“Come have dinner,” Enell called from the house.

Roge split the last piece of wood with the axe, then stacked the wood in the shed, hanging the axe on the wall inside. The sun had already set beyond the trees, a cool wind blowing from the forest, cooling his heated body. He sprayed some water from a nearby trough on his face and neck, washing himself from the day’s sweat, and walked towards the house.

The water cascaded down his skin, running over the many scars he carried. It had taken his bones weeks to knit, and he still felt aches when he stretched. When he was finally able to sit up and get his legs under him, he leaped at the chance to get out of bed.

He’d started small, walking around the room, then the house, then the yard. He’d helped Enell as she walked around the farm, feeding the animals. He carried her satchel and helped cast the food when he was able to make more abrupt movements with his hands without his back spasming.

That fearsome animal, Ser Jossa, had its gimlet eyes on him at first, but Enell stood her ground, and the rooster gave up and flew to stand on a fencepost to observe its domain. It was a marvel to Roge, who had never seen a chicken, though he’d heard of them from the pilgrims who came to the monastery.

“It won’t bite you,” Enell had laughed that first day he went out of the house. “It’s like you’ve never seen a rooster before.”

Roge wasn’t sure what to say. He did not want to let her know where he was from. He was now Dalle, but where was Dalle from that he’d never seen so many things she took for granted?

“I don’t remember seeing one,” he said, careful in how he phrased his response.

“You must have hit your head hard. I had a piglet once got kicked in the head by a horse and had to be reminded to eat after that. We just ate it.”

She took up most of the conversation, which suited Roge, who wasn’t sure what to talk about. The dead and taking care of them did not seem an appropriate topic in this farm he found himself on.

She showed him how to feed the chickens and pigs and how to help clean the coops and sheds. As he grew stronger, he started doing more of the physical labor, helping her and her father, Reder.

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The night was warm, no wind blowing. There were no clouds in the sky, and both moons joined the myriad stars, shining enough light to see clearly. Roge liked this time of night when he could enjoy the quiet without worrying about the freezing cold of the desert blowing at the top of the mountain.

He was sitting outside, whittling a piece of wood with a knife. Wood was plentiful here on the plains, unlike at the monastery, where every piece was precious. He had decided to teach himself how to make shapes like Edmur Eyser used to do. He’d never learned how the man became so proficient, what with resources being so scarce, but now Roge had the opportunity.

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He was so focused on the rounding of a head that he was deaf and blind to the world. Her smell brought him back to himself. Enell was standing next to him, looking at him working. He looked up at her, wisps of her hair catching the moons’ light, and she smiled at him.

“What are you making, Dalle?”

He was getting used to the name. The first few times Reder called him by the name when they were out on the farm, he had to repeat it a couple of times until Roge realized the man was calling him. It was getting easier to respond to Dalle. He wished she could call him Roge, but he was no longer that man. That old life was over.

“I’m not sure yet,” he said as she sat down on the log next to him. “I want to see what shape emerges. I’m not very good.”

“Did you make that dallen in your room?”

The memory of Edmur Eyser hit him again, and his hands dropped.

“What is it?” she asked.

“The man who made it is dead.”

“Who was he?”

“He was…” How to explain what Edmur Eyser was to him? “He took care of me since I was a child.”

“He was your father?”

“No, but as good as.”

“I’m sorry, Dalle,” she said, laying a hand on his arm. “What about your parents?”

“I never knew them.”

Her hand clasped his arm now, and though he was looking straight ahead, he could sense her.

“My ma died when I was young,” she said. “I remember her, but it has been me and my father ever since.”

“What did you do with her?” he asked, curious if they had come to the monastery.

“We buried her back of the house. I still talk to her every once in a while.”

That made sense. Most people did not make it to the monastery.

“Talk to her?”

“Yes. Tell her stories about what happened to me, and sometimes ask her questions. My father doesn’t know much about women.”

“Does she answer?” Roge was curious.

“Not directly, but I sometimes feel more peaceful. Do you do that with your… father?”

“I have not tried,” he said truthfully, thinking that Edmur Eyser’s body was at the bottom of the desert below the monastery.

“Well, maybe you could try asking your dallen,” he heard the smile in her voice.

They sat there for a while longer, him whittling, she telling him about growing up on the farm.

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It was the hottest part of the day as Roge worked in the field, wondering why Redel had not yet been by to collect him. The old man stopped his work when it got too hot, chose to go eat, then do some things around the farm before continuing in the field later.

He straightened, taking off his sweat-stained cap and drenching it even more by wiping his brow and face. Donning it again, he looked around, not seeing Redel.

A flight of small green birds rose from behind the trees separating the fields. Redel said they ate the eggs and larvae of insects that preyed on the wheat. They spent their days between the stalks. Was that the direction Redel had gone?

Roge walked through the field, the wholesome, fresh smell of growing wheat and drying earth surrounding him. The green wheat stalks weren’t tall enough to hide Redel, though a few trees grew here and there, creating pockets that obscured parts of the field. As he approached the plot the old man was supposed to be working, he heard a moan.

“Redel?” he called.

Running, he arrived at the field, looking around. He couldn’t see the man, but another moan directed him. He walked over, crossing into the wheat from the path, and soon found the man on the ground. Redel was on his back, clutching his leg, face contorted in pain.

“Redel?” he asked, kneeling down by the farmer, who was too preoccupied with the pain to notice Roge.