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the ghost, singing with even greater strength than before. The creature’s tortured sound caused him to stopper his ears in fear, with the base of his palms pressed against his minor lobes, as he knew everything that lives, or else half lives, does so on the constant edge of annihilation. There were those who saw this edge and got on with it—that is to say past it, smartly—and those others who looked on it and passed through the rest of life in paralysis of fear. The beast sang its dirge. Merian adjusted himself in the saddle astride the mule and coaxed it into a faster and faster trot. The animal would never reach anything even approximating a proper gallop, but it gained speed enough to hurry him beyond the sound of singing and on his chosen way.
    The mule moved over the muddied pathways toward civilization, sure-footed even without the man’s hand guiding its journey, until they neared the settlement’s center. Half a mile from the burgeoning square, the animal came to a flat stop and refused to budge, regardless of goading or the eventual outright violence. The spot where it stood was the railing next to a stone-built house with a plot just inside the fence. Instead of keeping to the road, the animal shoved its head between the slats of wood and began rooting in the garden for whatever might reveal itself.
    From the side of the house a man, who had watched and saw this, stepped forth and called to the two of them. “We just planted that ground.”
    â€œI don’t know what her interest is in it,” Merian replied, whipping at the animal’s hide. “You know how mules are.”
    â€œI know that mule,” the man said, walking closer toward them. “It belonged to Mr. Potter, who took his family west last spring.”
    â€œWrong mule,” Merian answered.
    â€œWell, I would swear.”
    â€œYou would be lying.” Merian looked the man in the face, and the man looked away, past him at the animal, then back toward the house.
    â€œI didn’t mean nothing by it. It’s just I had a neighbor with a mule that was the image of that one, liked to root in the same spot.”
    â€œMust be something there that attracts them all,” Merian said.
    â€œMust be,” the man returned, then took a half eaten and moldy apple from his pocket and offered it to the animal.
    The mule lifted its head from the soil and nuzzled the man’s hand, taking the fruit from his grasp.
    â€œMule’s name was Potter too, just like the man. It liked apples nearly as much as yours here.”
    â€œWell, we thank you for it, friend,” Merian answered, as he coaxed the animal back onto the road and they finally turned toward the square. The animal finished the apple in two great bites and began to trot again. In its mouth the taste of fruit was ancient and sweet.

three
    The spring when he was released into the company of manumitted men, all were told by court and legislators they could not remain in the colony but had to leave under penalty of death. Those who did not hide and ransom their lives to chance in order to stay near loved ones and old ways joined the lines on the roads heading north and west at the beginning of the year. The month when he set out had been marked by pox, but it was very mild that year and put in check before too long, so that only twenty thousand souls died in the season. It was this fever and dying that he would associate with springtime for the rest of his days. On the square that morning it was brought to mind as bile welled in his throat and he tried to turn it back down, to force himself into better spirits before the Sunday service.
    He dismounted outside the tavern and tied Ruth Potter to a railing, then straightened his shirt and went across the square to the little building that served as a church. He was met at the door by the sound of communion and found Content and Dorthea among the milling crowd, enthusiastic to see him as they