In the morning, Rigg went to work with the other men—sausage-making today, because it was beginning to snow, and it might turn into a real storm, and nobody should be caught out in the woods when the world went invisible and white.

“I had a dream last night,” said Rigg. “After imagining that poor girl’s path through the world. I dreamed that I saw her dead.”

One of the other men grunted. Nobody said anything.

“I know I’m a stranger here, and I have no right to anything to do with that girl. I don’t have a right to say her name, if you don’t consent to it.”

“Onishtu,” said one of the men. “You can say it.”

“Dreams are dreams,” said Rigg. “They mean nothing except that’s what was on my mind. Only I do believe that people leave paths in the world, and I do believe those paths enter into my mind sometimes. And I wouldn’t mention it even now, except that I also happened to see the very house I dreamed that she was buried in, and if that was real . . .”

All work stopped. “House?” asked a man.

“One of the empty houses,” said Rigg. “In my dream, it had been built for her.”

“She was too young,” said a man. “Nobody would build a house for her.”

“I know, her father said so last night—I’m sure that’s why it was on my mind. Forget that I said anything. It was just . . . such a vivid dream.”

Silence for a long time. They got back to work. Rigg kept grinding the meat and fat that would go into the sausages—the bloodiest and most menial task, but he didn’t mind.

As Rigg expected, the silence was finally broken by a man asking, “Which house?”

They didn’t leave their task until it was almost time for the noon meal. They would all eat together, so they didn’t have to change out of their bloody clothes. But they had to wash their hands, at least, before putting food into their mouths, and for that they went to one man’s dooryard. And when they were clean, the man said, “Food’s not quite ready. Suppose you point out the house in your dream.”

“No, no,” said Rigg, but they insisted.

On the way, they passed the Cave, and the old men who were spry enough came out and walked with them, and a few curious women joined them, so there were about twenty people when Rigg got to where he had a clear view of the house that was Onishtu’s grave and marker. They were still a good hundred meters from it, but he could point and there would be no ambiguity about the house he meant.

“Let’s go have a look,” said a woman, who had been filled in on what they were doing in quiet conversation along the way.

“Not me,” said Rigg.