LVI. Bells! Bells? Why are there bells this midday, some day in the summerish or fallish time? You’ve been laid up with a case of slagbrain complicated by the fact that no one believes you. They’re really quite savage about it. Your eldest daughter, ‘round about “Charlytte” something, who has lost considerable weight since she was last sighted by some other daughter of yours—of course, the latter could have just been being catty—said, to your face, “You’re a faker! A big fat faker!” And you are a normal weight! How could you have any fat on your bones with all the wasting you’ve been up to? You lift up your head, heavily bandaged by rags soaked in something foul, probably rancid mandrake wort, to get a better listen. No more bells. You look around the hovel to see that your wife isn’t about, nor are any of your daughters currently present. Off in what you’ve taken to calling “The Foreign Corner” where your sons and their hopefully-Christian war wives (and now, also, gift wives), you hear chattering behind the mud privacy walls which are slowly growing. It’s the damn alien crap. “Hello, hello! Is anyone there who has heard the sound of bells?” Silence for a few seconds, after which the chattering resumes as if they had heard nothing. Rather suddenly, you hear a loud grunt, followed by, “Get your hands off of that, cretin-whore! I put four of your uncles in a pit and I can put you in too!” Sounds like Hafdold woke up from a War Worry nap. “Son, are you quite all right?” you yell over to him. You hear him yawn, cough, belch, fart, and then see his hulking form emerge from the semi-privacy of his mud semi-room, but he is naked and stumbling. Averting your eyes, you say, “Good God, Hafdold, I know that in the story of Noah it was the father who was drunk and his sons who had to cover him, but did you learn nothing from it?” Hafdold walks over to you, leans in real close—close enough that his ogreish face grimaces as it processes the stench wrapped around your aching skull—and says, “I didn’t hear no fucking bells you fucking faker now go back to bed because it’s dinner time if you know what I mean.” He moves away from you, still eyeing you all the way back to his semi-room. You hear his war wives gasp as he “enters” and you decide that it might be best to double your wraps.

LVII. Knock knock! Definitely the Shire Reeve again. You wonder how weird he’ll look now. It’s been months (or years, who knows?) since you last saw him. You open the remaining two boards of what was once your front door to see someone dressed as the Shire Reeve, but a man whom you do not recognize. “Hello, good sir, are you indeed the Shire Reeve?” you inquire. “No, no I’m not. I beat him up and stole his attire,” the man replies. There is an awkward silence which gets your adrenaline going—maybe he is here to take your clothing? Crap, where’s that stick you found on Monday or Tuesday? “Nah! I’m just messin’ around wit’ yas! Come on out here, Tzamprilxxu!” You see the regular Shire Reeve emerge from that weird rock formation your dad told you not to ask about when you were about seven, dressed in, well, something approximating “normal” attire, but “normal” has become a bit less so lately. “Hello, John,” the Shire Reeve—apparently named Tza–... Tzama–... never mind— says, “we have some matters which need to be discussed. I would suggest we sit inside, but we all know you’ve got nowhere to sit and quite likely sodomites going at it in there, so let’s sit by these big, queer stones.” So the real Shire Reeve, the fake Shire Reeve, and you, all walk on over there. You’ve never noticed before, but they’re somewhat throne-shaped and in an almost perfect triangle, each seemingly “facing” the center. “Well, now that we’ve got a proper sit on, Johan John here and I have good news and bad news. Which would you like to hear first?” All your life’s been bad news, so how bad could it be? “I’d like the bad news first,” you say. Johan looks down and then around awkwardly, shuffling his feet on the ground. The Shire Reeve looks at you grimly, “John, you’re under censure by the Baron Xxaxxy for having an open shit pit, or sewer, or whatever. It doesn’t look goo–” Johan interrupts, jumping to his feet, “What on God’s infernal burning moor happened to the outhouse, John? Eh? It was there and then it wasn’t—up in the night it jumped? And ran away on its own nine legs?” You are speechless. And ashamed. Johan, beet-red in the face, lets out a long sigh and sits back down on his throne-thing. “We’ve put in a good word for you, John,” say the Shire Reeve and Johan in almost unison. They look at each other and laugh nervously. “The Baron is somewhat corrupt and has a… thing for redheads. You’ve got redheads among your daughters, yeah?” “No, only my wife. Our daughters are all yellow and brown,” you say. “I think the term is ‘blond,’ John,” Johan says with a strange note of anger in his voice. He doesn’t have blond hair himself. Why would he care? No, off the path, off the way—these are the Devil’s wonderings. After a moment, the Shire Reeve, stroking his black goatee, says, “Well, these people, the new kind of which you must have taken notice—Hell, you’ve got a gaggle of them squatting in your house, right? They’re Christians and whatever—at least that’s what we figure, but they’re a tight-lipped, yammer-clicky sort—but they have somewhat… looser notions of marriage and marital conduct. So if you’re–” Johan jumps up again, as if the stone on which he’s sat suddenly became red-hot, “Will you give the Grim Baron Xxaxxy ‘access’ to your wife or not, John?” You sit for a moment, hurting. It’s a shock for sure, but then you remember that there is good news. “May I hear the good news before I make my decision?” you ask. The Shire Reeve nudge-punches Johan and mumbles, “See I fecking told you ye guttersnipe,” “Yes, of course, the good news,” he says. “The good news is that the Baron Xxaxxy—who is NOT a Grim Baron, Johan, as we all know the Grim Baron has yet to arrive on the moor, though we await his coming every day—is prepared to provide, in return for ‘open use’ of your wife, a new door and a stone covering for your illicit latrine-hole.” You don’t know what to say, so you do whenever you don’t know what to say: You throw your hands up in the air and begin sobbing into them. “It’s settled, then!” they both yell, again, almost in unison. As you hear their horses galloping away, you notice that your hands are covered with sour clay. It will be a long night of bloody tears tonight. At least you’ll be alone.

LVIII. Games!? Some time ago—a couple of weeks, probably—it came to your attention that there were games to be held at some point in the future. No date was set because that’s not a thing but a bunch of Johns and bits and pieces of their families have gathered in the new clearing half a league, give or take a league, south of your hovel. Such excitement fills you that you would be given to spontaneous prayer, but you have been wary of praying in the vernacular since two frowning nuns passed by recently yelling in your language—though with such heavy and queer accents that they sounded a bit more like bats than people—”Pray not in your tongue lest the Cramp take you!” You don’t know what “the Cramp” is, but these people are pretty weird and more of them keep pouring in every time it rains, which is most days. Best to be wary. Today, though, there is no rain. The sun is shining, you haven’t been berated in the past several minutes, and all three of your sons are around to join you at the games. You head out, though Hafdold is stumbling a bit after a “very long night” with the War Wives, as he put it. Berkind is looking more spirited than usual and Bryland is, well, how Bryland is these days—which is to say, a bit… effeminate? Something about having dressed as a woman during his long journey home has really done something perplexing to his mannerisms. The church is inhabited by bandits and the tent of the frowning nuns grows larger every time you check to see if there are proper Christians to gather for mass, so there’s little hope of exorcism. In any case, you make good time and get to the games by late morning. Several Johns are there: Sweetpeat, Scold, Stumblepath, Hillfallen, Butter, and a few others whose names escape you. You’ve all had surnames for long enough that it’s too awkward to ask at this point. You hope that you can just get their attention with a “Hey, John!” but this is likely quite stupid. You are greeted by several, “Hey, Stinkpeat!”s, even from the Johns whose names you don’t know, which makes you feel guilty but, hey, games! You ask what’s on the agenda, as it were, and you are told that there will be a single game each day for ten days, after which the contender with the most wins will be declared victor of the moor and surrounds. You ask what the prize or accolades might be, which is met with looks of consternation and sounds of stifled laughter. Right, no one has anything whatsoever to spare, let alone anything of value: How could there be a prize? John… John Fatback, you think, leans in and whispers loudly, “I think there is a pig to be had, but you’ll probably have to go into the valley yourself to fetch it.” Oh, wonderful, you’ll be given a pig which isn’t yours and whose poaching is punishable by God-only-knows-what at this point. Whatever. The game of the day is the Rock Toss. Your ears grow hot upon hearing this, as you know Hafdold’s loud and horrific midnight romps have somehow doubled his strength despite his diet being identical to those of everyone else: Half-rotten vegetables; the occasional unlucky hare; and deer carcasses which appear at irregular intervals, having apparently been hit very hard by a large blunt object during the night. You select him as your family’s champion, at which Berk and Bryl give a snarling acknowledgment of, “well of course, the ungodly acts Halfdold commits—which will take us years to master even if our Gift Wives were up for them, which they generally aren’t unless the bitter sackwine flows—have made him the obvious choice.” One by one, various Johns and their sons, the latter of whom have been given Christian names other than “John” in an attempt to avoid future confusion—a rather vain attempt, because half are called Mark and the other half Matthew—give the toss a go. You can help but snicker to yourself at the profound weakness displayed, but you remember that no, these are the Devil’s giggles. Finally, it is Hafdold’s turn. He strolls up to the stone that everyone has been feebly hurling from behind a divot which half of them have been more or less ignoring. Picking it up with one hand, he throws it up and between his hands a few times to size it up. He then hurls it forth, flying through the air, far beyond the distance any of the other idiots have managed to get. Joy swells within, but it is short-lived. There is a rogue swine wandering right around where the stone is about to hit—and then it hits the beast, squarely in its stupid head, killing it immediately. Silence. You have poached a pig and it doesn’t matter what the reason is because the idea that the motivation behind transgression matters is centuries off. You hear the sound of people scattering and surely enough, everyone is running away in various directions. Most don’t appear to be heading toward any destination you know, but hell, you’ve got to book it, too. But that pig… that could stave off hunger for a week if you can properly boil the bones and sinews in the gray waters. Hafdold looks at you and, without a word, takes off back home. Looks like you’ll have to drag the thing home all by yourself. 

LVIIII. John Swinhurt has come to call. This is not good news. This is profoundly bad news. You and Swinhurt go way back—you and everyone you know go way back, because no one ever goes anywhere except into death or to war—but there’s something about him that is just the worst. He sent a letter to announce his coming—literally, a single letter, a poorly-scribbled, backwards “S,” presumably to stand in for his surname. He knows you can’t read but the one letter he always sends to remind you of his wretched, snobby existence. When you got your first cow, he got a bigger one. When your cow had a calf, his cow had two and a half. When your crops in the large field adjacent the little hill with stumps on it went to famine, his went to an even worse famine, just for bragging rights. He doesn’t even need the crops because his father is a “special friend” of one of the few remaining old dukes, counts… barons? The rank system has never been super clear to you though everyone else gets it, so you’ve just paid obeisance to anyone not covered in gnats and lice. This has led to some embarrassing situations, but what cannot be helped must be endured. Swinhurt is also an absurdly grandiose liar and a thief of sorts. He has made many claims over the years: He is the reason the moon has spots on it, he invented the plow, his family descends directly from Athelgourd the Arch-Something of Somewhere. Today is the day of his arrival and despite telling yourself a dozen times that it’s not worth it trying to keep up with his blowhardery, you’ve donned your least-tattered tunic and breeches that, when sufficiently covered, do not let on that they are in fact a form of hose worn only by beggars and corpses. Knock knock! Oh goodness, here he is. And he even knocked on the remains of the door—two planks held together with twine—leaning against the doorpost, just to let it be known: Your hovel is shambles. “Hello, John! Good friend and ally! How goes it in this hovel of sorts?” “Of sorts?” He’s started already. “It goes well. And how goes it with your family?” you jab, knowing full well that most of his family died of bad soup some years ago, and that the rest went somewhat mad thereafter. “Ha! Your sense of humor remains, despite the shambles of your life!” his mouth smiles, revealing pearly-white elk-bone dentures, giving his counter a sort of too-mean-to-be-serious, plausible deniability. You can’t help but feel wounded. Your life is somewhat in shambles, but you have your faith and family, as increasingly-shunned the former and bizarre the latter are. His smile fades, “Say, have you heard that a gaggle of Jews is on its way hither?” Your vocabulary is average for your station, but you’re pretty sure that’s not the right word for a group of Jews. “I think it’s called a ‘congregation’—isn’t ‘gaggle’ for some sort of bird? Geese, mayhaps?” Swinhurt’s face twists, “Whatever it’s called, ‘gaggle, ’congregation,’ ‘horde,’ ‘ball lightning,’ it doesn’t matter. The point is, they are coming. What are you going to do when they arrive, hmm?” That last bit, “ball lightning,” sounds made-up, but you reply, “What do you mean, ‘do’?” “Well,” your frenemy says, “they are known swindlers and shilling-clippers, their faith being some mix of devilry and legalism that defies God’s mind itself, as it were—the whole lot of them and their gaggles!” Most of this rings true, but you can’t think of what you would “do” when the congregation arrives. “I suppose I’ll talk to them and see what sort of folk they are,” you say. Swinhurt gasps dramatically, clutching his chest in a feigned cardiac event. “You would speak to those enemies of Christ?” he whispers. “I suppose so,” you say, “you never know what folk are like until you talk to them.” Swinhurt’s knees begin to tremble in a comical bit of overacting, “But have you not heard what the priest said of them?” he rasps. Priest? The priest fled months or years ago at his point. “The priest is long departed, my friend, of whom do you speak?” Swinhurt jolts suddenly and stands upright, “Oh, never you mind. I am mistaken,” he says, his voice cracking, almost choking. He’s lying. He's not mistaken. He’s… could he be…? “Have you been speaking with those frowning nuns and their ilk?” you ask, getting directly at your suspicion. “No!” Swinhurt yells, causing stirring around you. Apparently other people are at home. You could have sworn you were alone, it being after midday and all and the whole place being silent. Good Lord, the sloth! “I must be off, John!” he shouts, causing further stirring, groans and mumbling. “Wait, my friend,” you implore, “what on earth is the matter?” Swinhurt is basically running to his horse which, as you reach the doorway, you see is draped with an ornate saddle similar to the tunic the Shire Reeve has been sporting of late. That’s it. It’s confirmed. He’s in league with those buzzing, maybe-Christian, beastly foreigners. “Goodbye, John!” you yell, as he mounts his steed, “Safe travels back to the tent!” He looks back, “Thank y–,” he stops short, knowing he’s been caught. He kicks his horse. Now you’ve got the upper hand. Not only is Swinhurt an ally of these weird interlopers, but his horse obviously has Maneshuckle and is absolutely contagious. So much for his “huge, practically titanic” stable. You want to blow a raspberry. No, this is the Devil’s tongue. You blow a raspberry anyway.

LX. The time has come to address the “outhouse issue.” The outhouse now long-gone, your family and some others who seem to wander around every night—at least, that’s what it sounds like, but no one else claims to hear it—have been just squatting over the horror hole for some time. So long, it seems, that the hole is nearly full. You tried to get a hold of the nightsoilsman, but he has been avoiding you for reasons none of the other Johns can provide—or are willing to, in any case. Your wife has told you to, “man up,” as she says repeatedly, several times a day, and deal with the nightsoil yourself, but the upper contents of the hole, being constantly refreshed with fresh bogdrop, is unmanageably disgusting. So, you decide that a latrine should be dug until the hole has sufficiently aged and moldered that it can be dealt with without stopping every few half-moments to dry heave. (Really, the dry-heaving isn’t nearly as painful as the laughter that erupts from the house whenever you do so.) You ponder the odds that someone in your family might aid in the digging of the latrine and decide that there is a slim chance that one of your sons might be up to the task. It is about noon when you decide to wake them to enlist their help, obviously being careful to be rather loud with your steps as you approach the earthen “walls” which shield your eyes from the sexual degradation in which your sons are wont to engage with their various foreign wives of dubious religious affiliation. This fails and there is no way to “knock” on the walls, so you clear your throat several times with increasing volume. This also fails. So, you speak their names aloud. Another failure. You will have to rouse them physically. Averting your eyes the best you can, you enter the crannylike space which constitutes the “bedroom” of Berkind and his “gift wives,” as they make the most “normal” sounds when they engage in their nightly desecrations. You shake his shoulder. It is not his shoulder, as you are met with an eruption of crackling screams in the witch-cant that is the language of the foreigners. Another screaming in the foreign filth, and then your son who shouts, “FATHER WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” This abject failure to observe the most basic of familial commandments is so commonplace at this point that your heart sinks only infinitesimally, but it does indeed sink. You try frantically to explain the situation, but you are now being assaulted by the “gift wives” as Berkind berates you for violating what he refers to as his “marital bed,” despite the fact that there is no clear marriage, nor bed. In your attempts to shield yourself, your concentration breaks for a few moments and your eye-averting fails. You behold the material evidence of acts so debauched that you faint. When you come to, the sun is setting. Berkind has left and his “gift wives” are asleep, apparently resting up for another night of various sodomies. You get up and look around a bit. The hovel appears to be empty. Despairing, you look around for anything that could be used in a shovel’s stead, eventually opting to use the final remaining plank of your door. It wasn’t really doing anything anyway, so why not? You head to where you figure the best place for a latrine ought to be—low-lying and largely downwind of your hovel—but are immediately met with Bryland and Berkind inspecting the old outhouse hole. You walk up to see that it is greatly overflowing with fresh filth. Your sons look up at you for a moment, scowl, and look away. You ask them how it was that the hole, which had at least a week’s room left for feces, has come to be so overfull. Berkind is silent, apparently still mad at your earlier “intrusion,” but Bryland speaks, “You scared the shit out of us, father. That’s what happened. What did you think would happen when you attacked Berkind’s wives?” Mortified, your face contorts: This was your very doing. The surface is contaminated and it is your fault. You tell them of your plan to dig a latrine, as you were anticipating this, though not for some time. You are too filled with shame to ask for their help, so you set off alone to the spot of the future latrine. After only a few steps, you hear your sons clearing their throats. You look back to see their backs turned to you and both of them pointing at the fecal overflow. You walk back slowly, your head hanging, and use the door board to begin transferring the stuff whither you were headed. You retch loudly and are met with guffaws both from your sons and from within the hovel.