He
deposits his soaked passenger on the river bank. Wiping the last of
his tears away, he pats the confused creature gently. “Go on,”
he says, pushing it forward, “Go and live.” The rat stares at
him for a moment or two, whiskers twitching as it sniffs, then it
shakes itself free of excess water and scampers away into nearby
undergrowth.
He
stands up straight, returning the pipe to its pocket and sighs
deeply. “Well,” he says to himself, “That's that done.” He
wipes a lurking sniffle from his nose before stepping back into the
insistent waters to cross the river, then slowly ambles back toward
the town, the weight of his actions heavy on his shoulders.
As
he walks, he can't help but notice the deafening silence. It's not
just the absence of the noise of rats that makes the day so quiet,
not a single bird is singing in the trees, not a single insect
buzzes, not even the breeze whistles. Total silence.
In
fact the first noise he hears is the chatter of people when he's
still over a mile from the settlement. Shortly after, he sees them:
a line of townsfolk guarding the road, farm tools grasped in sweaty
hands as if they were weapons.
