In Slipstone Village,
the sun shone harmless,
but the moon burned by night.

Down from the Chapel, far in the woods, he has waited. Now he will cross the rill, deep in the dark, and climb with sharpened tools to ask his questions.

“From a distance they looked like small birds feeding, perched side by side on the path, watching each other and ready to fly. At least, that was how he later described Jean’s disembodied hands as he approached them through the foggy Saturday dawn...”