The seventh son of the seventh son.

Here comes seven. He's stepping in, up and across the threshold, the litter runt, now like a lord. Gifted with the miracle. Someone did the counting, a knowing nod and small awe of something bigger. Something whispered in byres, spread in hayfields, considered like a praetie, examined in sideways squints, suspicioned over tea, never asked. She passed on the cure in her final days. Passed it down, passed it away. Into the hands of the wiry man, an incantation, a whisper, a miracle moved. "Just look into the cup", she'd said, and there it was, a dust mote, cast down from his blooded eye. Do you believe in these spirit things? The water-rod and the gypsy touch, the coffee grounds and tea leaves? These mysteries of hope, desire lines between sweated truths and darkness. In a country night, with only fire for company, there's plenty of space for all that, for places the embers go, for explainers that can't.