8

“This couple I knew, they got very old,” said Hont. “Really,” said Paznan. He stopped his sabre play, curious to see how long the hammock would just swing by itself. “I don’t even know how old but there was nobody alive who had known them when they were young, not even a priest. When they were too old to work, they used to sit at the end of their garden on a bench holding hands talking about this and that. The servants brought bread, meat and water and put it on the path leading to that spot and the old people would fetch it.” Hont got up and stopped the hammock: “you’re driving me crazy with that rocking.” He sat down again: “it was late summer,” he said, “and it was so warm that they didn’t have to come in so they didn’t but just stayed on that bench. The servants kept bringing them food and the food would disappear. Time went on and the people forgot about them, even their son, who’d built that bench for them, a bloody good piece of wood work it was. But finally, god alone knows how much later, the son began to worry a little and went down there to see them.” Paznan let his sabre drop. “And?” he said. “Well,” said Hont, “they sat there, leaned against one another, dead as stone, eyes open. The food was gone, fox and birds must have got it, but they were untouched, their skin like leather.” Suddenly, the wind got hold of the hammock. Leaves murmured. It was cold and the sun had gone down.