What the boy doesn’t know—can’t know—was that the monkey leaves part of itself behind. In the scuffle, it has shed three of its fleas. One of these fleas falls, unseen, to the ground, where the boy will unwittingly crush it with the sole of his foot. The second stays for a while in the sandy hair of the boy, making its way to the front of his crown. When he is paying for a flagon of the local brew in the tavern, it will make a leap—an agile, arching spring—from his forehead to the shoulder of the innkeeper. The third of the monkey’s fleas will remain where it fell, in the fold of the red cloth
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