Childhood pranks were one thing. But by the time he reached the age of sixteen, Julian was talked about, discussed furtively in corners, whispered about behind hands.
One evening, the inn was rowdier than usual. No surprise. The first barrel of wine of the season was being opened. A small group of swaggering young men were challenging each other to the knife game. In turn, one of them would spread out his hand on the table and stick the knife between his fingers, one space after another, building up some speed. The rhythm - one, two, three, four - one, two, three, four - got faster and faster. Fearing to lose face, Toma took a turn, but stopped abruptly, squealing when he nicked his thumb.
Without saying a word, Julian took the knife from him. He faced his audience. Didn't even look at his hand or the knife. The speed was mesmerising and each stab of the blade perfectly aimed. Until... yes, until... quite deliberately, with the usual thin smile and big round eyes, he jabbed the final thrust through the back of his hand, pinning it to the table. There was a cry of sympathy, a groan of imagined pain on the part of his onlookers, and a rush to his side. But Julian showed no concern. Slowly he pulled out the knife and, quite innocently, held up the wounded hand for everyone to see.
An intake of breath and then a heavy blanket of silence, as all the drinkers at the inn watched the blood instantly dry up and the wound close.
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