But now, as I record these memories for the first time, attempt to put them in some sort of order, place flesh upon their bones, air within their lungs, I find myself beginning to wonder. Is that the way it was? Were things as perfect as I recall? Or is it possible that the habit of mind that would lead to my offense was present even in the child? Are we so formed at birth that our lives are just an empty clap of thunder, the lightning having long since done its work, flashed and gone out? The sins of the father. I don’t know. All I know for sure is that, as I labor here, I find myself again and again coming up against the same hard fact: Winwæd is about to abuse a gift. Someone in authority over him has given the child a gift—whether of trust or of knowledge—and now we shall watch him abuse it, watch him wander off not after God or Wisdom or even truth, but after chimera, after some pointless chimera of his own foolish making. I don’t really remember what sort of animal it was that led me to the grove.
