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82 Amit Bobrov
glad, and I smiled when seeing him smile. In his hands he held a
bowl and in it some food, as my sense of smell told me.

“Hungry?” He asked, and presented the bowl to me. I smiled
broadly.
“T-T-T-Tank you,” I said, stammering and suddenly shaking all
over.
“Haa, don’t sweat it boyo, it’s my pleasure, now eat up before
it gets cold!” He gently slapped my shoulder. His eyes keenly
studied my gestures, though I tried to hide them. He ignored
my shakes and my obvious look of fear. I couldn’t remember
why, but I knew it was improper for a man to show fear, so he

maintained my honor by not seeing that I was terrified.
He let me eat in peace and I kept my gaze upon my dish,
yet from the corner of my eye, I spied his look of worry, and
that made me somewhat relieved — he seemed to care. He
tended to the kitchen fire, whistling a child’s lullaby I thought I
recognized, yet could not remember from when or where. My
thoughts turned to the food, which up until then I had eaten

without noticing what I was doing. I couldn’t recognize the
taste of it, for, to me, there was no taste to anything. When I
was done eating, the forester was quick to notice and was there
to take the dish away. Everything he did, he did with an honest
smile.
“Now boyo, my name is Raymond o’ the Brooks, this being
near the brooks, thus my surname,” he said, laughing to himself
at some sort of private joke which was funny only to him. He
continued, “Can you tell me your name?”

“I... I don’t know!” I said growing agitated by the fact I could
not bring my name to mind. “I can’t remember,” I continued.
“Do you remember who was chasing you? Or how you got
injured?” He asked, and my worry grew. I shook all over as fire