Monday Morning, Feb. 15, 1999

"Hello, little fellow. You look cold, " said the janitor. "Are you lost? Or are you on the run? You've got funny feet. Why are you barefoot in the middle of winter?"

Bolco was about to answer, glad of someone to talk to after several hours in the dark and cold. But the third question stopped him from answering the first. A growing reticence was forming inside him, and he did not want to trust the teeming crowds around him. He had spent a very cold morning sitting on the bench, wondering where in Middle Earth he was and how he had gotten there. He realized that he had only seen tall men and women, strangely dressed, since he had wakened with a horrible start on the rumbling, frighteningly fast-moving cart. Only it wasn't a cart.

He didn't know what to call the commuter train, any more than he knew why he had awakened there, only to be ordered off at the next stop for lack of a ticket. He wondered what a ticket was, but he supposed he had been the only person without one, because the man hadn't gotten angry at anybody else. Having gotten off the unwelcoming train, he found himself in a cold hard city, sooty, dingy, with trash blowing in the wind, and broken glass and metal scraps everywhere. People stared at him as they rushed by. Every one of them seemed in a frantic hurry. He was still trying to convince himself that it was a nightmare and he would waken soon. If so, then there was no need for him to talk. In the past hour the sun had risen, but it only made his surroundings seem worse. He was cold and confused.

The janitor was trying to figure out why he was little but did not seem young, why he was dressed in a homespun vest and too-short trousers, and why he had no shoes and no jacket, and how he had gotten onto the train without a ticket and no destination in mind and nobody to meet him. He looked like something out of a Charles Dickens movie, except for those hairy bare feet. But the little fellow's silence grew more stubborn the more that he shivered, and there was sweeping to be done. Finally the Janitor stepped inside the station. Bolco considered running away, but did not know which way to choose. He stood scanning as much of the horizon as was not blocked by dirty warehouses and run-down tenements, trying to decide. The janitor re-emerged from the train station.

"Here, take this, " the janitor said, handing him a brown men's-extra-large jacket from the station's Lost And Found. It was far too big, and strangely made (Bolco thought) but he was grateful; although very awkward about the arms and shoulders, it was long enough to be a cloak. It came down below his knees, and would be warm. He wished he had a way to belt it. He poked his arms through the sleeves and shoved the cuffs upward as best he could. "Thank you, " he said, knowing that he had not said enough. He sat back down on the bench and tried to warm up.

"So if you are a kid," pressed the janitor, handing him a knitted cap which Bolco studied and slowly put on, "then why'd you leave your parents? And if you're not a kid, why are you so short? And why are you barefoot in February? Never seen such hairy feet in all my life."

Bolco frowned, clenched his furry toes tightly and tucked his feet under the bench, and looked at the ground, maintaining his silence. Everybody at home made fun of his small feet, and here this fellow was complaining about the fur. The janitor shrugged. "Have it your way, " he said, "but you'd be better off with shoes and socks and a warm meal. I've got to get working, I'm late. Keep warm. You can go to the homeless shelter at the YMCA, it's that way, about eight blocks. They'll give you shoes and socks, too. Don't be shy. They'll take care of you."

THe sun was climbing higher. Bolco pulled the jacket closer around him; he was warmer if he did not button it, but wrapped it around almost double. Food sounded good. He thought about looking for the WaiEmSeeEih, in case it was an Inn, but he had no money, and the man had pointed towards buildings that were higher and more forbidding still than the ones nearby. If they would make him wear shoes, it wasn't worth the food, so he reluctantly decided against that. This didn't look like the kind of place one would find an Inn. More than anything, he wanted to find trees and fields. The only place that he saw any trees was along the tracks that the noisy carts followed. Toward the sunrise there were tall buildings, taller than he had ever seen. He did not want to go that way. Westward, then. He would follow the tracks and hope to leave the buildings behind. He watched the janitor begin sweeping the railway station, and eventually when he turned a corner, Bolco rose from the bench, and walked timidly away along the westward tracks. He was weary, and thought he would rest if he could. A few hundred feet along, he went under the railway bridge. It was dingy, dirty, with papers blowing around, and soot and grit abounding. He carefully avoided stepping on the broken glass and metal bits strewn about, and studied the place, looking for a cozy hollow or recess. Nothing. He walked on down the railway tracks.

Half a mile further on, he found a place in the bank where the roots of a tree were washing away. There was a hollow under the roots. The tree was half dying, he noted sadly, and the ground was not much cleaner than the rest of the place, but still, his heart was drawn there. He touched the tree bark tenderly and with no little pity, and then crawled up under the tree roots. It was dry. His jacket got dingier as he tried to get comfortable under the roots of the tree. There wasn't much room, and he'd be visible if someone looked closely, but he felt kindly towards the dying tree, and wanted to be near something that would be wild if it could.

It did not rain that day, and Bolco woke at sunset rested but thirsty and hungry. Away from the station, away from the town, he hoped to find something green, living, some grass to walk on, a stream to drink from. His main desire was to get away from the grey, hard, cold buildings and the griminess surrounding it all. He did not relish the idea of following the tracks between the sad and dirty fences, but with brambles hugging the fences and scruffy cedar saplings dotting the embankment among larger deciduous trees, they were the wildest thing he saw and therefore better than the endless tiring houses on the other side of the fence. He was fortunate that it was an old-fashioned track with regular rails. There was a moon, full enough to help him avoid litter and glass. He walked slowly and carefully all night, dodging metal and glass and stones. Sometimes he stepped from tie to tie to give his feet a rest from the gravel. Once in a while he balanced along one of the metal rails, especially just after a train had passed, for then they were warm to his feet. When he heard or felt an approaching rumble, he dodged into the nearest greenery until the train was gone by. He passed three more stations in the dark, and began to wonder if he would ever leave the buildings behind. But they seemed to be getting shorter and smaller. Occasionally, hard black roads crossed the tracks, and these he hurried past.

Tuesday Morning

As the sky behind him brightened again, he began looking for another hollow to sleep in. He was hungry and thirsty, but he would not have eaten anything growing wild in the soot and filth along the tracks. He eventually settled into a briar patch to sleep through the day.

He was awakened by the sound of a voice, and then he heard pouring water. His heart leaped in both hope and fear. Leaving his briars, he crawled forward up the embankment. In the yard of one of the houses behind the tracks, a large, loud woman frighteningly dressed in a fuzzy purple robe and an outlandish hat-- unless it was colored objects in her hair?-- was washing out a wide shallow basin on a pedestal. When she was satisfied that it was clean, she filled it with water. His mouth watered and his stomach ached. Next she scattered bread crusts on the wintry lawn beneath it. His eyes grew huge.

She was shrilly chatting and talking, but nobody was with her. It sounded like she was directing her chatter at birds, but there weren't any birds there, either. He was much too frightened of her to consider approaching her, and hoped that she would just leave the water and bread crusts to him and go back into the house. He watched as she filled several odd-shaped containers with various kinds of seeds. Having finished this, she went back into the house. He almost crawled forward but he looked at the windows of the house, and the woman reappeared in one of them. She had a mug in her hand, and was sitting down at the table, looking out at the basin! His heart sank. Here was food and water, but it was guarded. He waited.

She sipped from her mug, and waited patiently for her birds to arrive, while he tried to keep his spirits up. If birds did come, they'd foul the water and eat the bread. What to do? Frighten them off, with her watching at the window? But no birds came. Looking beyond him, he saw why. A cat was waiting too, ten feet beyond the birdbath. The woman saw the cat as he did, and up she jumped, and came shrieking out the door.

Bolco shrank back, but the woman was after the cat; the hobbit was well-hidden still. The cat bolted in terror, and the woman retreated grumbling to the house. He rose to a crouch, and resolve formed in him as the door slammed behind her.

He ran forward, snatched all five stale bread crusts, and then drank face first from the birdbath as fast as he could. He guessed he had only a few seconds before she arrived at the table. Sure enough, the shriek resumed, and the door reopened but the rage was far louder this time. Bolco fled, having only half-drained the basin, but it would have to do. He had enough wits to hang onto the bread crusts, and he got back onto the train tracks and ran west as fast as his feet would go. The woman's shrieking receded into the distance. She did not pursue him.

When the tracks rounded a gentle bend, he stopped long enough to pocket the crusts and then resumed running. It was daylight, and he had the adrenalin. He found that he could pace along the railroad ties fairly well, and he made good speed for ten minutes. Then he felt the rumble of a train, and he chose a large bush and dove behind it. He was warm from the run, and he found his appetite for the crusts was not so bad. He slept soundly after his dinner.

That night, he made less progress; he was checking each backyard that he passed for birdbaths and birdfeeders as he went. He found one birdbath, but the water was not clean enough to drink; but he helped himself to the sunflower seed in one of the feeders, filling his jacket pockets with them. He munched them as he walked, spitting the shells.

As the night wore on into the morning hours, he could see in the setting moonlight that the surrounding houses were farther apart, and while they were larger, they seemed better made somehow. He found them less depressing. The yards were better tended, and might be nice in the spring. More of them had birdbaths, and he found more sunflower seeds. Some of them had iced over and had not been fouled, and he drank his fill after breaking the ice film on one of these.

He wondered if he dared risk sleeping away from the tracks for a day. He watched for something that looked safe, but the nicer the houses looked, the more traveled the tracks looked. The dusty dirt trail that began at one of these houses and then traveled several miles along the track before it turned aside, confused him. It did not look like it was made by feet. He was temped to follow this new trail when it turned aside under a long line of tall, delicate towers holding up some sort of ropes, receding into the distance. Below the towers was a lush undergrowth that looked warm and welcoming after the grim tracks. But the iron tracks went west, and away from the tall dirty city, while the rope towers ran parallel to it. He resisted the powerful lure of the trees and bushes and undergrowth, and continued along the tracks.

Wednesday Morning

His decision was rewarded. That morning, the tracks passed through a genuine wood. He inhaled the scent of it, sighed in delight, and plunged into it. It was young, the broadest trunks being only a foot wide at the most; it had its share of brambles, and was swampy in places. But it seemed utterly lovely to Bolco, and he walked brimming with delight. The ground was soft under his feet, although cold, and he touched the trees as he passed them. This was alive.

It was only a few hundred feet deep but followed the tracks for quite a ways. He sniffed the water in a brook he passed, but decided against drinking it; the smell seemed wrong somehow. On the north side of a hill he found some old but clean snow, which he ate to quench his thirst. That gave him a deep chill so he kept walking until the sun began to melt the frost and he warmed back up, and then chose a place to sleep in some bushes. After several handfuls of sunflower seeds, he fell asleep.

Only an hour later, he awoke with a start as something wet crossed his face. A large sleek black and brown dog was sniffing and licking him, and he heard a voice nearby. "Ricky! Come! Ricky! Get over here! Hey, what-- Ricky, you come here right now!"

The dog did not respond, but only licked Bolco more energetically. He had been found, but by whom? He sat up, fending off the attack of the tongue, and looked blearily at the very tall, and very large man-child before him. He stood up, as much to be able to run as anything, but the tall boy towered threateningly over him. He backed slowly away.

"Who said you could come here? " the man-child said. "Who said you could sleep here? You some kind of homeless bum?" Bolco continued backing up. "I'm sorry, I did not mean to trespass, " he said.

"What?" the man-child demanded.

"Sorry, " Bolco simplified. "I'll leave. I'm leaving now. I'm sorry." The dog's shoulders came as high as his chest.

"You'd better get out, " the man-child said, more and more threateningly. "You're in the wrong territory, punk. You're messing with the wrong gang. You got that? This is our territory, dweeb!" Other epithets followed, less intelligible to Bolco but more vile-sounding.

Bolco wanted to run, but he was afraid of the dog, so he continued to back up. "Just let me go, please, " he said. "I'm going. Let me go." The man-child was crowding him, the dog cavorting around him. His heart came into his throat. Bolco's fear made the man-child bolder. "Let me go, " Bolco repeated. The man-child gave him a shove.

The dog licked him again, jumping at his face, and Bolco decided that he had more to fear from the man-child than from the licking dog. He made two fists, but as he jabbed the dog surged upward; Bolco hit the man-child's stomach with his first jab, but the dog landed on Bolco's shoulders, and his second fist landed squarely below the belt of the man-child, who crumpled with a grunt of rage. With a twist and thrust, Bolco disengaged the still-licking dog, and took to his heels and fled westward, parallel to the tracks.

The dog followed him until the now-roaring man-child called him back. Bolco paralleled the tracks with the man-child's roaring echoing in his ears, until he saw that the wood was ending, and the houses beginning again. He took to the tracks; they rumbled; he ran on beside the tracks as the train passed. He was terrified that the dog would follow his scent and he would be face to face with the tall man-child again. The train passed him quickly, and he ran after it for several miles.

As he ran, he wept. Thoughts of home haunted him, of rolling fields and gardens and comfortable chairs by the fire, normal friends that never threatened or stared, pantries that were never empty and never locked. He ran on. Occasionally he looked behind, and seeing no black dog nor man-child, was slightly relieved, but the idea of them following his scent drove him on and on. He wondered where he could sleep. He ran for over an hour, and then walked until the sun passed the zenith. He was hungry and thirsty and exhausted.

Another wood opened in front of him. He stood at the edge and wept bitterly, wondering whose territory it was, and what they would do to him if they found him there, and how many dogs they had. He did not take refuge there. He kept going along the tracks until he found a thicket, and lay down in it. But he did lay down in the side towards the wood. He woke often, and when he slept he dreamed of large snuffling dogs. He woke cold and weary still at sunset.

He marched westward, but despair was beginning to slow him down. He reviewed the people he had encountered so far. A conductor who had thrown him off of the train for lack of a ticket; blankly staring crowds racing by at the train station; a janitor who had given him a hat and a coat; a lady whose bird-food he had stolen (her ire, he reflected, was justified); and this morning's man-child. He decided to focus on the janitor, helpful, kind, merciful in his way, and so meditating, Bolco plodded on, passing several more stations in the dark.

He wondered what kind of world he had landed in, and how he had landed there, and how he could get home to his friends. Then he thought, maybe at another train station, there would be somebody as kind as the Janitor at the first one. It was worth a try.

Thursday Morning

Dawn came, and the next station he came to, he entered. As train stations go, it was a small local one, but to Bolco, it was cavernous. He stood just inside the door with wide eyes, looking around. The person behind the ticket counter stared at him.

Bolco explored the rack of brochures long enough to learn that he could not read any of that any more than he could read the signs by the tracks or on the trains that went by. He wondered what the sign said at the barred window, and why the window was barred anyway, and what they were afraid of. Perhaps of large men-children. He approached the window.

"Can I help you?" said the young woman behind the bars, looking down at him.

"Please, " said Bolco, "I'm ... I... I don't know where I am." This was more difficult than he had thought. Should he beg for food? Ask for advice on how to get home?

"This is the West Concord station, " the young woman said. "What's your destination?"

"I... I'd like to go home."

"Sure you would. Where's home?" replied the young woman, wondering if this conversation was going to be funny or annoying.

"Tuckborough, " Bolco replied easily, and then wondered if that had been a wise thing to say.

"Where?" she replied blankly.

"Tuckborough, " repeated Bolco, nervous now.

"There's no stop on this line called Tuckborough, " the young woman replied, losing patience. "What's the stop nearest your town, on the railway line?"

"I... I don't know."

"Well, look it up on on a map, or something, " she said. "How far is your home from here? Is Tuckborough in Massachusetts?"

Bolco replied blankly, "Mass.. Massachu..."

"Massachusetts, " she burst out, exasperated. "You been hit on the head or something, buddy? Are you just plain lost? Where are your parents, or do you have any? Or are you grownup but just, you know, short or something?"

"I... I'm sorry, " said Bolco, turning to head out the door. "Excuse me."

"Man, " she muttered as the door slammed shut behind him. "I'll be glad to clock out today."

Bolco looked around for somebody that might remind him of the janitor, but nobody in this station did. He sighed. At least, he decided, this town was much cleaner, and the buildings seemed smaller and the landscapes nicer. But he still got curious or rude stares as people passed by him.

He also got his first close, clear views of a different kind of horseless cart than the trains he had gotten familiar with over the last several days. He didn't like them either. They used no rail, but ran on the wide black roads, and they were much less predicable. He decided he liked the tracks better. He turned toward them to continue, but then a scent stopped him in his tracks.

It was a sickly sweet smell. Normally he would have been nauseated by it, but as hungry as he was, and tired of sunflower seeds, it seemed utterly desirable, whatever it was. It was coming from a small boxy building, around which traveled too many of those horseless carts. Hunger overcame his fears, and he slowly approached. "Please, I need to eat, " he heard himself thinking, although he had no clear idea who he was talking to in his mind, but he was asking anyway. "I'm hungry. Please." Dodging the horseless carts that were entering and leaving the strange road that went all around the building, he drew near to the glass walls, and watched the people entering. They all went to the same place, and they were trading money for breads-- strange ring-shaped breads or perhaps cakes, and steaming cups of what might be coffee. His mouth watered, his stomach churned, and he knew that he had no money. He watched at the window anyway, longing in his eyes.

"Hey, Kid, " said a middle-aged man going into the shop. "Looks like you could use some shoes."

Bolco heartily wished that people would leave his feet alone. He shook his head. "No thank you, sir, I don't want shoes, " he replied. "I'm just hungry, but I've no money to buy food with."

"Oh, " said the man. "I see. Well, wait here." He went inside. Shortly afterward he returned with a box and two drinks. One he handed to Bolco. "That's milk, for you. You look like a nice kid, and you're polite enough, although you sure could use a bath. Here, what kind of donut do you like? " He opened the box. "Point to the one you want." He might be feeling generous, but this kid's hands were grubby, and he would hand him the donut, not let him fish for it.

Bolco was stumped, but pointed at something that almost looked like plain bread, thinking it would be safest. The man handed him the plain donut, and then a second plain donut followed it. "Thank you, " Bolco said.

"Good luck, kid. Find some shoes. And you ought to be in a shelter somewhere." The man hurried off and got into his horseless cart, and waved as he went by.

"Thank you, " Bolco said again, and was surprised by tears in his eyes. Carefully balancing his two rings of bread over his strange cup of milk, he turned, blinking hard, and headed away from the stares and horseless carts, and towards the familiar tracks again. He didn't have to go far past the station to find a thicket, where he sat down with his baffling treasures. He set the bread-rings in his lap and opened the mysterious covered cup, spilling a little because the cup compressed in his hand when he took the lid off. He drank half the milk, and then ate one of the bread-rings; it was greasy, sweet, and heavy, and more like a cake and not like bread at all, but it satisfied his hunger, and he ate the second, and finished the milk. Then he decided to go on a bit further and find a more secluded place to sleep.

As he got up and began to walk, a new thought came into his mind. He realized that he had been hungry, had asked for food, and then he told the man he had no money, and then he had been fed. A certainty rose in him that his first, inward plea had, indeed, been heard without speaking, and that Someone had fed him, or rather arranged for him to be fed. He thought about this for about a mile, and the certainty grew, until he spoke inwardly, silently and simply, "Thank you." An inward flicker of gentle warmth surprised him; he had had nothing warm to drink, and it wasn't coming from his stomach anyway. His walking slowed, and he grew suddenly sleepy, and he realized that the heavy cake-rings probably had as much to do with his sleepiness as anything, so he stopped at the next thicket and lay down. As he drifted off to sleep, he felt still that gentle flicker of warmth deep inside him, and the kindness of the man who had given him the ring-cakes, and once again he silently spoke. "Thank you."

His dreams were gentle, and he woke at sunset. He walked westward again, but now his focus was on that gentle flicker of warmth deep within him. "Thank you, " he repeated often. "Thank you". The inner warmth slowly grew. He reviewed the events of the day before. He had tried to find help by himself; and in reaching out, had been stymied by the young woman behind the barred window, and gotten nowhere. But when he silently asked (whom he had asked, he did not know) he had been befriended-- however quickly, and in passing, but the kindness had already written something in his soul. He would not soon forget the cake-rings and milk, nor the man who told him he needed a bath. The tender warmth in his heart grew slowly but steadily all night.

At about two in the morning, he realized he was passing through a wood again. And he spoke within, making his second request. "You helped me before, I believe, " he began. "Please, I'll be hungry again soon, and I'm lonely, and I miss my home. May I have someone to befriend me? And some way to get by, to stop wandering for a while? Please." And then a mile or so later, he suddenly turned left and south, and plunged into the wood.

He was thinking hard now. "Who can hear my thoughts and answer my desires? Who knows what is in my heart? Who put this warmth in me? " For these questions he had as yet no answer.

He walked through the wood for about an hour, and then came to a row of houses on one of those black roads. He passed between them, and through a narrow wooded strip, and then another row of houses, and another, and another. Sometimes dogs barked. He passed under one house and was startled as a bright light blinded him; he ran forward, blinking, and bumped into a horseless cart. Immediately a terrifying noise began, like a host of trumpets out of tune. He ran, still half blinded, and more lights came on behind him. He fled panicked through the next row of houses and the next band of woods, and more houses and more woods, until he took refuge in a thicket and tried to gather his wits. He sensed no pursuit, which rather surprised him.

He got up and walked on, ‘til a sense of foreboding gripped him, and he took refuge in another thicket, this time of yews by a road. He had only just concealed himself when a blue and white horseless cart came around the bend, and slowly drove past. He felt sure they were looking for him, somehow. He waited until they were well past and then left that thicket, and took refuge in the nearest wood. He waited ‘til dawn, but did not sleep.

Friday morning

He was thirsty when the sun came up, and he knew that hunger would not be far behind. He turned his thoughts again to the gentle warmth he had felt yesterday, that had emboldened him to leave the tracks and turn south. He waited, wondering if he had asked too much. Not knowing what else to do, he studied the houses he was nearest to.

They were very large. Most were two stories high, a few were three, most had high wooden platforms one story up and stairways down to the ground. The widows were large, the lawns and gardens were mostly well-kept. How would he know if his request for a friend would be met? How would he know who it was to be? "Please, help me, " he said inwardly. "I don't know what to do."

The second-story door of the house nearest him opened and a brown fuzzy dog came out, and trotted down the stairs into the yard. Bolco froze, heart in mouth, but this dog showed interest only in a few bushes, and then went back up the stairs to the door and waited. He had begun to breathe again when the door opened and a woman in a robe came out the door and down the stairs. Unlike the Birdfeeding lady, she was not wearing an outlandish hat or hairpeice, he was relieved to note, and her robe was not frightening at all. He watched her.

She walked to where a green watering can was lying, and picked it up, and then walked to the side of the house, and reached down to grasp something. He leaned forward. Suddenly he heard running water; she was filling the watering can, but without pumping or pouring from anything that he could see. He was baffled.

When her watering can was filled, she did something to stop the flow of water, and then carried the watering can over to a perfectly shaped little fir tree, and watered it. Was she a gardener? Why water a fir tree in the dead of winter? She walked back to the door, dropped the watering can near it, and she and the dog went up the stairs and inside.

He watched for ten minutes, and she did not return. He wondered if there was any water left in the watering can, and decided that he would find out. He crept around to the corner of the huge house, and then crept silently along the wall, and picked up the watering can. It was empty.

But she had filled it right over there. It looked like the spout of a very small pump, but instead of a pump handle, there was a sort of knob. Like a doorknob? His mouth watered. She had not come outside, there was no sign of her nor her dog, and he was thirsty. He crept forward.

He placed his hand on the knob, and tried to turn it, but it would not budge. His heart sank. He puzzled over it for a few seconds, and then tried turning it in the other direction.

Clear, beautiful, cold water began to drip out. He turned it a little more, and then cupped his hands underneath, and tasted it. It had a slight metallic taste, but he was far too thirsty to care about that. He plunged into his cupped hands and drank his fill, and then rested a moment, letting the water spill over his hands, and then he drank even more.

He watched the water flow for a little while longer, and then thought he should probably turn it off. He very sensibly reversed the direction of rotation, and turned it off successfully. The he leaned his head against the wall, and tried to think.

"Are you okay?"

He spun; there she was, up on the platform, looking down at him. He flinched, and drew back against the wall, and his eyes grew wide. She came down the stairs.

"I won't hurt you, " she said. "Don't be afraid. Where are you from?"

Here we go again, Bolco thought. "Tuckborough."

"I don't know where that is, " she said. "Is it far from here?"

"I don't know, " said Bolco. And again to his own surprise, tears came into his eyes.

"Oh, you poor dear, " she replied. "Are you hungry? I can bring you something to eat."

Bolco looked up and saw the compassion in her eyes, and hope rose in him. "Yes, I am hungry, " he replied. "Please."

"Wait here, " she said. "I'll be right back."

He thought about bolting, and thought about his silent request for help, and torn between the two, he waited anyway, still kneeling by the faucet. She was not gone long.

She came right back out with a plate and a glass, and set them on the table up on the wooden platform. "Come up on the deck, " she said. She saw him hesitate, and said, "It's okay. Come on, sit up here where we can talk."

He took a deep breath, and slowly stood up, and nervously approached the stairs. She was studying him as he came, and he braced himself for some comment about his bare feet. He was not disappointed, but he was surprised.

"Are your feet cold?" she said.

"Well, a little, " he replied. "But not very." He glanced down at the plate. Another cake ring! But no; this definitely looked like bread. There was an apple, too, and a glass of some orange liquid.

"I hope you like bagels, " the woman said. "Oh, wouldn't you like to wash your hands?"

He looked down at them. She did have a point. He went back downstairs to the strange little pump spout, turned the knob, and rubbed his hands hard under the cold water until they were much cleaner than they had been. Then he looked for something to wipe them on.

"I brought you a towel, " she said. He went back upstairs. He was starting to like this person. She handed him the towel, and watched as he dried his hands.

He sat down to eat, and sipped the orange liquid first; it was tart and sweet, but he was no longer thirsty, so he left the glass full and set to work on the apple and the bread ring. As he ate, he watched the woman, who watched him. The silence was noticeable, but not burdensome, and he thought that she was very kind.

Meanwhile, she was trying to decide whether he was young and extremely sad for his age, or older and short for his age. She was holding an internal conversation all her own, and asking for wisdom and grace and generosity to do what was needed. She nursed a cup of tea as he ate.

He finished. "Thank you, " he said, rising, and gently bowing. Her eyes widened. "You're welcome, " she said with a big smile, "How sweet." He didn't know what to say. He sat back down, though, and realized that he was in no hurry to leave.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked, thinking he still looked cold.

"Oh, please, yes. Thank you. " Warmth and comfort and thoughts of home... Bolco's morale was steadily climbing.

"What do you like in it?"

"Milk, please, and honey, if you have it."

"I think so, " she said. "I'll be right back."

She went inside, and he watched her through the bay windows, as he thought of the inner warmth still within him, growing now as he silently repeated, "Thank you. Thank you so much." She came out with a large steaming mug of tea. "Thank you, " he said aloud this time, and as he took hold of it, tears started again. He fought to gain his composure, but it was no use. He set the mug down, and shook as he silently wept, turning his face so as not to get salt into the tea.

She disappeared again, and to his surprise returned with a box. They looked like thin kerchiefs, but they were made of thin, easily torn paper. She took one, and then a second. He looked up at her, and to his surprise saw that she was weeping too, and she used the paper kerchiefs to clean her face up. Glad that she had demonstrated, he followed her example.

"My name is Janiece, " she said with a gentle laugh through her tears. She smiled at him, waiting.

He studied her face, holding her eyes with his, wanting to trust her. He had told nobody his name since he had awoken ticket-less on the noisy metal cart. He took a deep breath, and a sip of tea, and then another. Finally he said, "My name is Bolco." And the fear melted from him.

She smiled. "Hello, Bolco."

"Hello, Janiece, " he replied. "Thank you for being kind to me."

She smiled at him, still wondering whether she was talking to the most polite but saddest child she had ever met, or a very short, polite homeless adult. His deep brown eyes were honest, his bedraggled hair clung to an earnest face that was, she thought, growing more peaceful as he drank the tea. She wondered over and over again whether she should invite him into the house. If he had been full-sized she would never have dreamt of it, but then, if he had been full-sized, she might not have reached out to him like this at all without having another person there. Her elderly neighbor lady was within earshot, she thought; bad idea after all, since she was hard of hearing. What were her other options? Could he be invited in to warm up, or should she offer him a bus fare to the nearest homeless shelter? She didn't even know if Acton had one. Back and forth she argued with herself.

"May I ask you something?" Bolco said. She waited. "If you don't mind my asking, " he continued, "why were you watering that lovely little fir-tree in the middle of winter?"

She burst out laughing. "It's a live Christmas tree, " she explained. "You have to water them regularly because the roots were pruned to get them into the pot."

Her laughter died away when she saw his face go blank. "Christmas tree?" he said.

"Yes, " she said. "Oh, I'm sorry, are you Jewish?"

"N-no."

She gasped. "Muslim? I mean, Islam? I mean-- " ...And I just asked if he was Jewish, she panicked.

He shook his head. "No, " he echoed. "I don't know what you mean."

"You really don't know what Christmas is."

"I'm sorry, " he said. Christmas seemed very important to her, and he wondered what it meant to the tree. Things were beginning to get difficult again, but she did not seem angry. He hoped that she would not, this first comfortable friend he had found in this strange place. Suddenly he turned inward, where that glowing gentle warmth was, and said silently, "Please. I don’t want to ruin this. Please."

There was a pause, then she seemed to make up her mind. "Don't worry, " she said. "Never mind. Would you like to tell me about your home?"

"Very well, " he said slowly, and stared into his almost-finished tea. "What would you like to know?"

"Anything, " she said. "Tell me what you want to."

He drained the cup, and immediately she reached for it. "Want another?"

"Thank you."

She returned almost immediately, with a coat on and two more mugs of tea. Handing one to him, she sat down across from him and waited.

He sighed, thought hard, and began. "My ancestors have lived in the same home for centuries, " he began. "The fields and hills around us are lush and green, and the grass grows tall all around the Smials; the trees are mostly old, and bear plenty of fruit. The fields bear well. The sheep and cattle thrive, and so do the children. " He took a sip of tea. "The Smials hold several families of cousins, so it is never a lonely place." He thought for a while.

"I help tend the fields; there are seven of us who plow, sow, weed, and harvest. And everyone pitches in when the fruit trees ripen, so I get to do that too. I love the trees even more than the fields. Sometimes after I am done in the fields, I take a cup of tea, and climb one of the trees, and wait for the stars to come out. My cousins think that's a little strange."

"You can climb without spilling the tea?" Janiece asked.

"Certain trees, " he admitted. "They have to be easy ones. There's one where I can set the cup down on certain branches."

"I see."

"My cousin is teaching me to read, a little, " he continued, "but he says I make slow progress. I can't read anything I've seen around here."

"That must be frustrating, " Janiece said.

Bolco nodded. "But I'd rather be outside than study, so I guess it's my own fault. In the early spring, before the winter rye harvest, I go on long walks sometimes. " He struggled to think. Tea or no tea, he was weary. He wanted to be engaging, entertaining, but he was a quiet recluse by nature. "I love winter evenings by the fireplace, " he continued. "I love the sound of the Stream; and the deeper sound that the river makes, when I get to hear it. Tuckborough is about fifteen miles from Bywater, but I go there just to listen to the river sometimes."

"How lovely, " Janiece said, and she meant it.

He liked her more and more. "Tuckborough backs up to Green Hill Country, and that's a lovely place for long walks, too. There are places in it where the trees are tall and close together. It goes on for miles and miles, all the way to Woody End near Woodhall."

"Tell me about one of your cousins. How about your favorite one?"

"That would be Lilac." He surprised himself. He surprised Janiece, too, and smiled despite himself. "She's adventurous, " he explained, thinking to shock her further, but it seemed to satisfy her. Janiece would take some getting used to, he thought, but he wanted to invest the time. "Lilac likes to walk, and sometimes we go all the way to Bywater together. We have to go on the roads, of course, or folk would whisper. She likes to ride, and sometimes her brother loans me his pony so Lilac and I can ride together. That happens less and less these days."

"Oh?"

"He rides more. So the pony is tired more often." He sipped some more tea. "Sometimes I help Lilac in the gardens, " he offered, surprising himself this time. He hadn't planned on being quite this open. Then he realized he was blushing, and sipped some more tea to try and hide it.

"Is she a close cousin?" asked Janiece, then thought she shouldn't have.

"Fourth cousin once removed, " said Bolco into his cup of tea.

"Oh, I see, " Janiece apologized. "Um, what color is her pony?"

"Grey, " blurted Bolco, relieved, "with black legs and a black tail, but a white mane, and a white nose. He's very lively and fast and he can jump, even over streams. His name is Foggy, but it doesn't really fit him, it sounds too soft. She's fearless with him. A lot of my cousins couldn't handle him. I've only tried a few times, when I had to. I manage, but he's really her pony. " He paused for breath.

"Bolco, " said Janiece, very gently. He looked up. "How did you come here? To Massachusetts? What brought you here?"

She watched him struggle, compassion rising in her stronger than ever. Finally he held her eyes again, and said slowly, "I woke up on the, the train. I don't know how I got there. And I didn't have a ticket. So the man told me to get off of the train. Another man gave me this jacket. I walked away from the tall buildings. " He took a deep breath and plunged on, more earnestly. "I stole some bread crusts that a woman put out for her birds, and she was angry, so I ran from her. Then I slept in a wood, but a dog found me and his owner was angry, so I ran again. I tried to talk to the woman behind the window at the last train station, but I, I didn't understand what to ask or how. Then a man at the little cake-and-coffee-Inn gave me a cup of milk and two ring-cakes. And, and then, then I walked here, " he finished. He still held her gaze, willing her to believe him, and trust him. Inwardly he begged, "Please, please, let her trust me, let her be my friend."

There was a brief silence, and then Janiece spoke again. "Bolco, how old are you?"

"Twenty-six, " he replied without hesitation. "Twenty-seven in June. Midsummer's day."

Janiece was silent again. The argument in her soul was fast and furious. Twenty-six, almost twenty-seven, not a child at all. Far from home; either lost, or separated from loved ones. And clearly vulnerable. Amnesia, or a kidnapping, or something else; how on earth would one explain boarding a train in February without a ticket, jacket, or shoes? Hungry. Gracious, polite, honest and just beginning to open.

She stood. What was a green belt from the local Karate club worth, she reflected, if she had to be afraid of somebody who was slender and barely over three feet tall? Perhaps she was being stupid, but she would trust him. Lord, she thought, I hope I'm not making a big mistake.

"Would you like to come inside and wash up? Take a bath, wash your clothes?"

He was stunned. He did not know if he was willing to go into her huge house. He could see inside, and it was vast, cavernous. The ceilings, everything was, well, man-sized. There were numerous things inside he had never seen the like of before. And yet if he turned down her offer he knew he would seem ungrateful and unfriendly. He stared at her and tried desperately to find something to say, but did not succeed.

"Think it over, " she soothed him. "It's all right. You can take some time to decide. I am going to go inside and get ready for the day. You can stay here, and think it over."

"Thank you. I, I'm sorry, " he said. "Please forgive me. I don't mean to be rude. You are very kind."

She took a deep breath, and said, "I'll be back in a little while." And then she went inside. He heard the inner door click closed, and that was followed by a sound of a bolt sliding very quickly. She had locked it. He didn't blame her, he thought.

He stood and stretched, and looked down over the railing. Dizzying height, he thought. Much different sensation than being in a tree. He stood and gazed around for several minutes, studying the house and the deck and the yard, and trying to make the dizzy feeling go away. And then he realized that the two large cups of tea were done with him, and wondered how far he would have to go to get rid of it discreetly. It being February, the trees were quite bare, it was daylight, and there were houses all around. He descended the steps and headed rather nervously into the woods, hoping to avoid tall men-children and dogs.

Meanwhile, upstairs, Janice had gone into the closet, and unlocked her husband's always-loaded revolver, kissed it for his memory's sake, and placed it way up near the ceiling on the very highest shelf of her dresser. She thought hard about what his wishes would have been had he been here, and she decided that she would be overcautious in his memory, and just in case he happened to be watching. The master bed and bath had a single entry point which was lockable, and her dog could stay in with her; between the lock and the dog and the revolver, and her green belt as her last resort, she thought he would be pacified if not content. Meanwhile, she prayed hard for her own safety and that of her house and all its contents, and that God would make all this work out all right, and that Bolco (what kind of parents would choose a name like that! no matter...) would find what God wanted him to find, and somehow make it back to his home safe and sound.

She went to the window to check on him. He had descended the stairs and was walking out of the yard. Her heart sank and sank as she watched him go, and soon he was completely out of sight and she was miserable.

She brushed the tears away but more came, and she called her little collie-dog and knelt down beside him. He licked her face, and she let him. She moved away from the blinds, by turns angry and disappointed and sad, and wept as she showered. He had found a place in her heart, she realized, this short wanderer who was two years older than her oldest son.

She was late for work; really late. Furious, she pushed herself to hurry, and was soon dressed. She went back to the blinds, knowing he would be nowhere in sight, but she peeked out again.

He was walking back into the yard.

The tea, she thought. Of course.

Her emotions reversed completely, and she stifled what would have been a shriek into a whistling whisper-shriek of delight, hugging the now-baffled collie and celebrating-- still in a whisper, "He's back, thank you God, he's back! He came back. He came back! " She put her work clothes back into the closet and put on jeans and a turtleneck and one of her husband's old chamois shirts instead, and reached for the phone and called the office. "Out today, " she said curtly, and that would have to do for now.

She took a deep breath, called the collie, closed the master bedroom door behind her (should I leave it locked? she wondered, went back in and got the odd little key, locked the door behind her, and held the key up just in case her husband was watching.) Laughing at herself now, she went downstairs and into the kitchen, and went to the door. Hearing it open, Bolco turned and smiled.

"Hello, Janiece, " he said.

"Hello, Bolco, " she replied. "Would you like me to come outside and join you on the deck?"

"Well, " he stammered, "I... I think I rather do need a bath, if, if, if you wouldn't mind my imposing on your hospitality so. If, if it's all right, I mean."

She laughed, perhaps too gleefully. She was beside herself that she had someone to care for. (Do I miss my sons this badly? she thought.)

"Downstairs, " she said warmly, "on the first floor, there's a complete bath, and a place where you can change in private, and a washer and a dryer for your clothes. And there's a couch in the family room if you want a nap. I'll make sure there are enough fresh towels and soap. Don't turn the washer on until you are done in the bathroom, though. I'll try and find some things you can wear while your clothes are washing." She ushered him in through the door.

She thought, He looks much dirtier standing on my clean floor. How I miss having my boys here to track dirt in. This could get complicated just in my own soul, and nevermind Bolco's problems.

He was moving in slow motion. He slowly turned, taking in the corners of the living room and kitchen that he could not have seen from the deck. She thought it was odd that he sniffed several times.

"Janiece, " he said.

"Hmmm?"

"Where should I light a fire to put the kettle on, for the bath? And should I go out and gather some firewood? I don't see any."

She was stumped for a second. "Kettle? .... oh, my goodness...." The full impact of his description of his home finally hit her; completely agricultural society with no modern amenities whatsoever. She remembered him kneeling by the outdoor spigot, operating it in slow motion, and now that made sense too. No wonder he went into the woods to get rid of the tea.

"Okay. One thing at a time. You won't need a fire, the water's already hot. First let me find you some things that might almost fit. Then we'll go through the instructions for getting you washed up. And... wait. I have an idea."

She picked up the phone, and dialed her son's dorm room. She smiled at Bolco reassuringly as she waited, and then her son picked up.

"Jake?... Mom. Hi, hon, sorry to wake you up. What classes do you have today?... Mm hmmm. Uh huh. Okay, listen, darling. I need you to do me a big favor. Forget showering and everything, you can do that here. I want you to skip your classes, and drive home as soon as you can. "

She winced and took the phone away from her ear a little bit, and Bolco could faintly hear loud masculine speech coming from the thing. He began to get nervous.

"I know, but this time, this once, just today, skip the classes. I need your help. Okay, honey? Yes, everything's fine. At least, I hope so. No, I'm okay. But I really do need your help. Okay? Mm hmmm. Okay. See you soon. Thanks, honey. Love you too." She hung up, immensely relieved; her husband would prefer it that way, she thought. Propriety and safety restored all around. She turned to Bolco.

He was backing towards the door. Her brilliant idea suddenly crashed around her, and she went down on one knee. "Bolco, honey, what's wrong?" Oops, too much maternal instinct too soon; remember, he's twenty six.

He halted. "Was, was that your son? He's coming here? "

"He's very nice, " she pronounced firmly. "He's a good and kind young man. You don't need to be afraid of him at all. "

"But I am, " blurted Bolco, panic rising in him. His last experience with a man-child had not been good. The door, the woods, beckoned him; better a chance at a man-child out there than the certainty of one in here. He burst out onto the deck and halted at the railing, and turned to face Janiece again.

What a nightmare, he thought, what have I done, what should I do. Desperately, he turned deep within. "Help me. I don't know what to do."

She was doing the same thing. "Please, God, help me. Help him. Please calm him down. Please show me how to help him."

They stared at each other for a while, and finally Bolco turned away, and as he did, tears started again. This time they made him angry. "I don't know why I weep so often, " he snapped.

"Sometimes it's just the Holy Spirit, " she replied, and then wished she could take it back. He stood and wept with his back to her, and she berated herself silently.

But he began slowly to turn back to face her. "The what?"

"God, God's Spirit, " she simplified. "Sometimes it's just the Spirit of God that causes us to cry. It's okay. There's nothing wrong with that."

His panic was beginning to fade, and he was thinking, thinking. Very slowly, questions came. "God. God... The Creator?"

"Yes."

"He makes me weep."

"Sometimes."

"Why would he do that? Why would he want to do that?"

Keep it simple, keep it simple, don't panic. "It's one of the ways that he works deep inside us."

"The Creator works inside us?"

"Yes."

Long pause. Then, "Do... do you ever talk to him?"

She nodded.

"Ask him questions?"

She nodded again, holding her breath.

"Does he... does he listen?"

"Yes, he does."

He dropped his gaze, placed both his hands just below his heart, and just stood there. She sat down, dumbfounded. She waited.

Eventually, he sat down, put his hands on the table and stared at them.

"Janiece, " he said slowly. "When I was on my way here, when I was in the wood and the dog found me, the owner of the dog was a tall man-child. I was afraid of the dog, but more afraid of the man-child. He said I was trespassing but wouldn't let me leave.

"We had a fight. I am afraid I fought unfairly and that I hurt him. I did not mean to. And then I ran away. And I, I should not be afraid of your son. I am sorry. But the fear is there." He turned inward with a silent but vehement "Please, please, " and then looked up at Janiece.

There were tears in her eyes now. She went inside and returned with the box of paper kerchiefs. After she had recovered somewhat, she spoke slowly.

"I would not allow my son to hurt you, " she said. "Nor would he want to. He does not ... " she took a deep breath. "Forgive me, but my son does not pick on people smaller than he is."

Bolco actually laughed. Janiece joined him relieved, and the laughter grew and the tension melted and the sparkle came back into the day for them both. Bolco still had a few concerns, but he would trust Janiece, and the choice to trust gave him some real peace. When the laughter finished, the peace lingered.

Eventually Bolco spoke again. "Janiece..."

She looked up.

"While we are waiting for your son to come home, may I have another ring-bread?"

She laughed afresh, and the laughter lingered as she filled a large bowl with three bagels and an assortment of fruit, and then collected a knife, the butter dish, and the jug of milk. As she brought it all outside, she heard running water; he was at the spigot, washing feet, head, and hands. He had shed his jacket, and she studied his clothes: homespun and handmade. Amazing. She wanted to learn more about the culture he came from. She fetched him a bath towel, which he was reaching for on the way up the stairs. He laughed to see the bowl brimming with Second Breakfast, and he set to. The bowl was half empty before he slowed down. She thought, with Jake here too I may have to restock this weekend; with such an appetite, why didn't he grow taller? Time enough for that later, she thought.

She watched him lingering at the bowl, eating one grape at a time, and she thought of questions. "What kind of fruit trees are there at Tuckborough?" she asked.

"Apples, " he began; "peaches, plums, pears, are the main orchards. Currants, crabapples, here and there. Grapevines where they'll grow, but we don't get grapes quite this sweet as often as we'd like. "

Temperate climate, she thought. "Berries?"

"Blackberries, raspberries, strawberries, blueberries in the fields or the woods; whortleberries on the downs. Gooseberries in the gardens."

"Gooseberries?"

He nodded. "Pies."

Leave it, and look it up, she thought. "What kinds of grains do you grow?"

"Ryes, wheat, oats, barley; those that have lots of livestock grow hay, but most graze their stock on the downs or hillsides."

"Vegetables?"

"Cabbages, " he sighed with real nostalgia, "and roots of course, turnips and potatoes and carrots; lettuces and kale, peas, and beans, lots of different beans. Lilac makes a wonderful winter stew, between the late Kale and the cabbages, and the roots. Lilac had been thinking it was almost warm enough to start the early spring beds. I wonder if she began that or not."

He was faraway, and did not hear the car pull up out front, but he did hear the door slam, and he snapped into the present. She stood. "Wait here, " she said. "Don't worry. It will be fine." She rushed into the house and out the front door.

It wasn't fine, he thought. He heard Jake's voice, sounding very agitated, and Janiece being as soothing as she could. Back and forth a few times, and Jake began to calm down. Then it was quiet, and that was worse.

He heard the front door open. He realised that his heart was pounding. His eyes were wide. He was sweating. All the running he had done in the past five days came flooding back, and it was all he could do to stay at the table, but stay he did.

When Jake came to the door and looked out, he saw Bolco's terror before he saw anything else about him. Janiece knew her son well; Jake stood in the doorway a moment, and then gently opened the door, leaving it open for his mother, and came to the table and slowly sat down.

"Hi, " he said. "I'm Jake. "

Bolco tried to slow his breathing down, and failed, and did not dare say anything.

"Look, " Jake said. "Don't worry. You're going to be okay. My mom wants to help you as best as she can, and that's 'cause she's a great lady." Janiece squeezed Jake's shoulder. "Let me know if I can help you too, okay?"

Bolco stared, and then the words sank in and he realized a response was expected. He nodded briefly.

"Okay, " Jake said. "I'm going to go out to the car, and bring in my stuff. I'll be back when I'm done. Don't worry. You'll be okay." Jake reached across the table, gently clasped Bolco's wrist for just a moment, and then quietly stood up and turned to go in.

He heard a hoarse sound behind him, and looked back. Bolco was still stiff with fear, but he tried again. "Hello, Jake."

Jake smiled, and nodded, and relaxed. Then he turned and went inside.

Once Jake was inside, Bolco jumped up, and tried to dispel the tension, but it was bottled up tight. "I need to walk around a bit, " he said to Janiece, and she nodded, but she stayed and watched him as he went down the stairs and paced in the yard. With all that he had eaten, she worried whether his stomach might be upset, but Bolco just paced back and forth. She noticed that his pacing usually took him by the little fir Christmas tree.

Finally he stopped, and studied it, exploring it with his hands. He inspected the shape, the pruning history, places where the branches had been nicked and sap had run, and finally he knelt down and explored the base. Every touch was gentle, she noted. Bolco was completely absorbed in the fir tree, and Jake came back out unnoticed. They watched Bolco conclude his study, and with a farewell caress, walk away toward the edge of the yard to a tall maple. With one hand on the trunk, he looked up and was lost in the upper branches for another minute or so.

When he turned back to look at the deck, Jake was coming down the stairs. Bolco waited. Jake approached as gently as he could, hands in pockets, and stopped about ten feet away. "It turns a yellowy gold in the fall, " he said, nodding at the maple. "This one over here, turns fiery orange." He pointed with his foot. "That one too."

Bolco relaxed a little. Jake shuffled at the grass with his foot and then walked underneath another tree.

"This oak turns a dull orange and then the leaves are hard to clean up. Lots of acorns, too."

Bolco relaxed a little more, and began to follow Jake at a safe distance.

Jake cast his eyes around the yard's edge, and settled on a young white pine. "Hey, do you like to climb?"

A slow smile began as Bolco realised how earnestly Jake was reaching for his heart. He nodded. They walked over to the pine tree, and stood under it. Its trunk was only about a foot in diameter, and the branches were close together, but it had been pruned up past six feet. Bolco touched the bark, and looked up, considering the branches. Jake waited, until Bolco was done studying.

"Come on, " Jake said, and laced his fingers, and bent down.

Bolco stepped forward, put one hand on Jake's shoulder and the other on the trunk, and entrusted his weight to the tall young man. There was no doubting Jake's strength, Bolco thought as he shot upward; he swung into the lower branches, climbed up one level, and looked down, waiting. Jake laughed, jumped and swung up.

They went up about twenty feet, and then Bolco stopped and met Jake's eyes, but his own misted over. He wiped at them with his sleeve, but Jake put a hand on the same branch Bolco was holding. "Don't worry. Sometimes the Holy Spirit just does that," Jake said. If Bolco had been able to see clearly enough, he would have known Jake's eyes were misty too.

Janiece took Bolco's jacket inside when she went. They'd be in when they got cold. She emptied out the pockets-- they still had sunflower seeds in them, which she put into a bowl and set aside-- and put the jacket in the wash.

Jake and Bolco sat silently in the pine at first, but eventually Bolco spoke very softly. "Jake? What is Christmas, and what does it mean to a small fir tree?"

It took longer for Bolco and Jake to get cold than Janiece had thought, but they came in shivering about forty minutes later. She had the kettle on.

*******

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