Good, thought Dax: Latin was the lingua Franca of medieval Europe, and went on with his scratching. Humani nihil a me alienum—
There was a gasp and he looked up again. The young man had closed his eyes and had the back of his hand against his forehead. He turned and walked to the castle door, holding his head. Dax sat down in disgust. A Twelfth Century hangover, indeed! A shadow fell across him and he turned.
Three villagers: two men, and a woman in a hood were behind him. They had an expectant air, and, realizing that they were doubtless illiterate, he drew a large five-pointed star.
The effect on them was volcanic.
The woman screeched and threw her skirt over her head. The men crossed themselves and one of them turned and ran. The other slashed at Dax with a bill-hook and then, shouting, "Bewitched! Bewitched!" he, too, ran. The bill-hook missed Dax, thanks to his instinctive leap to one side, but the woman continued her noise and more people came out of the cottages, armed with farming implements and sticks. Everyone was shouting and offering advice. The main thread of their discourse was: Possessed! Possessed! Kill it! The Devil Incarnate!
Dax was hemmed in on three sides. He started back for the castle, but the big doorway was filled with onlookers, one of whom stepped forward, aiming a crossbow. There was a clank followed by a hissing in the air, and the bolt thumped into the ground next to him. The bowman cursed and began to wind up his bow with a crannikin. Dax's fur stood out all over him and he made a mad dash towards a group of women who had nothing in their hands but besoms of birch twigs. It was a fortunate choice.
Two or three women made abortive swats at him and the others backed away, leaving a clear path. In front of him was an open space and a tall tree.
Almost before he knew it he was near its top and the whole village was milling around near its base, looking up with red angry faces.
"Fire the tree!" someone shouted.