In the whole village, only I still remember Dan Grimes. He lived, carried to the fields the scythe he called Excalibur, drank ale, married Bess, and died, all before living memory.
The young uns don’t credit it when I say Dan would walk half way across the county for work.
“Why didn’t he get the bus?” they ask.
“Weren’t no buses then,” I say, and they ponder this in silence.
When folk say Joseph Grimes has his mother’s crabbiness, I tell ‘em the viciousness is purely Dan’s. And they respect my lore.
But Dan weren’t vicious when he were young. He were sweet. Just not sweet on me. He comes to me in my dreams.