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blistered feet to heal. On the fourth morning he decided to leave after breakfast, but as he searched for tinder he slipped on the slantland and tumbled. Black and yellow insects boiled out of the ground. Only when he reached the ridge crest was he free of the swarm.
    He lay on his leaf pallet but the ground fell away and he was adrift. A ship came toward him, one he had seen before. The woman in the green dress stood at the railing, looking out expectantly. She was searching for him.

Chapter Four
    H e’s probably gone on, Laurel thought.
    She had been at the creek for hours without a single note drifting down from the ridge. Hank’s shirt and overalls and her muslin work dress and step-ins had dried. Laurel put them in the basket but didn’t leave. She sat and watched the water. Bright yellow mayflies hatched where the current slowed, the insects blooming on the surface, struggling a few moments, then aloft. They rose and fell, dapping the surface to lay their eggs. One landed on Laurel’s arm, and she studied the fragile body, the wings clear and thin as mica flakes. Late in the year for them, but pretty to see. She watched the mayfly drift upward like a spark, fall slowly back to light on the water.
    Laurel wished she’d gotten to the outcrop in the morning, but not long after Hank left for the Weatherbees’, Slidell had shown up with milk and some creasy greens and stayed for noon-dinner. With each additional minute of silence, the ragged man with the silver flute seemed more impossible. She checked the sky and guessed four o’clock. Hank would be back soon, maybe already was. I’ve got to touch where that fire was, Laurel thought. If ash rubs black on my hand, at least I’ll know he was real, not something my lonesomeness imagined.
    She made her way up the creek and into the rhododendron thicket, crouched and lifted a branch. The man lay shivering on the pallet of leaves, his face bright as fireweed. He hardly looked the same person. But he was, the scraggly beard and lank blond hair, the same blue shirt. Laurel moved nearer, close enough to see individual welts amid the swelling. Yellowjacket or hornet stings, more than she’d ever seen on anyone. Too sick to vex me even if he had a mind to, she told herself, so stepped into the clearing and stood above him.
    â€œWe need to get you to the cabin,” Laurel said. “If I help get you up, can you walk?”
    The man opened his eyes as much as the swelling allowed. He looked as if about to speak, but he only nodded. The man grimaced and tried to clench his teeth, but the shivering caused them to tap together.
    â€œOkay, then,” Laurel said.
    She got him to a sitting position, paused to catch her breath, and helped the stranger to his feet. The man nodded at his haversack.
    â€œI’ll get it later. Hoisting you back is chore enough.”
    They followed the creek down to the path, her hand firm on his elbow, sidling slightly ahead to better prop him up. Laurel remembered the washed clothes but like the haversack they could wait. The man still didn’t speak and she wondered if even the inside of his mouth was swollen. He leaned more of his weight into her, his skin and clothes reeking.
    â€œIt ain’t far now,” she told him as the cabin finally came into sight.
    Laurel shouted Hank’s name in hopes he was back. A few moments later he came from the barn. He walked rapidly at first, then came running.
    â€œWhat the hell?” Hank said when he got to them.
    â€œHelp me get him to the cabin,” Laurel said.
    Hank studied the man, not the swollen face but the tattered shirt and pants.
    â€œHe looks to be nothing but a tramp come to steal something.”
    â€œNo, he ain’t,” Laurel said.
    â€œWhat is he then?”
    â€œI don’t know, but he’s more than that, some kind of music player. He’s near stung to death.”
    Hank lifted a red handkerchief from his back