there with my father every day in our cart, which is drawn by our horse Doxy. Many of the folk in Haven poke fun at Doxy. She is an old girl and must be managed carefully, as she is going blind in one eye. I once asked my father why we did not get a new horse to draw the cart and he replied: "Doxy is a good girl, just her one eye is bad that's all. And the exercise is good for her and makes her happy." That is true; she whinnies and takes little dancing steps whenever we bring out her harness. Father added that the life of our horse was lonely when she did not work, and that Doxy would most likely despair and die sooner without her daily routine.

The older folk in the village seem to understand. It is the younger children we have to watch out for. They think it is funny when Doxy runs into a fence post or wall and sometimes even will throw globs of mud at her. That is when Father looks at me in that way of his and gives the briefest of nods. I vault down from the wagon bench and the children scatter. Most of the time that is all that is needed. The urchins vanish into the cracks between the dwellings surrounding the market square. A taunt will sometimes linger on the wind after their departure. Pigface. Hog Raper. Those are the two most common. The taunts are for Father mostly and not me, though I will take the farm when he dies so I am the Hog Raper in training I suppose. I have yet to catch one of the urchins in the act of tormenting Doxy. If I ever did, I am not sure what I would do in reprisal.

Today at market, Father manages to sell three hogs, one each to Miss Bowgalt the spinster, Miss Guthrie the seamstress, and Miss Marie from the tavern. On our way back to the farm from the village, a stranger stops us on the road. He is tall and straight as a stick, and wears a wide-brimmed hat and a long overcoat. The sun is already descending over the hills in the west, and long shadows are cast over the road. The stranger's shadow is longer than he is. The shroud it casts renders his face a dark mystery to me. Father is driving and I am seated alongside, but he pulls on the reins at the sight of the stranger and Doxy whinnies to a halt.

The fellow hails us with a raised open palm. "Ho there, good sirs, might I trouble you a moment?"

He speaks with an odd falsetto and I immediately conclude he is mocking us. But Father senses nothing of this and nods back, his fingers on the brim of his own hat in polite greeting.

The stranger, long narrow face still wreathed in shadow, asks where he might take a meal and bed for the night. Father mentions the tavern in town, the Bull Craw, where Miss Marie earlier bought one of our hogs. The stranger thanks him in those same mocking tones, nods at me, and turns away down the road.

We reach the end of our road at dusk when the farm appears beyond the final hillock. Candles burn in the windows and I can see Mother inside. Her fair head is bent in concentration over some kitchen task. She must be chopping vegetables; she is never so focused as when plying her knife to rendering the evening meal.