I was devastated. Too late to save Arsylang—just when he had been rescued from the abyss? No miracle after all? How stupid to call that good. Stupid and mean! I jumped with pain. Then I pulled myself up hard and yelled at Father: “You have done in my Arsylang, you and your stupid poison! And now you say it’s too late to do anything! And you say thank goodness?”

With the last word I mimicked him.

I expected to get my ears boxed. But Father didn’t move. I saw him grow pale and his lips tremble. Why didn’t he hit me? Why didn’t he fling me to the ground with a slap or a kick? Why not? At least then I would have had reason to cry and scream and rage, and try to throw off the pain. But instead I was left at its mercy, not knowing what to do next. We both stood there without moving, as if we were waiting for the end. Waiting for Arsylang to fall over and die. So we could say he was dead. So we could go home. So, once home, we could wash our hands with juniper extract, eat and drink, and go to bed after having struggled with the sheep and their lambs, only to get up and struggle some more with the sheep and their lambs. So, in short, we could get on with life without Arsylang. How awful and how shameful. Father asked why my belt lay there with rocks tied to it. I told him what had happened.

“Oh, my son,” Father said sadly, “once the terrible poison gets into the stomach, it’s too late. Then not even the sky can help.”

I did not reply, I had no reply. I could not grasp it.

Father let go of the gasping and trembling dog he had held and supported up to this point, walked over to my belt, untied the rocks, came over to me, and put the belt back on me. I did not move. With one hand on Arsylang’s flank, I could feel death spreading inside him. With my belt around me I felt a little relief, some slight support. Suddenly I remembered the story of Old Man Schirning and shouted, “Milk! Could milk possibly help?”

Father paused and looked at me. His eyes lit up. I took heart again. “Let’s go,” Father said. “We’ll take him to the flock.” With a tug he lifted Arsylang and flung him over his shoulder. We went up the gorge, climbed the steep rockface. I ran, or tried to. Father couldn’t run, but he was only a few steps behind.