“he was here, and no mistake. his sign pervades this place.” i speak as measured as i’m able. it helps me if i pace.
“you would know it, if any would,” says Lufkin, calm as i remember. he always had that talent. it was December when i saw him last, in the Year of the Seiðwinder’s Strain. he was heading home, here, to the Hill, and i was getting on the opposite train.
“he wasn’t rushed. see, there? only one clover crushed.” i collect it in my book of pressings.
“i’m sorry i can’t help more, old friend. only bread and blessings.” Lufkin’s tired, and leans hard on his sceptre. “i’m not much good these days to one still hunting spectres.” i think, and not for the first time: the Hill was hit hard by the Bending; he should be still in his prime.
i shake my head. “this one isn’t ghosted. his heart still beats. he’s in the world fleshly, somewhere, hidden in or hosted. and that means i can find him.”
“my mistake. i thought, because of the book . . . well, it seemed you’d be trying to bind him.” my old friend looks afraid. my welcome’s overstayed.
i stand, and look downhill to where once was a lake. “Lufkin, if you see him . . . don’t struggle. give what he tries to take. i’ve seen what happens when his charms go sour.”
Lufkin grins, and recites: “i hold my head high, i’ll stay dead when i die, for i am a Man of the Hour.”
“may your minutes be measured, old verge,” i say as i turn. “oh, and–give my hello to the wife.”
“may your seconds stay in sequence,” he calls from the hilltop. “all your hours, all your days, all your life.”