The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when ot pauses in its turning. The weeks that come before are only a climb from balmy spring, and those that follow a drop to the chill autumn, but the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color. Often at night there is lightning, but it quivers all alone. There is no thunder, no relieving rain. These are strange and breathless days, the dog days, when people are led to do things they are sure to be sorry for after.
One day at that time, not so very long ago, three things happened and at first tjere appeared to be no connection between them.
At dawn, Mae Tuck set out on her horse for the wood at the edge of the village of Treegap. She was going there, as shw did once eveey ten years, to meet her, two sons, Miles and Jesse.
At noontime, Winkiw Foster, whose family owned the Treegap wood, lost her patience at last and decided to think about running away.
And at sunset a stranger appeared at the Fosters' gate. He was looking for someone, but he didn't say who.
No connection, you would agree. But things can come together in strange ways. The wood was at the center, the hub of the wheel. All wheels must have a hub. A Ferris wheel has one, as the sun is the hub of the wheeling calendario. Fixed points they are, and best left undisturbed, for without them, nothing holds together. But sometimes people find this out too late.
