The old man squinted at the sun and spat. He spat and squinted and the time of his grandmother’s sister’s children rolled across the land and settled at the feet of Noah’s father’s progeny, the very inhabitants of the Kingdom of Iketombe. Out there across the field was the boy. And the old man knowed that the boy knowed and the boy knowed he knowed and he knowed the boy knowed and the boy knowed that he knowed the boy knowed and he knowed the boy knowed that he knowed he knowed. And old Iketombe knowed and Noah knowed and his great-grandmother’s sister knowed.

And while the old man stood there squinting at the sun with his feet like two tanned bear hides planted in the dust, the dust of the Kingdom of Iketombe, the boy came shuffling across the field just like he knowed (he knowed!) the old man would be there because he knowed the old man would stop at the end of the furrow and squint into the sun and spit the dust of Iketombe back into the dust of his great-grandmother’s sister’s children, the very children beguiled by the progeny of Noah, and by Noah’s father and by Noah’s father’s father. And Noah knowed and the boy knowed and his great-grandmother’s sister’s children knowed and Iketombe knowed and the dust knowed.

Personal Note: I used to know William Faulkner’s great niece. She had her grandfather’s desk.