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| Chapter 4. Melancholy | |
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ow that Mog was toiling away in the barn, he realized how far he had fallen. Being given the assignment of yak-dung shoveller had made him almost gleeful that morning. At last, a job that did not require him to sit astride a rooftop freezing to death. The barn was sheltered and relatively warm. Best of all, Armand was working on Vern’s old place on the other side of the village. Armand’s clumsy attempts to jolly him along with bad practical jokes had done nothing to improve his mood. In the past week and a half he had experienced an egg in his boot, a mouse in his glove, wood shavings in his stew, and a mysterious bucket of ice cold water falling from a ladder. Getting annoyed and carrying on only made things worse because the simple folk of the village thought Armand’s jests were the most magnificent entertainment known to humankind. He finished filling a wooden tub with the dung and leaned on his shovel. In the cold air his breath billowed around him and if he had been in a better mood he might have found it amusing. Instead. he watched the two young men mix straw into the mess before tamping it into a square form so that it could be shaped into blocks for gods only knew what purpose. Mog leaned back against the railing of the paddock and sighed, his mind wandering to thoughts of Sister Lemony on a nice warm island far away from the bitter cold of the Shiverpeaks. He was here because he did not know what else to do with his life. Mog looked at the muck caked on his boots and imagined his father gloating. It was old man Simagh’s contention that Mog would never amount to much, not after he had run away to join the priesthood. If his father had thought the priesthood a poor use of his mesmeric talents, Mog had a fair idea how he would have regarded the role of chief dung handler. “Stupid. Enough with the self-pity,” he grumbled at himself. But it was no use. He was alone in a strange place, a brightly clad giant who had become the bumbling fool at the butt of Armand’s jokes. But this was better than going back to the island because he would not have to endure watching Sister Lemony from afar with the constant reminder that not only could their love never be, she had no time for him. When she was not doting over Pendaran’s recovery, her remaining moments were for Master Bei. Mog was an after thought and that hurt worst of all. Nathan nudged him with the clean end of his tamping stick and pointed while the younger of the two, Remy, chuckled knowingly. Mog emerged from his melancholy and followed the gesture, seeing Maeve for the first time since his arrival. She was standing alone beyond the stone wall of the barnyard no doubt blissfully unaware of the filth that could be hers to enjoy if she just walked a few more paces in his direction. “You should go talk to her,” Nathan said mischievously and Mog braced himself for the usual jokes about his unusual proportions. Of course he knew Maeve dwelt in the village. After their first awkward encounter on the island, he hated to imagine what she would think if he lumbered toward her spackled with yak dung. She would probably label him some ugly ginger ogre recently emerged from its cave. Mog shook his head, hoping they would leave him be. In truth, he thought she was beautiful and the sound of her voice still haunted his dreams. But he loved Lemony and that was that. He glanced down at the empty tub and sighed. It was time to start shoveling again.
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