We reached the hilltop, where a single great stone stood twined around with wild creepers. There was a wide view; I noted again how tidily kept his lands were, how neat and controlled and—well, how right was the only way I could put it. No wonder they had all been surprised when he’d decided to bring me back. That had been no part of this neat pattern. The river wound lazily through the valley; from up here, you could see the vast extent of his domain, the broad fields of stubble with their neat conical stacks of straw, the sweeping pastureland dotted here and there with grazing beasts, the mills and barns and the whitewashed cottages nestled among trees. So many trees; and the oaks, I saw, were not only young, but half grown, and full grown, and to the east they were thick and ancient, almost a forest.

“When Simon was still an infant, I was up there with my grandfather, collecting acorns, watching him set a drystone wall, delivering the early lambs. When Simon was a boy throwing sticks for his dog, I was planting trees with my father, and learning to stack straw, and thatch a roof to keep the storms out. When Simon was finding out how to kill a man quietly and leave no trace, I was taking the cottagers wood for their winter fires, and learning the name of every person on the estate. My brother and I passed each other like strangers. Time changes things. My father died early, and it broke my grandfather’s heart. Now they are both gone.” He said this quite matter-of-factly; there was no telling if he cared or not. I thought he must. It is hard to make yourself understood without words, unless what you want to say is very simple. I tried anyway, using hands and eyes. Those trees; so ancient, they surely held the knowledge and wisdom of all that had passed in this valley. They surely held the spirits of the men who had worked their love into the land with the labor of their hands. I tried to show Red this. Trees—old—young. Men—old—young. Growing. Heart. Valley—heart.

At least he did not laugh at me, but watched me gravely and gave a nod when my efforts were finished. “Simon never understood,” he said. “He was always busy somewhere else, always pushing, challenging, trying something new. What we had never seemed to be enough. And yet we have so much.” He lowered himself to the ground; the leg was clearly still not comfortable. I pointed to it and raised my eyebrows as I sat down beside him, not too close.

“The wound looks all right,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’ll call you when it’s time to undo your handiwork. Wouldn’t let anyone else touch it.” I used my fingers to tell him. Twenty days. My stitching must stay for twenty days undisturbed. Wrap and rewrap the wound. A poultice. Perhaps I could…And then I would undo my work, and it should be well. Red nodded; the message had been easier to convey this time.