“Did you ever see so many potatoes in all your life?”

  Pulling the cover off the back of the cart, I reveal the first load of this year's harvest. Potatoes, piled so high that they're almost rolling over the cart's edges.

  “We have fifteen more like this,” I continue, turning to the astonished buyers who have gathered here in Bradlesford's market square. “All fresh, all of the highest quality. Why, these potatoes are so good, you could almost eat them like they were apples.”

  To prove my point, I reach up and take one of the potatoes, and then I wipe away the dirt before taking a big bite. I immediately regret this choice, of course, but I proceed to chew the mouthful and swallow before setting the potato on the cart's frame.

  “What's more,” I add, “we've found this particular harvest to be hardy indeed. Why, they last twice as long before going off, compared to regular potatoes. Why that is, I don't rightly know, but I imagine it's something to do with the expertly managed soil up at our farm. We know what we're doing, gentlemen. Now that the next generation has taken over, you're going to see some big changes.”

  I turn to Father, who has been loitering a little way from the cart since we arrived. It's almost as if he's feeling ashamed that he ever doubted me.

  “Isn't that right?” I ask him. “The future's here.”

  A faint, broken smile briefly flickers across his lips, but still he seems so uncomfortable. I suppose he's not looking forward to telling me that I was right and he was wrong. He hasn't done that yet, but I know it's coming. He has to accept defeat.

  “How much do you want for the lot of them?” John Brynner says, stepping forward and peering up into the cart. “And when can they be ready?”

  “You think you can sell them in the city?” I ask.

  “I know I can,” he replies, taking one of the potatoes and giving it a good, firm squeeze. “They're a nice texture, and quite uniform. People in the city can be a little picky when it comes to these things.”

  “If you're selling to the city,” I continue, “I'll want double the usual rate. You can pass the extra price on to those idiots, and you know full well that they'll pay it. And even when -”

  Before I can finish, a face catches my eyes at the back of the crowd. She's already gone again, but I watch and a moment later I spot her a second time. I feel an instant leap in my heart as I realize that it's her, that it's the woman I rescued from certain death last year in the forest. She's stepping into the public house, and all of a sudden I'm filled with the absolute belief that I have to go and speak to her.

  “Please,” I say, turning to Brynner, “take a good look at them. I'll be right back.”

  Not giving him a chance to delay me, I slip away through the crowd, forcing my way toward the public house. There are so many people here in Bradlesford today, and they're milling around with no apparent sense whatsoever. Most people are just like cattle, and I have to veritably shove my way through until finally I get to the public house's main door, where I stop and adjust my attire in the window. I want to look my best when I speak to the woman. After all, last year I was but fourteen years old, just a child. Now I am fifteen, almost sixteen, and I am a fully-grown man. I am also a successful farmer.

  I have need of a wife.

  Once I am satisfied that I look my best, and once I have tidied my hair and parted it neatly on the left side, I open the door and step into the dark, dank saloon. Immediately, the smell of stale beer and malignant body odor assaults my nostrils, and I spot several inebriated souls slumped at the bar. This is not a place I have frequented in the past, nor is it one I shall come to again. I would never wish to drink away my life and my health, and as I step closer to the bar one of the drunken fools lets out a loud, sleepy burp. The stench of rotten vegetables fills the air, and I step around the bar until finally I spot the object of my affection.

  She is sitting in one of the corner booths, counting some coins, and a staggering drunk is leaning against the chair next to her.

  “Come on, sweetheart,” the drunk is saying as I get closer, “it's a fair deal. You're happy, I'm happy, everybody wins.”

  “Is this degenerate bothering you?” I ask, stopping next to the booth.

  “What did you call me?” the man says.

  “I don't think the lady wishes to endure your company a moment longer,” I tell him. “Pray get back to your stool and resume your imbibing of that filthy beverage.”

  “Huh?” He furrows his brow. “What are you on about?”

  “Scram!” I say firmly.

  He stares at me for a moment, before shaking his head and muttering as he stumbles back across the bar. He almost falls right over, but he manages to reach his stool and I feel rather triumphant as I turn and look down once more at the beautiful woman whose name I did not catch when last we met. Still, for a moment I am struck dumb by her smile. This is a face that has lived on in my dreams over the past year, though I did not ever think I would be so lucky as to see her again.

  “This seems to be becoming a habit,” I say with a smile.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Me rescuing you,” I continue, putting my hands on my hips. “I should advise you that this particular establishment is not one in which a good lady would wish to find herself alone. There are far too many reprobates and drunks around.”

  “I shall remember that,” she replies, “if I am ever in this area again.”

  “Might I join you?”

  She hesitates, as if she is not certain, and I quickly sit opposite her. After all, I would not want her to mistakenly send me away before I have had a chance to impress upon her my finer qualities.

  “Forgive my cheap clothing,” I say, as she gathers her coins together. “I am about to come into a good deal of money, and then I shall order something more suitable.”

  “Is that so?”

  “You will remember that last year, I told you I am a farmer.”

  “I believe you did.”

  “Well, I have turned the farm into a massive success,” I continue. “I have succeeded even beyond my own wildest dreams. Do you know how many carts of potatoes I have at my disposal right now?”

  “I could not imagine.”

  “Sixteen. One out there now, which you must have seen as you came through the square, and another fifteen waiting back at the farm.”

  “How... impressive,” she replies as she opens her bag and drops the coins inside. For a moment, I catch sight of a tattered old book, but then the woman ties the bag shut and gets to her feet. “I wish you good luck with the -”

  “Sebastian,” I say, panicking slightly and getting to my feet, and then holding out a hand toward her. “That's my name. Sebastian.”

  “Hello, Sebastian,” she says, shaking my hand and – I fancy – smiling just a little. “I am sure you will look very fine in your new clothes, and I wish you all the best luck with your endeavors.” She withdraws her hand. “And now, if you don't mind, I must be leaving. I have a long walk ahead of me today, and I should like to set off before the rain comes in.”

  She turns to walk away.

  “What's your name?” I ask.

  She stops and glances back at me.

  “You never told me,” I continue, “and I have often wondered what it might be.”

  “You have?”

  “Oh yes. In fact, I have thought of you quite often.”

  She stares at me for a moment, with the most curious – thought still beautiful – expression, and I think I see a softening of her countenance.

  “You were the boy in the forest,” she says finally, as if she has only just realized. “You helped me out of a difficult situation, and I in turn let my blood fall onto your soil.”

  “That soil has given me a bumper crop this year,” I tell her.

  “Fancy that.”

  “You have no need to leave so soon, do you?” I ask, trying not to sound too keen. “I was hoping you would do me the great honor of conversing with me a little.”

  “That's very kind,” she replies, “but my path is set and I cannot be late. Perhaps if I come this way again, I shall be able to accept, but for now I must indeed be going.” She hesitates, before stepping toward me and then leaning closer. She places a hand on my shoulder and then she plants a gentle kiss on my cheek. Smiling, she then steps back and turns once again to walk away.

  Too stunned to know how to respond, I watch her go all the way around the bar before suddenly I realize that I am in danger of losing her once again.

  “Wait!” I call out, hurrying after her. “I must -”

  Before I can finish, a drunken idiot stumbles into my way, appearing out of nowhere and blocking my path.

  “Move!” I snap, shoving him aside and rushing around the bar, determined to catch up to the woman and find some way to make her stay.

  Yet as I get back outside, I find that the woman has disappeared into the crowd. I spend several minutes searching for her, I even ask one or two of the cackling old crones if they have seen a woman of beauty walk past, but there is no sign. Finally I am left standing all alone with the realization that for a second time I have met this fine woman, and for a second time I have let her slip away. I know I am perhaps being rather forward, but almost my mind is racing with ideas of how I should like to marry her and have everyone see that she is my wife. Yet she is gone, and I did not even catch her name.

  Sighing, I turn and head back to the cart, where a bidding war has broken out for my potatoes.

  “Think of all the money we're going to make,” I say to Father, as I stop by his side. “You've got to admit I was right now, haven't you?”

  “I'll see how many sacks we've got,” he grumbles, turning and heading around to the other side of the cart. “Might be we have to go back to the farm and fetch some more.”

  Five

  Sebastian

  Another year later

  “This one is better,” I stammer, taking another potato from the ground and turning to Father. “Look, this one is firm and plump and -”

  Before I can finish, however, the potato crumbles in my hands, and I see that – like all the others – it too has a rotten heart. I stare in disbelieving horror for a moment, before dropping the potato and turning to see the dour look on Father's face.

  “I don't know what's gone wrong,” I tell him. “This isn't possible, though. Last year's harvest was proof that my new methods work. I can't comprehend why this year's harvest has gone so wrong.”

  “I'll tell you,” he says with a heavy sigh. “You got lucky last year, Sebastian. That's all it was. Sheer, blind luck. I tried to tell you, but you wouldn't listen, and now we've followed your methods for the whole farm and what have we got out of it? Field after field of rotten produce. Even in our worst years before, we at least had something we could sell. Now there's nothing, and we'll be getting no income for the year.”

  “I saved from last year,” I remind him. “I'll figure out what went wrong, and I'll put it right.”

  “It's time to face facts.” He wipes some dirt away from his face. “If we sell the land now, we can find some other fool who'll give it a shot. Let some other family break their backs for no return, while we go off and -”

  “No!” I say firmly.

  He chuckles and turns to walk away, trudging back toward the distant farmhouse.

  “Don't turn your back on me!” I shout. “We've got last year's money still! We can try again! We still have another chance!”

  “No more chances, boy,” he replies. “Don't let last year's stroke of luck go to your head. You're only sixteen years old, and that's still plenty of time to get started with something new. In the city -”

  “I'm not going to the city!” I snap.

  “I reckon we can be out of here by December,” he adds, as if he isn't even hearing a word I'm telling him. “That'll be a cold time to move, but there's no point sticking around when we're not gonna be staying longer. I want to -”

  “No!”

  Running after him, I quickly get ahead and then turn. Reaching out, I place a hand on his chest to stop him, and I see the shocked expression in his eyes.

  “Sebastian,” he says cautiously, “what are -”

  “Listen to me, old man!” I sneer, filled with anger at the way he's so eager to give up on me. On the farm. “I'm better with this land than you could ever dream, and I can turn it around. I turned it around last year, and that sure as hell wasn't down to luck.”

  “Watch your language, boy.”

  “You're pathetic!”

  As soon as I've said that last word, I know I've stepped over a line. At the same time, I can't go back, and maybe I need to stand up to the old fool a little more firmly.

  “How many generations of our family have lived and worked on this farm?” I ask. “Four? Five, even? And you want to be the weak one, the one who gives up?”

  “You don't know what you're talking about.”

  “I know exactly what I'm talking about,” I continue, filled with a sudden burst of confidence. “I'm going to produce a crop next year that's so amazing, it'll make last year look like a famine. You won't believe all the potatoes that are gonna be popping up out of the ground, and I'll earn us so much money we'll be able to tear down that rickety house and build a whole new one!”

  “And buy yourself some more fancy clothes?” he asks with a sneer. “Like that ridiculous suit you got last summer?”

  “You don't have a clue.”

  “Get your hand off me boy,” he replies, looking down at my right hand, which is still pressed against his chest. “This conversation is over. Get your hand off me or by God I will make sure this is a mistake you never repeat. I'm starting to think you need reminding of your place in this family.”

  “Funny,” I say sternly, “I was thinking the same about you.”

  He chuckles, as if he thinks I'm joking.

  “This land is our land,” I continue, “and -”

  Suddenly he grabs my hand and twists me around, damn near wrenching my right arm from my shoulder. I cry out as I try to steady myself, but then Father kicks my legs from under me and shoves me down. I land hard, slamming face-first against the dry mud, and in the process I bite the side of my tongue. Blood bursts into my mouth, and then Father kicks me softly in the ribs before stepping over me and starting to walk away.

  “Clean yourself up,” he says, not even bothering to turn and look back at me. “Don't let your mother see you're hurt, or she'll blame me. Be a man and clean yourself up before you come home.”

  “Don't you dare hit me,” I stammer, feeling pain in my arm and mouth as I stumble to my feet. “Get back here!”

  He doesn't respond, so I start hurrying after him across the dry field. I almost trip against several of the rotten potatoes we dug up early, but finally I catch up to Father and grab his shoulder from behind.

  “Boy,” he says with a sigh, turning to me, “are you asking for another -”

  I don't let him finish.

  I swing a punch straight at his stubborn, infuriating face, and my fist connects hard with the side of his jaw. I see a brief look of shock in his eyes, but then he turns away and falls back, crumpling to the ground. I expected him to just stand there, but he fell! I actually knocked him off his feet and now I'm towering over him, breathless and shocked, not knowing what to do next. My fist is throbbing with pain, but for the first time in my life I struck my father. He fell, and there's no going back from that.

  “Don't ignore me!” I splutter, before spitting blood out onto the ground. “And don't walk away from me, either!”

  Sitting up, he touches his jaw, as if he's feeling for any damage.

  “Did you hear me?” I shout, and now there are tears in my eyes. “I won't be ignored! Not ever! Not by you, not by anyone!”

  “Boy,” he replies sternly, as he starts getting up, “you have no idea what you just did.”

  I watch as he gets to his feet. He's a big man, but he's huffing and puffing a little now and suddenly I realize that I'm not scared of him. He's probably going to try to hit me again, but I reckon I can duck out of the way in time. At least I've shown him that he can't ever ignore me.

  “Son,” he continues, taking a step toward me, “I want you to listen now.”

  “No!”

  Reaching out, I place my hand on his chest again, to keep him at a distance.

  “You're going to listen to me!” I tell him. “We're staying here on this farm for another year, and I'm going to prove to you that my methods work! It wasn't luck last year, it was -”

  Suddenly he gasps and takes a step back, and I watch as he reaches up and presses two fingers against the side of his neck. He hesitates for a moment, and then he moves the fingers down onto the wrist of his other hand.

  “What is it?” I ask cautiously. “What's wrong?”

  “I don't think my...”

  His voice trails off as he checks his neck again, and then he turns to me with a face that suddenly looks so pale. His eyes, meanwhile, seem to have a faint tint of yellow.

  “Sebastian,” he says slowly, sounding very much out of breath, “I think it's my heart.”

  “What -”

  Before I can finish, he drops down onto his knees, and then he starts moving his fingers around the side of his neck as if he's searching for something.

  “I don't think my heart's beating, boy,” he stammers, sounding increasingly panicked. “For the love of God, I don't think it's beating at all. I can't find it.”

  “That's impossible,” I reply, stepping toward him. “What are you talking about? Why are you saying these things?”

  “It's not -”

  Suddenly he grimaces, and then slowly he topples over and slams down onto his right side.

  “Father!” I drop next to him and try to lift him up, but he's too heavy.

  I move around and try again, and this time I'm able to haul him up until he's resting in my arms. As I look down at him, however, I see that his face is turning a pale shade of blue and his eye are staring up at me in frantic, frozen desperation.

  “Tell me what to do!” I shout. “How do I make it start again!”