An Antic Disposition Read Free Page B

they did, others rattling or making odd clopping noises. The effect was a pleasing one, a regular rhythmic percussing, and the man sang along with it, an old Danish marching song that may have once cheered some Viking warriors on a rare occasion traveling by land.
    A casual observer might have found this sight odd in such a desolate region of the country, although anyone taking the trouble to observe the man would have been anything but casual. But what would have caused absolute astonishment was that the traveler was walking the road backward.
    He glanced over his shoulder periodically, more on the curves. At one point, he veered off the road and scampered to the top of one of the mounds. He surveyed the surroundings until he caught sight of the crossroads with the standing stone by it, then grunted to himself, satisfied. He slid lightly back down to the road and trotted, still backward, until he came to it.
    He shed the collection of bundles with an exaggerated groan, then leaned over, his knees perfectly straight, and touched the backs of his hands to the ground facing the east. He stood up, then bent over backward and touched the ground behind him. Then he stripped his cloak off, revealing a muddied motley tunic and leggings, and a face that had been powdered to an unnatural paleness. He started to swing his arms about, slowly at first, then faster and in larger circles until they were a blur. Then he made several shrugging motions while rolling his head in different directions until his neck made a series of cracking noises. He sighed with pleasure, then dug a cap and bells out of one of the many pouches at his belt and placed it carefully on his head.
    He was intrigued by the runestone, and stepped forward to examine it more closely. It was taller than him by the length of his arm, and the worn inscription was a jumble of scratches to his eyes, as incomprehensible as was the Latin alphabet in his early years. At the base of the stone, the inscriber had gouged a cross, delving a little deeper into the rock so that the last thing to fade would be Christs symbol.
    “Can you read them, then?” came a voice directly behind him.
    The fool swiveled his head carefully around to see a priest standing in the crossroads, wearing a plain brown cassock, unadorned by any order’s emblem. He was lightly holding an oaken staff that he did not seem to need for support. The fool cursed himself in his thoughts for letting the other man come behind him so easily, but the priest seemed good-natured enough.
    “I don’t have the reading of the runes,” said the fool. “Do you?”
    “Let me look,” said the priest, and he stepped forward and squinted at the scratches. “ ‘I, Gustav Andersson, own the lands within view of this stone. I have built this bridge for the glory of Our Savior, so that pilgrims may use it to travel to the Holy Land. May all who do so pray for my soul as I have prayed for theirs. Thus I do penance for my sins.’ It seems to be dated from early in the last century.”
    The fool looked at the bridge, which was made of stones that had to have been brought at great expense from other lands. All to span a brook that a child could have jumped.
    “It’s really not much of a bridge,” said the fool.
    “I suspect this Gustav Andersson was not much of a man,” said the priest. “His monument is larger than his penance.”
    “Perhaps his sins were small as well,” said the fool. “Let’s think the best of him, having never had the chance to meet him.”
    The priest and the fool stepped back from the stone and looked at each other.
    “I didn’t hear you approach,” said the fool finally.
    “No, you didn’t,” agreed the priest. “So, they’re letting fools into Denmark now, are they?”
    “It’s worse than that, Father,” replied the fool somberly. “They’re letting the Irish in, too.”
    The priest’s eyes widened, then he threw back his head and guffawed to the heavens.
    “You insolent