He stared at the neat stack of firewood, not at the all-consuming blaze behind him. He had burned everything down—earlier, much earlier. He tore the skin from the rabbit he had found while fleeing. It was partly burned, but he was hungry. Meat is meat; hunger is hunger.

He drank from his field flask until his lungs rebelled. No forgetfulness there. So he decided to walk on.

Walk, do not talk, and forget what cannot be forgotten. For two years he had been on the road and he was close to his goal. He had stayed in the village only because he had to wait. He had feasted with whores and with those who pretended not to be; he had sung and danced. It lasted as long as it lasted. His enemies would not grant him rest; the clerics’ muttering carried.

He felt guilty: innocent “ladies,” “decent” people. The unbelievers saw a saviour in him and gave him warmth for it. He could not do without that warmth. The task on him was heavy. For them too.

He wanted quiet and no chatter. But the enemy was stubborn and followed him everywhere, like rats spreading a stench of plague. He smelt it when the “decent” ladies took him by the arm and when they opened their legs. The scorching stench of rotting falseness burned into his lungs. Forward, he urged himself. Don’t forget your task. Walk.

After a few kilometres he came to a house. With one kick the door jumped from its frame and he stood among people who recoiled in fright. They recognised him and bowed their heads.

‘It’s only a question of who kicks in the door,’ he thought. ‘The saviour or the devil—does it matter?’ It matters if the Duke claims his right and opens your daughter for her husband on the wedding night—or if men spoil them in the dark. He had done both.

A woman offered him drink. Bootleg whisky burned deep in his throat. He seized her by the chin and forced her to look at him. The eyes were dead, without fire. What did it matter? Whore or “decent,” they all sank into dead cold or mad sorrow.