His pen didn't have slats, like the pens for the animals did. It was made of solid boards. In the summer it was an oven. When she made him take burning powder and then dragged him by the arm and locked him in the pen, he near to died of terror that she'd never let him out, or never let him have a drink of water. He welcomed the beatings she would give him to try to silence his screams, just to be let out.

"You buy my medicine from Lathea, and a remedy for you." His mother held up the small silver coin as her eyes narrowed into a spiteful squint. "And don't you go wasting any of this on women."

Oba felt his ears heating. Each time his mother sent him to buy something, whether medicine or leather work or pottery or supplies, she always admonished him not to waste the money on women.

He knew that when she told him not to waste it on women, she was mocking him.

Oba didn't have the courage to say much of anything to women. He always bought what his mother said to buy. He never once wasted it on anything-he feared his mother's wrath.

He hated that she always told him not to waste the money when he never did. It made him feel like she thought he was intending to do wrong even though he wasn't. It made him guilty even though he had done no wrong. It made what was in his thoughts, even if he didn't have them, a crime.

He tugged on a burning ear. "I won't waste it, Mama."

"And dress respectable, not like some dumb ox. You already reflect badly enough on me."

"I will, Mama. You'll see."

Oba ran around to the house and fetched his felt cap and brown woolen jacket for his journey to Gretton, a couple miles northwest. She watched him carefully hang them on a peg, where they would stay clean until he was ready to go to town.

With the scoop shovel, he started in on the rock-hard muck. The steel shovel rang like a bell each time he rammed it at the frozen ground. He grunted with each mighty blow. Chips of black ice burst forth, splattering his trousers. Each was but an infinitesimal speck from the dark mountain of muck. It was going to take a long time and a lot of work. He didn't mind hard work, though. Time he had in abundance.

Mother watched from the doorway of the barn for a few minutes to make sure he was working up a sweat as he chipped away at the frozen mound. When she was satisfied, she vanished from the doorway to go back to her own work, leaving him to think about his coming visit to Lathea.

Oba.

Oba paused. The rats, back in the small places, stilled. Their little black rat eyes watched him watching them. The rats went back to their search for food. Oba listened for the familiar voice. He heard the door to the house close. Mother, a spinster, was going back to spinning her wool. Mr. Tuchmann brought her wool, which she spun into thread for him to use on his loom. The meager pay helped support her and her bastard son.

Oba.

Oba knew the voice well. He'd heard it ever since he could remember. He never told his mother about it. She would be angry and think that it was the Keeper's evil calling to him. She would want to force him to swallow even more potions and cures. He was too big to be locked in the pen anymore. But he wasn't too big to drink Lathea's cures.

When one of the fat rats scurried past, Oba stepped on its tail, trapping it.

Oba.

The rat squeaked a little rat squeak. Little rat legs scrambled, trying to get away. Little rat claws scratched against the black ice.

Oba reached down and seized the fat furry body. He peered at the whiskered face. The head twisted futilely. Beady black eyes watched him.

Those eyes were filled with fear.

Surrender.

Oba thought it was vitally important to learn new things.

Quick as a fox, he bit off the rat's head.