An Evil Eye

102

The man with the knife walked down into the valley, looking for water.

When the path crossed a stream he took off his jacket and his shirt in spite of the cold and washed his arms, his hands, scrubbing at congealed gore with his fingernails.

When his hands were clean he washed his face, drenching his neck and shoulders with the icy water.

He rubbed his wet hands over his chest, and flinched. The dog had gotten closer than he’d thought-not a cut, quite, but a red welt over one breast. He splashed it with water, and massaged it beneath his hands. He reached for his shirt and looked it over. The thick linen was not damaged: only when he held it to the light could he see a tiny hole.

He rubbed the welt again. Then he washed his knife.