The boy had worked all summer on the instrument, carefully selecting just the right bone from the dead animal he’d found in the forest, drying the bone under the hot sun, then splitting and carving the dissected result; itself a delicate operation he’d worked at for weeks, to the disdain of the men and other boys of the village.
In the wood Attila, “the scourge of all lands,” stood, entranced by the intricate melodies coming from the tiny village before him. Beside him the horses and men of the horde shifted silently, eager for the signal. The village was too insignificant to put up much of a fight; the battle should be over in minutes, the men dead, the plunder and the women on their way back to the evening camp to be enjoyed; the food consumed, the treasures meted out, the women left for dead in the morning as the horde moved on.
Finally, Attila lifted his hand, signaling a withdrawal, not the sign the men had anticipated. The horde withdrew, confused but, unquestioning.
Once away, Attila’s officers crowded about, puzzlement in their eyes. “This village is under my protection,” he said, offering no explanation.
In the village father had had enough. “Stop that caterwauling,” he demanded, crushing the instrument underfoot. “I’ve heard Attila’s about!”
