“Frodo! I forgot all about you. Sorry, boy!” I strode toward him then bent down. He ran at full speed and leapt into my outstretched arms. His lips curled back exposing his teeth in a ridiculous grin that didn’t stop. He insisted I hold him, and when I put him on the ground, he was inconsolable, threading in and out between my legs as I walked, whimpering and begging.

Quon gave me a long strip of cloth which I hung over my shoulder to make a carrier Frodo could rest in, against my chest. It reminded me of the little front carriers I’d used to transport Amy and Brian when they were small.

Before us was a quiet village of only a few houses, the closest one a dark wood A-frame with smoke puffing out of its cracked brick chimney. The stranger finally slowed his pace. The big mahogany door in the closest house swung open, and a light glowed inside. Quon ran ahead and rushed in. Shad and Malaiki followed, while the rest of us approached more slowly. I was relieved to see the newcomer stay on the road, walking on by himself.

Quon stuck his head out the door, took a nervous look, then bolted back toward the road.

“Wait!” he called to the stranger. “Please stay with us! We must hear more.”

Speak for yourself.

The Woodsman turned back and entered the door Quon held open for him.

“He would have gone on without us,” Quon whispered to me, a look of desperation in his eyes.

Cautiously, I entered the house. In a gray stone-walled room a polished oak table was set for us with a single loaf of bread in the middle and next to it a wooden chalice filled with a dark juice, perhaps senaba. The bread was smooth and well-rounded, but I was certain it couldn’t taste as good as Joshua’s. We silently seated ourselves in the straight-backed chairs. Did the others feel as uncomfortable as I did?

The Woodsman took the loaf in his hands. I couldn’t keep from staring at it. Was I that hungry?

“The King is the bread of life,” he said. I held my breath. In the absolute silence I heard the soft sound of the loaf being slowly broken, but the sound resonated differently as it continued, as if it became something firmer, more solid and alive. A fermented scent permeated the room—it was almost intoxicating.

I gasped involuntarily, noticing for the first time that the man’s hands were severely scarred. Hearing my outburst, everyone at the table stared at me. The Woodsman’s smoked-glass eyes burned into me. My embarrassment was replaced by a wave of fear and guilt that swept over me as if I were at fault for the accident that had injured his hands. But why should I feel that way? It made me angry.