The man rubbed his aching finger, trying to restore some life to it.

That finger, the ring finger on his left hand, had hardly moved in years, not since it had

been crushed under the hoof of a stubborn ox.

His right hand crept upward, massaging his left forearm.

It had suffered a nasty break in the heat of a fight, grabbed and twisted by an enemy

and never fully healed.

He moved his hand up further, digging his fingers into the muscle of his shoulder, trying

to loosen up the arthritic joint.

He couldn't even remember exactly how he'd hurt that one.

All of it was futile, as much an unconscious habit as an action intended to elicit a real

response.

Giving his frozen finger one last rub, he stood up from the charred stump that had served

to his seat, brushing little bits of dried meat out of his long gray beard.

He shouted at two boys shaking sticks at one another, one around five years of age

and the other eight or nine, warning them that the bull grazing near them in the meadow

had a nasty temper.

The herd of cattle, dozens of head, chomped and laced in the long grass, basking in the

warm sunshine.

Hungent wood smoke rose from the cookfires, gray curls snaking in between their tents

and their wagons beyond.

A couple of women accompanied by droves of other children, milked cows.

One of the men, younger than the battle scarred gray beard, was working on retouching a

...