XI. Hafdold, it seems, has developed War Worry, so he's waking up anyone unlucky enough to be within earshot just about every night, yelling things like, "No, spare the donkey!" and "I'll give you anything you want, just don't take my bundle!" and "Astaghfirullah!" You take him to the parish priest for an exorcism who, upon seeing the ghastly shell of a man that is your son, crosses himself, scoops out all the water from the scoup, throws it in his face, and runs inside. Shocked, you turn around with Hafdold to head back to the hovel who, of course, makes a full recovery after this. A fortnight or two later, you go to report this great news to the priest, but he has fled and the church is abandoned. 

XII. You know that there are pigs in the valley. What's more, they are not under protection of any lord and they are known to be, let's say, not the brightest pigs. Here's the rub: the way into the valley is extremely steep, muddy, and of course there are bandits in the caves lining the slopes. You tell your plan to hunt the pigs to Hafdold who, shockingly, has become quite the farmer, and he is skeptical. He tells you that your other sons are due any day now and that since the house is deserted during the day—your wife is now missing, having gone looking for the sisters, all of whom are missing—they may take it for abandoned or, worse, taken by strangers. You suggest writing a note, but Hafdold reminds you that no one for miles knows how to write and the priest disappeared. His expression changing, he begins to argue about your ability to hunt anything at all, while also pointing out that he can now grow any tuber to which he has access, which he thinks is about two. You fall back down onto the wooden thing that was once a chair, sullen, realizing he is right. He then says, "I don't know, some pigmeat would actually be really good right now."

XIII. The Shire Reeve is back. He rides up and you notice he has a brand new tunic with funny designs on it. He now also has something resembling a lisp as he speaks to you, informing you that you no longer belong to Lord Grimdram, who has been exiled and his sons beheaded, but to Count Xxrtlempywll. You ask him to repeat the name, because that doesn't even sound like language, and the Shire Reeve just snorts, spits, and you get the mud in the face again. At least your mouth is okay now. 

XIIII. Hafdold is out in the far field today harvesting the last of the coarse rye and bitter spelt, even though it's been a cruel year and even crueler winter. He's gotten so good with that sickle you found in the abandoned church's ruined confessional. Your heart swells with pride. You see him look up, drop the sickle, and run toward the road. Could it be? His brothers are back from the war? You run outside and yes, two harlots are hobbling down the road! You drop the cabbages you were about to boil in the recently-drinkable well water that's still a bit off and run to meet your sons. Hafdold, half a furlong away, falls to his knees and is embraced by the warriors returned, dressed as women of the night. "Berkind! Bryland! You have come back to me!" You reach them and notice that they are not your sons. They are just prostitutes. You reprimand your son for this grave offense, but he laughs, introduces them to you as his "war wives" whom he married according to Xxrtwllankiy law, and with whom he has three children, two daughters and a son. Shocked, tears come as you realize that you are a grandfather. You ask them where they are, to which your son responds, "Well, the girls are missing but my son, Harangon, is right here," gesturing to one of the "war wives" who, you now notice, is wearing layers of overly-flowing shrouds. Crying openly, you ask if you may gaze upon your grandson's face. Your son, your heir, tears up himself and tells his "war wife" in a series of clicks and whistles what must be something like, "show him." Her shrouds open and there you behold, your grandson. His skin is really dark. "Hafdold, what is this skin condition? Is he ill?" To which your son says, "Father, my war wives are swarthy of flesh, but comely." This doesn't sit right with you but you can't sort out why. Scratching your head, you all head to the hovel.

XV. Out in the field one day whilst turning the unfarmable alkaline soil of the south field, news reaches you that there is to be a festival in Dribblewick. Eager to tell your family, you burst in to see Hafdold in a state of undress committing bizarre, foreign acts with his “war wives,” whose names you have now been told many times but have yet to be able to pronounce. “It’s a one-room hovel, Dad!” Hafdold roars at you. Averting your eyes, you turn around, demanding that they be decent by the time you turn around. The “war wives” sound like they are cursing in whatever satanic language they speak while Hafdold makes a whole thing about getting dressed. “Okay now?” you half-yell. You turn around and tell them about the festival about which you were just somehow notified. “For this you interrupted us?” Hafdold growls. You feel the disrespect hit you directly in the gut, also feet and left knee, and this is the last straw, “Are these ‘war wives,’ whatever the hell their names are, even Christians? They look like devil-worshippers or witches!” Hafdold rises, his face now ashen, “Father, you can tell no one.” You feel the blood leave your own face. Witchcraft and the very Devil Himself in your own hovel! There is then a knock at the door. Quivering, you turn to open the door. It’s your wife, who is angry at the fact that the south field is not turned. You raise a violently shaking hand and point to the veritable menagerie in the hovel, “Wife, behold, our son is wed to the Devil and practices black magic himself.” Your wife looks at them for a moment, walks past you, and orders you back into the field.