Summary
A wind-scoured stranger, half-myth, half-man, materialises at dusk in a hamlet where the bells still echo the Black Death. Between bruised limestone walls he watches Pierre’s sheep writhe with a murrain that smells of iron and sacrilege; with a poultice of verbena, yarrow, and murmured Latin he coaxes life back into the flock, and in doing so infects the heart of Toinon, the farmer’s ward, whose gaze has never before travelled farther than the hay-loft. Their nights are a tangle of lantern-smoke and unspoken futures, yet the vagabond’s marrow is compass-iron; at cockcrow he vanishes, leaving only a thumbprint of soot on the stable door. Toinon, gutted, weds François, a steadfast ploughman who loves her like the earth loves rain; their son Toinet grows long of bone and wild of eye, and when he falls for Pierre’s daughter the old man, keeper of the bastardy secret, bars the gate with a crucifix and a curse. Years collapse like cards; the drifter returns, hair silvered by salt and exile, and with the same touch that once healed ewes he now knits ruptured lineages, yet the open road—perfumed with tar, sea-rot, and the hosanna of undiscovered mornings—summons him once more. He walks away from the son he has silently fathered, from the woman whose mouth still tastes of his absence, from the village whose bells now ring for weddings he will never attend, disappearing into a horizon that swallows names.
Synopsis
The vagabond comes to the little village and to the farm of Pierre, where toil Toinon and Francois. There is a plague upon the sheep, and the vagabond pauses in his wanderings to cure the sheep - and win the love of Toinon. But the road calls him, and he goes, leaving the girl broken hearted. Francois marries her, and the child, Toinet, grows to be a lusty lad who loves the daughter of Pierre. Pierre, knowing the secret of his birth, refuses his consent, but again comes the vagabond, and once more his strange spells work for happiness, but he turns his back upon his new found son and the happiness he has wrought. The call of the open road is too strong.
