Rigg became conscious of the many eyes that were now glancing at him. Or openly watching him.

“You’re a kind of holy man,” said a sausagemaker. “Do you think we’d be doing a wrong if we held this man to account?”

Rigg did not know how to answer. So he just looked at the murderer. A long, steady gaze.

“You’ll believe a stranger over me?” he shouted. “He comes into the village and suddenly he knows where she’s buried! Don’t you think that’s suspicious?”

“Hard to guess his age,” said a woman, “but he’s young. I think he would have been under ten years old when she died. So no, I don’t think that’s suspicious. I think it’s the Sight. He said he sees the paths people take in their lives, and he saw where her path ended.”

“Did he do it?” another man asked Rigg.

“The boy is not a judge,” said Ram Odin. “He had a dream. You found the body that he saw buried in that dream.”

“But did he see who buried her?” demanded a man. There were open declarations of agreement.

“I would never accuse a man on the basis of a dream,” said Rigg. “I don’t know which dreams are true and which are merely dreams. I’m sorry this one turned out to be true.”

“You didn’t answer,” said a woman. “Was he in your dream?”

“In my dream,” said Rigg, “the cavity behind the wall under the window had already been dug out to receive the body before she died.”

“You can’t know that!” shouted the man. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about! And even if it’s true, somebody else could have done it!”

“We would have known,” said a woman, “if a man started digging in another man’s marriage house.”

The assent was resounding.

“Will you give him a night to pack his things?” asked his wife. “The man who did this murder deserves nothing, but my children will be uneasy if their father goes away empty-handed, with winter coming on.”

“You can’t believe I did this!” the murderer cried to his wife.