by Mel Starr
A movement in the door of Galen House caught my eye. Kate had left her fire to watch my examination of the bones. She held Sybil in her arms.
I called to Kate to bring the babe to me. At five months old her head was larger than when newly born, but not much. I spread my hands about her head to measure, then went to a corner of the toft where mud from recent rain had not yet dried. I fashioned a sphere of the proper size from the mire, then returned to Kate and Sybil and the table of bones.
Kate drew back as I approached with the muddy ball. “What are you about?” she asked.
“Watch,” I said. I held out the muddy orb to compare it in size to Sybil’s head. It was somewhat smaller, which was as I intended. I turned to the pelvic bone upon the table and tried to pass the mud ball through it. I could not do so. The opening was far too small. ’Twas the bones of a man which lay in the sun upon our table. A small man, who had lost one tooth.
