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personality,” he said. “It is the kind of weapon that one could give a name to. Old stories say that olden men often named their swords, as they would name a horse.”
    â€œWe found one small pocket of richer ore,” said Sniveley. “We took it out most carefully and have hoarded it away. Such ore you do not find too often. It shall be used for special things—like this blade and your ax.”
    â€œYou mean my ax …”
    â€œThe ax and sword are brothers.”
    â€œLet us hope,” said Gib, “that the sword passes into worthy hands.”
    â€œWe shall make certain that it does,” said Sniveley.
    â€œI brought you the old ax,” Gib said. “The metal still is good, but the bevel has worn so short it cannot be satisfactorily sharpened. There is no rust upon it. I thought perhaps you could reuse the metal. I expect no credit for it.”
    He lifted it from the floor and handed it to the gnome.
    â€œIt was a good ax,” Sniveley said. “It was your father’s ax?”
    Gib nodded. “He gave it to me when I built my raft.”
    â€œWe made it for him,” said Sniveley. “It was a good ax. Not as good as yours.”
    â€œMy father sends you greetings. And my mother, too. I told them I’d be seeing you.”
    â€œIt is a good life that you have,” said the gnome. “All of you down in the marsh. For many years. You have no history, do you? You don’t know how long.”
    â€œWe cannot write events,” said Gib. “We have only the old tales, passed on from father to son. There may be truth in them, but I don’t know how much.”
    â€œSo long as the gnomes have been in the hills,” said Sniveley, “your people have been there. There before we came. We have our legends, too. About the one who discovered ore here and the development of the mine. As with you, we cannot judge the truth.”
    Gib hoisted the hermit’s bundle onto his shoulder. “I must get on,” he said. “The hermit’s cave is a long climb. I want to reach home before the fall of night.”
    Sniveley wagged his head. “It is good to do so. There are many wolves this year. More than I’ve ever known. If you are running late, stop here and spend the night. You would be most welcome.”

6
    At first Gib thought the hermit was not at home, although that would have been passing strange. Of late years, since he had grown feeble, the hermit had never left the cave except to sally out on occasions to collect the roots, the herbs, the leaves, and barks that went into his medications.
    The fire in the cave was out, and there was no smell of smoke, which meant it had been out for long. Dried egg yolk clung to the lone plate on the rough trestle table.
    Gib peered into the darkness. “Hermit,” he said softly, half afraid to speak, stricken with a sudden apprehension that he could not understand. “Hermit, are you here?”
    A weak sound came from a corner. It could have been a mouse.
    â€œHermit,” Gib said again.
    The sound repeated.
    Carefully Gib walked toward the corner, crouching to see better.
    â€œHere,” said the hermit weakly. The voice was no louder than the fluttering of a leaf.
    Then Gib, his eyes becoming accustomed to the darkness, made it out—the low dark mound in the corner, the paleness of the face.
    â€œHermit, what is wrong?”
    Gib crouched above the pallet and saw the wasted form, a blanket pulled up to the chin.
    â€œBend low,” the hermit said. “I can barely speak.”
    â€œAre you sick?” Gib asked.
    The pale lips barely moved. “I die,” they said. “Thank God that you came.”
    â€œDo you want something? Water? Soup? I could make some soup.”
    â€œListen,” said the hermit. “Do not talk, but listen.”
    â€œI’ll listen.”
    â€œThe cabinet over against the wall.”
    â€œI see