"I'm getting to be an old man," Thomas Quayle said to his empty parlor. Just moving an armchair to face the window had left him winded. He sat down, sighed, and peered down the lane in the direction of the Corkill farm. It was none of his business, and the good book said spare the rod and spoil the child, but he was going to have to have a word with the boy's father. He was going to have to have a word with Colby Corkill.

He didn't relish the thought, and not just because he was loath to stick his nose into family matters. The Corkills were a queer family and no mistake. They didn't have a proper head of house, just that tartar Aileen. And wasn't she a piece of work? Staunchly traditional, she had given her children old-fashioned names and, it was said, insisted they speak the old tongue at home.

A figure was moving down the lane now. Thomas Quayle sighed again.

It was as if the Corkills refused to join the twentieth century. They remained obstinately rooted in the past, while industry and science and progress raced ahead. There'd been a War of the Worlds, for heaven's sake! Not that the War had touched the Isle, thank God, other than some meteorites that might be fragments of a Martian vessel.

The Corkills had become even more insular and taciturn after the War. Not, of course, that it had been a proper war. It had been a full rout until the Martians began dying of earthly diseases. It only showed that the good Lord always provided. Just imagine if the Martians had been hardier - !

He looked up with a start. Here he sat woolgathering, while the man coming down the lane was almost at the gate. Thomas Quayle heaved himself up and carefully made his way through the front parlor and to the front hall. With a deliberate effort he made his mild frown into a mild smile and opened the front door.

It was not the boy's father, but his uncle coming up the steps.

"Why, Fynn Corkill," Quayle exclaimed. "I haven't seen you these twelve months." And how you've grown, he nearly added, which was pure foolishness. Fynn Corkill was a grown man long since. But in Quayle's memory the man was thin and compact and of a pale skin that lent him an air of sickliness.

The Fynn Corkill standing before him now was of sturdier build and positively ruddy with health. He exuded a sort of animal vitality that gave Quayle pause. Fynn reminded him of a man with a fever.

"Hello, sir," Fynn mumbled. He doffed his cap. "I've come to fetch our Henry, and I'm sure I'm sorry he's troubled you, sir."

"Do come in. And please, there's no need to be so formal. We're all just folk."

Quayle led Fynn into the parlor. Fynn looked around and asked, "Where is the lad?"

"He's up the stairs. I thought we might just have a little word."

Fynn stared at Quayle. "Aye," he said, and abruptly sat down.

Quayle blinked at the breach of etiquette. We're all just folk, he reminded himself, and took the chair opposite Fynn.

And found that for all his brooding over the matter, he still didn't know what to say. "It's none of my affair, of course..."

"Aye."

"...but if a boy runs away from home..."

"Aye.'

"One can't help take an interest...and wonder..."

"Aye."

"...if perhaps...something isn't a bit amiss."

Fynn smiled slightly. "Has our boy been telling you his stories, now?"

"Well..."

"He has quite an imagination." His smile grew. "What's he been telling you, I wonder?"

"I can scarcely recall. He talked a great torrent of nonsense. All I could make out was that he was terrified to go into the barn."

"I shouldn't wonder. Naughty boys go to the barn." Fynn's smile was ever so slightly cruel now. "You say the boy's upstairs? Anyone else at home?"

"Er, no. I have the one serving girl, but she never returned from fetching you."

Fynn's grin was downright wolfish now. "Naughty girl," he said. "Perhaps she's in the barn."

"My good man," Quayle replied, heat coming into his face, "This is not humorous. I don't at all understand your tone and attitude. Your nephew is clearly sensitive and troubled. Something should be done."
 
"Aye, but what?" Fynn said and rose. He began pacing the room, talking more to himself than the astonished Thomas Quayle.

"Always follow the path of the sterrym traa," Fynn was muttering. "But I haven't seen this day in the sterrym. We've twenty years yet on this island. Best to step careful. Perhaps the babban..."

Quayle had never spoken the Gaelic well himself, but he was fairly certain that sterrym traa was nonsense. Storm-time? Time-storm?

Fynn broke off, suddenly aware that Quayle was staring at him.

"Pardon me, sir," Fynn said. "I'm getting carried away with myself. I'm just that worried about the boy." 

"Of course you are," Quayle said, a trifle uncertainly.

"It's a difficult matter. I'm only his uncle, you see. His father has been poorly, and I may as well say he's become a bit eccentric."

"Perhaps..." Quayle said distantly. An idea was coming to him.

"Yes, sir?" Fynn stood with his hands folded in front, clutching his hat, suddenly the very image of respect.

"An imaginative child is an intelligent child," Quayle thought aloud. "Perhaps young Henry wants more schooling. I could tutor him in the evenings, or whenever may be convenient.  I suspect he would benefit from some time away from, ah, the filial sphere."

"But we couldn't possibly trouble you-"

"It would brighten my days immensely," Quayle admitted. "What do I have but my books and my correspondence?"

"Why, you're really that kind," Fynn said. "You'd take an interest in our Henry not just today, but for who can say how long." He spoke courteously enough, but his tone was flat.

"I hope I haven't..."

"Nothing by halves," Fynn exclaimed. "He's to be yours, or he's to be ours." He threw his hat on the floor, ripped off his vest, and fumbled with his shirt.

"My good man," Quayle protested. "What on earth are you doing?" He stood up and waved his hands in consternation. "You can't think we're going to wrestle for the boy? Are you a family of madmen?"

Fynn barked a laugh. "Aye, let's wrestle," he said. "No one at home to hear any shouting." He tossed aside his shirt, and Quayle gasped at the scar on the man's chest.

"Ugly, ain't it?" Fynn said, almost proudly.

"My God," Quayle whispered.

"You can look." He stepped forward.

"How...how did you survive this?" Quayle asked in wonder. The thick rope of scar tissue began at Fynn's collar bone and made a jagged line that stretched past his waist.

"Look closer."

It looked like no scar Quayle had ever seen. The skin was pink and looked pliant. He strained his eyes but saw no suture marks; only a tiny variation in color in the scar's center, like a thread running up and down it. In the dim light of the parlor the thread seemed to writhe, and Quayle drew back in disgust.

Then the scar opened up. There was no time for any shouting.

In fact, for several hours only the barest of sounds disturbed the house.

Until a calm, cold voice called up the stairs.

"Henry! I'm taking you home now."