glanced nervously toward Pa's shack, then carried the cloth over to the outside water-pump and began to wash it clean. The wind stopped momentarily and he heard a high pitched squeak coming from the meadow, perhaps the cry of a field-mouse caught by an owl. He wrung the thing nearly dry then carried it into the cabin. The cook-stove was still hot so he hung the material over the flue-handle. Then David blew-out the lantern and lay down on his cot to wait. Outside the wind howled around the cabin like a wailing and mournful demon. It was a hot, summer wind, an unusual time for wind. A wind that made him afraid. The other vexing problems returned. He thought of the town, that strange place that Pa visited weekly for supplies. That place beyond the Sun where Pa said the Devil lived. That place that he had never seen, Pa having always refused permission. The star-man came from that town. Who lived there besides the star-man? Were there boys his own age? How old was he? It was hard to remember. Fifteen, Pa once said, but that was a long time ago.

And the sadness of years filled him. He began to cry softly. Pa might whip him for weeping but he could not help it. The sorrow of a thousand beatings returned, and the ever wailing rage of his father, and the loneliness of living. That was the worst part of all.

David knew it was part of him, the being alone. He considered himself a boy without identity, a name and nothing more. Was he like other boys? Was it normal to run from life, finding happiness in Dream-Town? Sitting on a hollow log and feeling the tender touch of soft red cloth against your cheek, did other children do that?

Had he always been here alone with only Pa in this bleak cabin? It seemed that way. But wait! Today, watching Pa bury that cloth, it reminded him of something, a misty haze of memory. A picture returning from beyond the years. He remembered standing on a chair beside the same window, watching Pa outside, near the waterpump, digging a hole and pushing something sacred into it. Cover it with earth, pounding the dirt flat with the shovel. The wind smashed the gate closed and David jumped from the distant sound.

There was, perhaps, still something sacred in the earth out there, near the waterpump. Something worth even more than the sock-like thing.

The fear filled him again, and now the squeaking gate seemed the wail of someone calling him from near the waterpump. David walked out on the front porch, standing for a moment petrified. The moon came from behind clouds, flooding the bleak meadow with dark blue light. The gate groaned again, and he heard the voice and knew he must follow.

He picked up the shovel, walking as though in a trance to the clearly remembered spot of ground. The digging was difficult, the elastic band biting deep into his flesh and rubbing it raw. His arms and shoulders ached but he could not stop. About two feet down the shovel struck metal. He dropped to his knees and began digging frantically with his hands. He found himself trying to free a small metal box from confining earth. The gate banged shut again, and then somewhere in the woods an owl screeched, and the gate swung open again with its mournful answer. And the wind cried among the trees.

He finally pulled the box loose and laid it beside him on the ground. It was old and rusty like the archives of Dream-Town.

While digging the box out, his fingers had touched something solid beneath it. He looked back into the hole to discover its nature. Then David Perkins screamed. The box had been covering a white and grinning human skull.

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