Now the woods press on both sides of the road, which begins to wind. With each bend, the way narrows. I turn a bend and the road is now only a yard or so wide, and a man is creeping toward me on its opposite side. He is all in dark, loose homespun and a sweeping garment over that; his white head droops down and he scours the bare ground with his eyes. I want to avoid him, but I fear the results of trying. He has a weirdly smooth way of walking, and he holds his arms straight at his sides, all the fingers of both hands splayed out to their fullest extent as though he were trying to stretch his cuffs. He looks up at me with a gasp. His milky face has a sharp little nose, a white moustache with braided ends dangling past his lips, and a long beard hangs straight from his cheeks. Thick white hair is pulled straight back from his square forehead. He stands bolt upright now and steps over to me, so that I haven’t time to see his eyes.

“Have you seen my dog” he asks, and adds another word at the end I can’t make out. It might have been “miss.” There was no question in his tone. Now that he stands in the gloom of the trees and the dusk I can’t see for myself, but he speaks like a man without a tooth in his head. His jaw works obscurely in the shade, behind his beard, and I hear the loose cheeks and lips slop and flap a bit.

Not knowing what else to do, I actually try to recall noticing any solitary dogs, but after only a moment, during which he lists a bit back and forth, he says “I have many fine dogs,” in the same abrupt way, and the impression that I’m talking to a fool or a madman solidifies. He is fingering the fabric of my tunic in the front. My eyes rest on a patch of bald shabbiness along the shoulder seam of his cape or robe, whatever it is. He gives off a strong, ammonia-like smell, but there’s no human gaminess in it.

“Yes,” I say simply, moving off.

When I turn a few paces later, I see him standing straight where he was, still looking at the spot I’d just vacated. I round the next bend and stop, return stealthily to spy on him. He creeps along as before, out of sight.

I leave the path at once and strike out into the woods. Staying within view of the path, I find the spot where we had left it before, the rocks and trees are familiar. Following them in, I know I can follow them out again. I spit on Thrushchurl’s gloves and the uncorked blade of his scalpel, then I go in.