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When he'd downed enough chicory to feel his senses
straighten, Flint looked about and noticed that the house
sounded empty, its usual occupants apparently having al-
ready gone about their day. He decided to give Ruberik a
hand in the barn.
Helping himself to two big hunks of bread and cheese,
Flint slipped his boots on and stepped outside into a bright
but brisk morning. He picked his way along the narrow,
muddy path that led from the small front yard to the barn
far off to the right of the house. He stopped at the well to
rinse himself, letting the brisk autumn air dry his cheeks and
beard and refresh his tired soul.
Swallowing the last of his bread in one big bite, Flint cov-
ered the remaining distance to the barn.
Pausing at the massive door, Flint grasped the thick, brass
ring that served as a handle. It was polished and smooth
from centuries of use. He remembered the times when, as a
child, he had strained and hauled on that ring with all his
strength without ever budging the massive door. Now he
gave it a tug and the heavy timbers swung out.
Even before his eyes had adjusted to the dim light inside
the barn, its odors washed over him
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