She leaned on her mop and woefully cast a fleeting look at the boy’s feet, the pain in her calves intensifying.
The boy glanced at the mop in Ploughman’s hand as he shut the door and then looked down at his feet where her eyes rested. He stood for an instant, contemplatively. Then quietly, he knelt to undo his laces and removed the shoes. Placing them against the wall, he started across the floor, his stockinged feet silent on the hard surface.
Startled by the unexpected display of thoughtfulness by the boy, Ploughman’s face brightened and she burst into grateful exclamations. “Oh, thank you Sir Jona…”
Oh, when will I learn? She shook her graying head. She said we all must call him ‘William’.
“Uh, that is…thank you, Sir William. Thank you.”
Again the boy halted, but this time the gaze he turned toward her was stony and cold. It bore into the woman, frightening her with its intensity.
Stalking back to the door, he plunged his feet into the muddy shoes. Stomping, he began to circle the woman, the noise of it filling the room.
He spiraled inward, covering more and more flooring with dirty footprint after dirty footprint.
Around and around he marched, drawing closer to her with each heavy step. The thudding cadence was the only sound in Ploughman’s ears. She clung to her mop, paralyzed by fear and wonder, her aching calves forgotten.
The eerie ritual ceased when the shoes no longer left a mark. As the boy leaned in to within inches of the maid, she could feel the heat from his breath on her forehead.
In a steady, low voice, he proclaimed, “I am Jonathan.”
Riveted, the woman studied his face, recalling the sinewy sensation of his elongated body against hers when she had seized him by the lakeside. With wide eyes, she noted the newly darkened hairs upon his upper lip, the cheeks now leaner due to the incessant upward growth of his young body.
Then, he was sprinting up the stairs, gone with only the abundantly gritty floor to remind the woman of the strange and frightening spectacle she had just witnessed.
Ploughman let out a shaky breath and stood for a moment, uneasy in the solitude. She walked toward the bucket to dip the mop, filth crunching under her feet with every step.
The dirt was everywhere, each footprint a testimony of her grievous error. She lifted the dripping mop from the bucket and sloshed it onto the floor, swirling away what she could of the incident.
Well, I won’t be calling him that again, no matter what the Lady says.
