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at Vertical Media Book 1, Embers of Rebellion.
Chapter 4 Sycotrice Dawn crawled over the dirt fields, grey light
painting the sharp lines where last night's rain had tried
cutting rivulets between clumps of crop.
Sir Seraphin's boots slogged the makeshift furrows, shoes torn at
the sole and leaking water, his toes itching.
The ground stuck to him. Caked mud rose past the laces
until each foot felt heavier than the other.
He worked the rows slow, body turned sideways to make up for
the bad eye. Everything to the left of his
nose blurred behind purple swelling and a crust of dried
blood mixed with sleep grit. That eye pulsed roar with every
heartbeat. A fresh cut split his eyebrow.
Sweat ran through it, burning and dripped down to stain his
shirt. He kept wiping it with the back
of his wrist, and the dust caked there made the pain sharp, made
him bite his tongue to avoid cursing out loud.
Board had tried to teach him not to whimper, so he rouse weren't
neat this morning. Each pass through the field left
ragged lines. He dragged the hoe behind him,
every grip tugging on his calloused palms with each swing.
The blade stuttered into soil, rocks thunking and making his
teeth clack together. By mid morning, his good eye
itched, his bad one screamed. He blinked rain from his brow
and squinted at the sun, everything glaring too bright.
His breath stunk of old meat and the salty sweat running down
from his neck. He had hours left.
His Uncle Ward hadn't bothered with the field since dawn.
The old man's boots sat by the door, crusted mud flaking off in
thick curls. SER Guest Ward had passed out
somewhere with a pack of liquor, maybe at the butcher's, maybe
behind the stable where the older men sat and talked about
crops rotting from rut blight, their voices carrying across
morning mist, always quick to hush when anyone younger passed
by by noon with the sun branded above the trees.
Sir dropped the hoe and shuffled toward a crooked tree near the
edge of the field. The shade made him pause.
He leaned with his back pressed to the trunk, letting the sweat
cool under his armpits shirt. Glued wet on his ribs.
The sandwich in his pack had smashed under his tools and he
thumbed it open, tearing bread with his teeth.
Meat. Salt stuck to his tongue.
He worked it down with gulps of water, like glass scraped his
throat. The iodine lingered, thick and
metallic, tasted how scab smelled, almost.
He tried. Thinking about anything but the
sour water. Chewing with his teeth, grinding
cartilage on the edges of the sandwich.
Hands tracing the new tributary Balu and Viti had dug yesterday.
They'd carved a reach of the irrigation ditch.
Small but deep, and water from the Karma River trickled
through, cool to the touch, brown with silt.
It wasn't clean, not by a stretch.
But it'd keep the Rose alive longer than last summer.
He watched the glint of afternoon sun bounce off the
trickle, listen to the waterfall against stone, imagining for a
moment those boys might come walking by again, faces still
smug, fingers stained with earth from another hour spent helping
him, and nap crept up uninvited. He slid his back lower, boots
threaded in grass, the fields sweat drying cold from his brow.
His hands made a pillow behind his head.
He shut his good eye. The heat pressed in slow flies
hummed and pecked at the bits of sandwich left at his feet.
The. Pain around his eye faded into
soft warmth. He woke, sharp heart thumping up
through his jaw like he'd been punched again.
The field looked empty when he blinked.
Sun slid down toward the far Ridge, pouring harsh yellow
along rows he hadn't finished. He wiped spit from his chin,
pushed himself up and felt his thigh cramp under his weight.
Nobody came. He moved back toward his work,
jaw set. Later, sweat already drying on
his chest. He heard broken laughter
threading through the trees. 3 shapes moved through the scrub,
Balu's height first, arms swinging, then Vitti and Lavu,
their voices carrying. Roland trailed behind, smaller
shoulders hunched. The three ragged boys stomped
taller weeds, cutting fresh lines towards Sir.
Roland kept his eyes low, tripping his boots over roots,
always glancing back. The group split as they spotted
Sir's swollen eye. Vt threw out a whistle,
clicking. His tongue as he stepped.
Forward. Woah ho ho.
Someone get to tussling with Vera?
Or was it her father caught you poking around?
He grinned, showing a missing tooth, voice sharp.
Levou whistled low. Tell me there's a real tale
here, man. No way you get that banged up
falling off a cart. Balu joined, chuffing a laugh
through his broad chest, the kind of sound you'd think would
bring birds down from the branches.
Roulon hung back, twisting something between his fingers.
A weed, maybe, or an old button. Sir rolled a tight smile,
swallowing the urge to wince. Not much to tell, he lied.
Took too much from Ward's bottle, tripped over myself,
landed my face on a fence post, right on the sweet spot.
He tapped under the bruised eye, feeling the pain spark from the
touch. The three older boys cackled.
Balu slapped his thigh so hard the sound bounced along the
field. That de Duenne, you're your own
worst enemy, Sir. Levu grinned, shaking his head.
Dirt caked under every fingernail.
And here I thought you could take a punch.
Guess you beat yourself bloody before anyone else has to.
Roland managed a thin smile, eyes darting between the boys.
Laughter faded quick, replaced by the scrape of someone walking
up from the road. Ward's boots snapped twigs as he
passed. His shadow cut across the boys,
casting their grins into sharp lines.
Ward didn't stop, only nodded once, eyes hard on SER, and
moved down the road without a word.
Silence followed behind him. The laughter shriveled for a
long. Breath.
Nobody moved. Vitty cleared his throat, foot
shuffling. Dirt, SER.
Quiet now. We we were thinking about
camping tonight. Get away from here a bit, you
know? His fingers twisted at his belt,
eyes averted. Rollin bit his lip, looking at
SER. SER saw it, the worry burrowed
into Rollins brow, the way he hadn't quite looked at his uncle
as he passed. SER sighed out like air leaking
from a tire. Yeah, might be good to get out
for a night. Balu thumped SER on the
shoulder, almost gentle. You need it worse than any of
us. I'll bring bread.
Real stuff, not last week's leftovers, promise.
La Vue's head bobbed in agreement.
Could be fun, he said, even without Vera around.
Viti's face pinched into a goofy smile.
Laughter bubbled up again, weaker this time, but genuine.
They drew up plans quick, tossing brags about food and
supplies. Roland perked up, nodding when
someone listed firewood or sharp sticks for chasing off whatever
wandered close to the campsite at sundown.
Viti said. We'll come to your place, Sir.
If you're not there, we're breaking the door down.
He tried a threat, voice cracking into warmth.
Sale grinned. Go for it.
Nothing worth stealing in that house.
Lavu's grin spread. Viti couldn't even break a
chicken egg, let alone a door. Remember when he knocked at
Distova Trophins thinking she'd let him in for?
Supper, the others howled, Viti's neck blooming pink.
Vt shrugged, flexing tiny muscles.
Everyone gets shut out sometimes.
Watch, I'm catching that wild fur boar tonight.
There. Pulled himself up, stretching
arms overhead. Bruised ribs creaking.
Let's get gone before Ward comes back.
They filtered toward the village gates, sun catching on the tin
plates hammered onto the wooden posts.
The trio of older boys peeled off fast, clattering alongside
streets. SER and Roland fell behind, feet
dragging in the dirt. No one else walked the street.
Houses shuttered, smoke curling thin from chimneys, the stink of
burned oatmeal hanging in the air.
Party leftovers, SER guest. Roland kicked a stone, watching
it skitter ahead. Sorry, Sir, he said, voice lower
than the wind. But what?
SER pressed, clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth,
telling Barloo. You said not to say, but I just,
I. Roland's words stumbled, falling
flat. Turked a hand into his pocket,
heel gouging the road. Don't bother with it.
Roland needed someone to know. Roland's face twisted up, trying
to sort through the mess behind his eyes.
Uncle says I got too much to say for a kid my age.
Can't keep secrets. Sir shrugged.
Most adults chase their own ghosts.
You did what you had to do. They reached the intersection
where Roland's house sagged in the clay, Sir.
Stopped eyeing the crooked fence, the sagging porch boards.
Keep looking out for yourself, Roland.
Don't rush to be older than you. Are a nervous chuckle slipped
out of Roland. Sir, you think I'll do something
important? My aunt says all the boys in
this village end up fishes or farmers.
Or he stopped, scuffing his toe. They're stared a minute, jaw
tight. This place chews up most who
stay. You keep trying new things, like
you do. Maybe you end up different.
Roland wrung his hands, eyes hunting the street.
You think I'll find my magic? Maybe, Sir, replied voice flat.
Might live your life without it, but you'll survive.
Your toys keep you busy, don't they?
He forced a small grin. Roland straighten, spirits
rallying like a kicked dog. I'll make something for you
soon, something that counts. Seer gave a heavy nod, then
shoved him gently. Toward his rickety door, Roland
vanished into the shadow, door thumping behind him.
Says Boots drag the road back to his corner of Tuatom.
The sun dipped. Windows glowed orange in its
last spit of light. His uncle's house squatted at
the village edge, smoke piping from the roof, tears of old rain
dribbling off warped eaves as he pushed the door.
Smells of steak hit salt, shar blood.
Ward worked hunched over a pan, sweat coursing down his neck,
shirt stained in streaks. For a second, Ward's face held
nothing but warm. Hangar got you?
Ward called, voice scratchy. Sir.
Raised a brow, still cautious. Yeah, sure.
Ward snorted. Meat from Siggy Bells.
The old man finally paid me for that roof fix.
And he trailed off, sliding a red steak onto a cracked plate
and thrusting it at Sir Sir Forked meat without waiting,
blood pooling into bread. First bite hit his teeth, juice
running down his chin. Neither talked for a long few
minutes, Ward scraping his plate with old yellowed utensils.
Sir chewed in the quiet, watching flies circle the lamp,
dancing shadows against the table.
Halfway through, SER weighed his words, finally spitting them out
because something needed saying. Why?
Why the good mood? Ward considered, old lines at
his mouth deepening. Long years, too much loss, too
little light. Your father.
He cut himself short, staring at the wall like it might open up
to 10 years past. T dropped his fork, not
breathing. Bort licked his teeth, forced
out a hollow laugh. Made mistakes, Sir.
Most don't leave scars, but some do.
You remind me of him, your dad. Integrity.
He had it. I've.
Ruined that word for myself, Sir Rose pulled by habit to clear
plates and wipe the crumbs from the table.
But Ward waved him off. Go meditate, or whatever it is
you do. Ward grumbled.
Clean up, Here's the least I can do.
SER nodded, stepped to the centre rug, legs crossed as the
house creaked with Ward's tired footsteps, a single candle
swaying with each step. He shut his injured eye, let
breath ease. Furniture shifted in the night
wind, casting sharp, strange shadows against the mud brick
wall on the rack. The Obsidian swords flat edge
winked, a thin line of silver catching the last bit of light.
Sere listened as Ward scraped grease from the pan, iron
against stoneware, echoes bouncing off the walls.
Every sound in the place felt sharper during these moments.
Flies buzzing against a window smudged by years.
Ward slow, cautious footsteps across packed earth, the sizzle
of remaining drippings tossed to the ash pit outside.
He sat cross legged, hands limp in his lap, spying pressed stiff
and upright, just like mother had shown him long ago while she
still lived. But memory came without warning,
a flash of her hand gently straightening his back, brushing
sawdust from his shoulder, cool and real as morning breeze in
the space behind his eyes. The ache pulsed from his swollen
left lid, bleeding slow into his jaw.
The. Darkness became a kind of room.
Breathing grew easy. Every muscle slackened.
He pictured that Obsidian blade on its rack.
The edge drew light in, greedy, refusing to reflect.
Next to it lay the scabbard, leather so old the stitching
puckered white and rough above the grip, the figure of a woman
etched out of thin layers of silver.
A face looked forward, stern. He could see dust along the
blades floor, bits of his own blood from the last time he'd
nicked his finger while cleaning it.
He reached out, if only in mind. Sometimes during these sits, A
warmth pried open behind his ribs.
Sometimes nothing but cold. Tonight, cold.
His breath caught in the back of his throat.
The world shrank to the back of his throat.
The world shrank to the sound of Uncle scraping ash outside and a
distant rooster complaining through the dusk.
There were no visions, no celestial voices.
His family's stories lied. Nothing waited for you if you
sat and waited for it. Only your own mind.
The half formed memories, hungers you couldn't name,
questions you got from grown men who drank before breakfast.
Still, something always happened after a while.
Tonight it was the click of the door, dry push of the wind.
SER cracked one eye open. Ward's boots hung upside down
from a hook, dripping something dark onto the mat.
The smell of steak already faded, replaced by sweat and the
scent of dust through the only window.
Twilight pooled thick and blue at the horizon.
He stood, knees popping on the rack.
The sword waited, Silverwolf's face never changing.
He touched the pommel cool under his calloused finger.
For a heartbeat. The room felt too small for him.
Even at rest, that weapon took up space.
A knock came at the door. Sharp, not hurried.
Sir stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets and pulled the
door open with his foot. Expecting the boys.
They were there. Balu with a string bag of
flatbread. Vitti balancing a gourd of
something that glugged when he leaned, La Vue chewing the end
of a dry stick, and Roland with a length of cord.
He twisted and untwisted around his fingers, face set and
hopeful. Behind them, the world turned
blue. Bats pecked at mosquitoes, their
twisted cries cutting in and out.
No one laughed tonight. The amusement from before had
rusted off something. About the way Ward had passed
them on the road, had sobered even the wildest of the group.
Everyone got what they need? Serre asked, voice pitched low
so Ward wouldn't wake if he'd already fallen into his cups.
Balu nodded in a short jerk. Lavu lifted a threadbare
blanket, holding it out like an offering.
Roland dug into his sack, pulling out two sour apples,
some jerky, and a. Small thick candle glued to the
bottom with his own handmade wax if it gets too dark.
He whispered as if apologizing. Viti grinned.
Got fire and I got the good stuff.
He pulled the cork on the gourd, sniffed it and grimaced.
It's not bad, only a little burn.
He set it down again. No one argued there.
Close the door soft behind him, boots finding the same creases
they always. Had in the worn dirt we go E, he
said. That way we're above the river,
but not all the way to the Cliff.
No one will. Find us if we keep to the
Bramble line. Lubu straightened.
You leading or getting lost? He grinned, but worry flashed
through his eyes just the same. He hadn't forgotten what a
misstep in these woods meant. Sharp rocks, sink holes, roots
slick with Moss. A drop to the water two dozen
paces below, at places where the ground just said to hell with it
and fell away. Sia nodded and started walking.
The others followed. Each foot crushed storks and
sent frogs leaping. Insects whined.
The torches Viti brought weren't lit yet They all knew their way
at dusk. Even half blind, the world moved
neat under boots, roots and mud, telling their own ancient.
Story No one spoke loud, only the soft grumbling Vt.
Don't spill it or balu your blankets dragging mud.
Roland's candle banged against his thigh, swinging from a bit
of twine strung through his belt.
Their path snaked between split boulders, grass taller than
Sears waist, droplets still clinging from afternoon rain.
Shadows closed in blue to black, stars rising only one by one,
fighting through the low clouds. They passed an old boundary post
blackened by lichen. The top chunk missing, as if
some wild animal or hungry villager had taken a bite from
the wood. Beyond it, trees packed tighter,
roots rising like fingers from shallow graves at each turn.
Sir Edieth waited his steps, reading the ground, remembering
last year when he and Balu tried to pitch a tent near here and
the whole thing collapsed on their heads because wood lice
had hollowed the floor. Lavu circled wide at every jump
of darkness. He had seen a snake here once,
and even if he said it didn't haunt his dreams, everyone knew
it did. Vitty kept behind his free hand
buried in his trouser pocket, shoulder hunched.
No one carried weapons, not real ones.
Sir once asked Ward for a hunting blade, but was told he'd
cut his own balls off before finding his own dinner.
He'd learned to cut with stones, fingers, and patience.
Now the boys pulled what they had, Roland's longest whittle
stick, Balu's old belt knife so short it was more nail than
handle, and Lavu's father's spoon filed at the end into
something nearly sharp. The land rose under them, grass
falling away to stones speckled by Moss and cracked bark at
last. Sir stopped shining, good eyes
sweeping the sight. The space sat in a bowl of dirt,
shielded on three sides by wigs of Bramble and swordgrass.
The open end pointed W toward the safe, slow spill of the
village lights a line of orange dots at the bottom of the
valley. We make fire here.
It's dry, SER said. No one else see us?
He knelt, scratching earth with his bare hands, palms as rough
as bark now. Roland dropped beside him, the
candle clutched in both hands, eyes wide for work, waiting for
his place. Lavu and Balu leaned into the
brambles, snapping off dead branches, collecting handfuls of
kindling. Vitty fumble with the gourd,
inching it away from the blanket in case anyone got clumsy.
There's hands made a pit, nothing elegant, just enough to
scrape together a bowl. Rollins set the candle at its
edge, and Balu struck Flint against Lavu's bent spoon, blade
missing as much as lighting until a trickle of spark caught
in the dry bits. Smoke curled, sharp and low.
Zaire, who had lived every season with wind, finding the
smallest draft cup. The flame with his body, coaxed
it until living fire shivered in their circle.
Balu tossed thicker wood on. Viti, hunched close, eager for
warmth, sloshing his drink, then thinking better and pulling
away. The fire danced, smoke leaking
into clothes, settling deep in lungs.
The boys dropped packs and blankets, boots kicked into a
pile. They circled around the flames,
each one's face drawn orange and shadowed by the leap of light.
Roland's cheeks shone under soot, hair wild.
Lavou's eyes without smile scanned the brambles for
movement. Balu and Vitti cut hunks off the
bread, passing them down. Jerky made hard chewing.
The first swig of Vitti's gourd came to SER, who tipped it and
let the hot home brewed stuff strike the back of his tongue.
Eyes watering at the sting, he passed it to Lavu with a smirk.
Lavu barely raised a brow before gulping half.
They settled as boys do, making noise so as not to think about
why they'd left their own houses.
A kind of defence. If you talked and laughed, you
didn't have to face the darkness behind, didn't have to think
about Ward's cold stare or the taste of blood in your mouth
from last night's beating. Vt poked at the fire, eyes
glinting. So, Sir, what really happened
with Ward? Sarah Hunched.
Scraped his boot. Nothing you haven't seen before.
He just had more to drink. Wasn't me.
He was angry at just the world. He thinks my face can take the
blame. Silence.
A long moment. Then Lavu cleared his throat.
He ever going to talk about your folks?
Says, jaw flexed. Don't care if he does.
No one challenged that. Fire snapped.
Jerky tore. Frogs sang low in the river.
Malou was first to break it after a while, voice rough.
Remember when Roland's uncle tried fishing with cheese
because he saw it work for city folk?
Pulled up a boot, didn't he, Roland, You still got that boot?
Roland grinned, shy, shook his head.
Mum made me throw it, said it stunk up the house.
He looked at SER Something behind his lazy smile.
Bet I could catch a fish with just a spoon and old bread.
You'd end up in the river. Vt laughed.
The moon began its rise, a fat, pocked thing, glow tugging
shadows out from the brambles. The fire shrunk, piled low.
Their voices trickled into the ground, stories about.
School beats old man Sorrels one eyed goat the night Viti tried
to steal plums from Magda's window and had to jump 3 fences
to escape her boys. Belu handed bread to SER.
You're quiet. He said, not quite a question.
Tattooed shrugged. Tired, feels like all years gone
and packed itself into my head these last two nights.
La Vu chucked a piece of kindling into the fire.
At least with school out, we're free men now.
He forced bravado. Vaite's laugh came too loud,
nerves jabbering in his throat. Free to run from our own.
Farms. No one argued.
They shifted, blankets spread, awkward, Roland curling in
little legs drawn beneath a thin shirt.
SER watched the others a bit, feeling some weight lighten.
Not all. His eye throbbed.
The fire flickered. Shadows raked across the Bramble
and over fallen boots. A distant howl.
Only a Jackal, but enough to send Levou glancing sidelong at
his belt knife with Nobody moved to sleep yet.
The gorge below hummed with water slipping over stone for
just a moment. Say, let the sound pull him away
from the taste of blood and fire.
Let his chest. Loosen trouble would find them
again with daylight, but for now boys sat close in the scrub, 1
scarred, 4 unbroken by the night and everyone unsure if morning
would feel any. Different.
A long silence settled in after the last round of laughter.
Only the pop and hiss of burning wood filled the small camp.
Sarah chewed another tough strip of jerky, letting his jaw do the
work while his good eye watched how the shadows crawled up the
inside of their makeshift camp. Roland poked at the dirt with a
stick. Sending half burnt bits of grass
toward the fire, the others leaned on elbows or stretched
bare feet closer to the heat, each blinking slow, quiet and
thoughtful, their bodies ringed by a soft sweat under their
clothes. Roland, Restless, looked up at
Sir with the nervousness of a. Dog that expects to be kicked.
What do you think's out there? He asked, voice trembling but
wanting a real answer. Past the hills.
Past, you know, everything. La Vue gave out a slow grunt.
Not mocking. More dirt, more trees, more
keepers. Maybe these spatter seed into
the flames. Desert.
I heard city people talk about sand hot enough to burn.
Shoes through some folks. Never seen the river freeze,
never seen rain for a whole summer.
Balu pulled the blanket higher over his knees.
All stories. Nobody real's ever been anywhere
but here. If they say they have, they're
either old or talking shit. Sia's mind poked at the idea,
his chest hollow for a second. The minstrels, though, they
travel. They've seen mountains, cities.
All of that. There's a place, Rugal
Northwest, where the king rides a goat to Chapel, Vt.
Cut in, getting a grumble from Lavu.
SER glanced up and finished. Said there's more water than
1000 camera rivers and you can see fish jumping up high,
waterfalls and nights where the stars fall and the sky is so
clear the cold kills your fire if you look at it too long.
The boys nodded, as if this confirmed something they'd
already known but needed someone to say.
It was easy to believe in distant wonders where nobody had
ever risked their necks or pride.
Roland set his stick down, rubbing his palms together.
He watched the embers face drawn tight, lip twitching with the
question he wanted to ask. It hung there until it fell out.
You think it's better somewhere like?
That nobody had an answer right away.
In the quiet, frogs and insects pressed in louder than the night
before. Balu stirred, the threadbare
blanket sliding off his shoulder.
He snorted. Bet is what folks say, because
it isn't here. Anywhere you sleep will have
bugs and bad Stew and someone who's meaner than you here, You
know which bastard's going to steal your boots.
Lavu nodded agreement. At least here Ward only gets you
once in a while. Acer.
Tear clenched his jaw, but didn't dispute it.
The air between them slipped thin.
Vitty leaned in, breaking the tension.
Would you leave? If you could?
He asked. Sir.
Stir flicked a bit of bone into the grass.
If anyone had me, maybe. If not, maybe I'd just keep
walking until my boots split. Roland sat quiet for a moment,
then asked. What about the keepers?
What have you run into one of them?
That shivered everyone's nerves a little.
Even Balu, whose bravado never cracked for long, shifted in his
seat. Nobody liked talking.
About the Keepers. But sometimes a thing needed to
be named before it could be put away.
Most folks never see one, Lovely muttered.
Some don't even believe they're real, they just say it so kids
don't talk back. Uncle says they're real.
Says that if you see one and live to talk about it, you never
sleep right again. Old folks say a lot, though,
Viti added Ward. Says plenty once he's got a bit
in him. He says you.
He stopped, eyes darting to says ruined brow.
Never mind. But Sir pressed it.
Go on. Vitty hesitated but said it.
He says you belong to the Keepers, that they marked you
even before you knew how to hold a hoe.
I always thought it was just him.
You know. Talking didn't mean nothing by
it. Sir didn't answer.
He watched the flames leap higher, would crack and shift.
His chest burned in a prickly way, a hunger mixed with
something like shame and something else, a muddy, hard to
name rage. It felt old, as old as any
memory he kept of Ward Lavu growing anxious.
Changed topic. Remember when Belze's old mule
ate half the harvest and ran off?
They had to chase it 2 valleys down.
That mule had more sense than all the old men in Titoma
combined. He snickered, his relief
obvious. Balu laughed.
Siggy was so pissed, told everyone no one gets meat that
whole week. Still had blood on his apron
though. Guess he found it by morning.
They let the story ride out, The mood lifted in hesitant fits,
the boys finding comfort in familiar jokes and memories,
letting the dark press in a little less.
When the food finally dwindled to bits and the drink ran low,
Sir took the first turn, gathering more wood from the
edges while the last size of orange flickered in the pit.
The cold sneaked up, thick enough to steam through only a
shirt and thin trousers. Roden followed him with the stub
of his precious candle lighting the way.
The two moved close together. Not talking just worked,
Breaking fallen limbs, dragging them through.
Bramble sticks snapped, sending beetles scurrying above.
A night jaw corked once, long and lonesome.
Some lights still flickered near the village.
Most were out. Think Ward will look for you?
Roland asked quietly, staring down at his own shoes.
SER shook his head. He's got his bottle, he's done
for the night. Won't wake until I come home.
Roland took this without comment, eyes round and careful.
He ever tell you about your ma? There?
Hesitated. Bits only when he's angry, and
he's always angry. Sorry.
Roland said, pushing a branch into the crook of his arm.
Sarah shrugged, shifting his weight.
You didn't make him. He makes himself.
They came back to the fire with their arms full, dumped sticks
and splinters piling up enough to last the night.
The others murmured thanks, their voices sleepy.
Lavu stared up, eyes half lidded.
I'll. Take first watch, he lied,
pulling his blanket over his chest.
SER threw another stick on the fire.
He'd never slept right outdoors, his ears too sharp, his body
used to waking at any tremor or scrape.
Tonight, he let himself feel the weight of friendship for what it
was, a kind of shield. Thin as it might be, still
warming, a little time passed before conversation started back
up. Quieter, more drifting as the
boys settled into drowsy piles, feet and elbows and heads
nestled against each other in their rough pattern of trust.
Vitty eyes glassy from drink, asked.
You ever want to go looking for your magic, Sir?
I mean, go where the keepers walk out past the world, Sir.
Studied the embers heat licking his palms.
Magic or not, it wouldn't change.
Ward would. It?
Wouldn't bring back my old man, my ma.
The words came blunt, steady. I guess not, Roland replied.
He kept his gaze down, fingers tight around his knees.
Another silence grew, broken only by the popping fire and the
quiet night time. Things that lived always outside
the edge of camp, hushed, animal shifting.
Sometime later, clouds drifted over the moon, dimming
everything to shapes and sounds. Sir lay back, arms folded behind
his head, staring up, tracing patterns in the part of the sky
not covered. He counted the brightest stars
he could see, remembering what his mother had called each one.
The names came watery, but they came, and for a while no one
moved except to shift for warmth, breaths evening into
sleep. The cold did not leave.
Wind picked up, fluttering the edge of Roland's blanket where
he had dozed off. SER rolled over, pulling the
chafed wool higher over the boy's skinny shoulder, then lay
for a long while, listening to the world outside himself, The
breathing of friends, the soft, uncertain hush of river water
tumbling in the darkness below. The taste of old pain still
pounding under his eye, the pulse of something restless
always inside him, trying to press forward, trying to explain
itself. Waiting for morning to come, the
boys drifted to restless sleep, 1 by 1.
Viti went first, chin sinking to his chest.
After a while, his snoring started rasping and wet, uneven
as broken, sore teeth. Balu sprawled out flat on his
back, arms folded above his stomach, eyes half shut but not
quite trusting sleep to take him all the way.
Too used to his father waking him with a boot in the ribs when
chores went unfinished. Lavu twisted against the roots
at his back, trying to get comfortable, cursing under his
breath then pulling the blanket higher to cover his head.
Sir lay on his side, breathing slow, hands curled under his jaw
for warmth. The fires glow moved over his
face now and then the flames cracked, sending sparks up to
fade before they hit the overhang of vine and branch.
Frogs churned their throats from down by the river, the big ones
with bellies like wine jugs. Moths circled near the fire,
sometimes finding the heat and falling in without a sound.
Behind him, Roland shivered but didn't complain.
Sir felt him inch closer, the edge of a Bony knee bumping
against his back. In the city, boys their age
would have separate beds, even separate rooms, if the family
was mean or rich. Here, warmth was worth more than
pride, so nobody made much of it, least of all Sir.
If Roland had dreams, he didn't speak them.
He breathed shallow and quick, waking every hour to adjust the
blanket, fussing without fully leaving.
Each time Sir's eyes shut, the pain in his bruised socket
flared sharp, then dull, then sharp again, until the rhythm
felt almost comforting, A tether to the moment.
Lying there, he counted out breaths, matching each one to
the names of friends and his own small wishes.
Chores done, a dry day tomorrow, Ward to sleep through until the
sun was high, That was all he allowed himself.
Somewhere behind his thoughts, the keeper's stories crept in,
old ones handed down from the grandmother's around smoky
kitchen tables. The keepers were said to walk at
night, never showing themselves but always watching from the
corners where the lamps flickered out, crossing the
village fields. That's where you'd see a shadow
that wasn't quite a man, not quite a beast, just a black
twist when nothing should move. Every village had a tail about.
A girl called out into tall grass, a woman losing her voice
and never returning it. A father running mad when he
chased the shape that carried off his youngest son.
Nothing specific, no proof, just the dread that lived wherever
the woods grew. Too thick for eyes to follow,
they rolled over, watching the coals.
They pulsed and glowed, changing shape every few seconds, Glaring
eyes, snarling mouths. The face of his mother, wrecked
and lost. He shook it off, spit into the
fire, and closed his eye again. At some point he slipped into a
half dream where Ward stood over him, voice thick and distant.
You're a Seraphin, whether you want it or not.
The name's already a scar on your back, don't make it worse.
In the dream, Sir tried to stand, but the ground spun under
him and the roots came up to grab his ankles, holding him in
place. His mother's hand reached out
not to help but to press him down harder, words he couldn't
quite make out spilling through her teeth.
Her eyes empty and shining. He startled awake, heart
hammering, sweat cold on his brow.
The fire burned low. Grey daylight wormed its way
across the eastern edge of sky. It wasn't full morning, but
birds had started up, raspy chirps and the slow, sad, low
call of the River Heron. Roland sat up, knees hugged to
his chest, eyes wide and dark. You dream?
SER asked. Roland nodded, but didn't
explain the fire, spat when Sir kicked in another stick.
He pulled the last chunk of bread from Vitty's pack, gnawed
off a bit, passed it to Roland, who took it in both hands as if
it might vanish. Love, who stirred, muttered
something about freezing to death, then sat up, rubbing at
his eyes. We make it through the night.
He asked, not quite awake. Bitty groaned into his first.
Sun's not up. Call me when there's food, or at
least heat. Balu was already awake,
pretending sleep. He rolled up, stretching his
back until it popped. If we hurry, we can fish the
river before anyone else gets there.
There didn't argue. He rolled up the blanket, shook
out the grit, and stuffed it into his sack.
Pack up. If we leave now, none of the old
folk will see us dragging home. Roland did what he was told,
eyes shiny but dry. He tucked away his candle.
Blew on his hands. No fancy words, no talk of what
the night had meant or where they'd go.
Once they reached the village edge, they doused the coals.
With the last slosh of river water.
The fire hissed and spit out twin plumes of smoke.
SER kicked dirt. Over the heap.
Feeling the warmth run out from under his boot, the walk back
felt colder. Hunger bit at bellies that
hadn't been fooled to begin with.
None of the boys spoke much, their jokes run down to nothing.
Damp clung to the grass, making feet slip and toes burn in their
boots. Every step closer to the village
was another reminder of ward, of chores undone, of the little
world that would be waiting, and the big one that never seemed to
appear no matter how far out you went.
SER noticed Roland touching the swollen skin around his eye, as
if checking to see if it might have gotten better without
anyone noticing. It'll go down.
SER said, voice low. Not for comfort, just truth.
Glass of water, more rest. Roland looked at SER straight
for the first time since last night, nodded.
He had blood at the corner of his mouth, picked up in sleep
from biting down too hard. He wiped it away with a dirty
thumb. By the time they made the road,
the sun broke free of the clouds, a sharp red gash pulling
light over rooftops and. Through the crooked.
Fence planks that hemmed each yard.
Chickens scratched at the frost. A fox darted between rubbish
heaps, dragging something grey and limp.
The boys moved quick under the new light, clothes filthy but
heads up, as if the night hadn't touched them, hadn't changed a
thing. At Sir's gate, the group
stuttered to a stop. Vt broke the silence, voice
gruff with cold. Same time next week or you?
2 busy fighting fence posts. He grinned, toothless side
Shining Tier managed half a smile.
More habit than humor. We'll see, he said.
Depends whose dad wants the field worked.
Balu clapped. Him on the.
Shoulder hard this time. A real slap, but without
meanness. Lavu offered a quick two finger
salute, already eyeing the road toward his own house.
Rawlan lingered. The others peeled off, voices
dying behind hedges and half built walls.
Like shuffled in circles, boot grinding dirt.
You want me to stop by later? I made something for you.
Keeps birds off the beans. Maybe it works.
Sayer nodded, feeling the weight between them, something real
that wouldn't change much even if 100 nights like last night
passed. I'll look for you after chores.
Roland gave a sharp nod. Eyes.
Wary but hopeful, then hustled down the lane toward his house,
candle bobbing in his pocket. Sir.
Stood a moment at the gate, collecting himself.
The bruised eye throbbed, his jaw grit.
Morning Climbed the back wall, lighting the kitchen window
where Ward's shadow moved behind greasy glass.
The old man was up, pounding around, heavy as ever, scent of
boiled onions already strong even from the yard.
SER pushed the door wide, the warped boards complaining.
He stepped in. Ward sat at the table, chin in
hand, staring at something invisible in the corner.
His first rested on the wood, not in anger, just there, flat
and unmoving. Seer went straight for the water
jug, pouring himself a cup, letting it sit on the table
between them. Ward's head jerked up.
He eyed Seer's face, then the cup, then stared back at his own
hand. Did you see the?
Stars last night? Ward asked, not looking up.
Seer sipped. The water was flat, no taste but
dirt in the memory of last month's drought.
Some, he said, bored, grunted. He kept his head low.
The silence between them stretched, the kind that made
Sere want to turn heel and walk back outside.
Instead, he sat. If Ward planned on another round
of questions or old man wisdom, let him.
For now. Sir felt every mark on his body.
The bruise below his eye, the thin scratch across his forearm
from brambles, the bite of hunger in his gut, the ache of
too little sleep. He set his cup down, forearms on
the table, knuckles white and raw.
Ward's eyes traced the scars and failed crop lines across SER's
hands, then moved up to meet his gaze.
Not his injured eye, but the other.
You're not your father. He said, voice cold, cracked,
but honest. You know that.
SER nodded once. The thing in his chest turned
over, sharp as a nail pulled from wood.
The room spun with dust moats, fat and slow.
Ward snorted, some sound caught between a cough and a laugh.
But you're not so far off. I see him some days.
See your ma too when you aren't scowling.
He kept his voice even, never once softening.
Go get the fields started. Don't want the whole day wasted.
Breakfast is what's left in the pot.
Sir Rose. He made for the door, hesitated,
then looked back at Ward, seeing for a breath the old man, as
tired and spent as anyone could be.
Seldom honest, never gentle. For a second, neither spoke.
Ward nodded, curt and slow, eyes on the empty spot at the other
side of the table. Sears slipped out.
Pulling the door tight, breath fogging in the new light, the
world outside had not changed. Dirt clung to his boots, the
fields bristled with weeds, and the work waited in rows as
crooked and messy as yesterday. He picked up the hoe, the handle
still warm from the last touch, and carried it to where he left
off. The bruises ached.
He eased himself into the rhythm of the day, row after row, sweat
stinging jawset. The sounds of the world closed
in. Chickens calling, a stray dog
yapping, Roland's laughter rolling from a window somewhere
up the road, the distant crack of stones against the wheel as
the cart bounced toward market. Everything returned to what it
was. Only a thin line marked where
the fire had burned their campsite into the dirt and the
night had stitched itself into the boys that walked its edges.
There. Gripped the hoe, shoulders
hunched to block the sun, and started in on the 1st row, the
ground biting hard under foot. Stubborn as ever, SER pressed
the blade into rough earth, Boots spread for balance, arms
steady from habit more than strength.
He drove the hoe again and again, the soil breaking in fat
clods, root webs catching and tearing with each pass.
His body remembered the motion, bending into labour before his
mind woke all the way. The pain along his jaw faded
into the churned up stink of old leaf rot and manure.
Morning light crept across the Rose, drawing the buzz of
beetles and flies woken by fresh sweat.
A crow scattered off a fence post, cutting a crooked path
across his good eyes. Field of vision.
The fields stretched both ways, untidy, stubborn.
No matter how much work he put in, they never looked as clean
as the ones closest to Market Rd., where rich Chihol cousins
grew peas sweet as sugar and paid hands to weed by hand.
Sir's lines wandered left and right, the work never good
enough to win him more than a grunt from Ward.
A dry patch near the edge drew him off course and he jammed the
hoe into hard clay. Sweat slipped down his neck and
back. Shirt clinging, he stopped to
scratch at the Welt where the scene caught his side.
His swollen eye stung every time the wind caught it wrong.
He worked anyway. He didn't notice Roland until a
bright whistle came from the ditch.
The younger boy picked his way across clumps of stone, hare
wild from the night before, a sack slung over one shoulder.
Ward said you'd be here. Roland called, swinging the sack
with both hands for show. SER pushed a clod of dirt with
his boot, nodded to Roland. I'm always here.
Rowed and reached him and crouched to open the bag.
He dug out his invention, a tangle of bent wires, feathers,
A battered tin plate and bits of bone fastened together with
twine. And so scares off blackbirds,
Rollin announced, pushing it at SER You Wire.
It to a post. The wind'll spin the bones and
feathers. He gave it a flick.
The plate rattled, feathers spun, bone clicked against tin.
SER watched the thing, lips twitching.
Up how many crows did it scare? Roland shrugged, not offended.
Few, maybe. They're smarter than cows.
Takes them a while to realize it's just noise.
Thought you could use it on the beans.
Keeps them off long enough for a harvest.
SER took it, turned it over in his rough hands, feeling the
bones and tin. He jabbed it into a fence post,
pressed it in deep, and stepped back.
The wind picked up, spinning the feathers.
The noise startled another crow, which whistled away.
Might work, Serre said. They stood for a while, side by
side, watching the crows sort themselves along the wire fence,
calling sharp and hungry. Serre went back to the row.
Rollin followed, looking for stones to skip.
At the edge of the irrigation ditch, he kicked up a fat toad
and watched it lumber for wet earth.
Work pulled Serre's mind empty. Each swing, each stab of the
hoe, each turn of his neck. Dodging flies blurred brain and
body into one thing. After an hour, he barely heard
Ward's call from the lane. Ward's figure moved toward them
slower than. Usual.
Favouring his right leg, he carried a bucket, beaten and
stained, and set it at Sir's feet without a word.
Roland looked at them both, sensing weight thickening in the
moment. Ward squinted at the invention
stuck to the post. Ugly as hell, he muttered.
But if it works, keep it. He bent, picked up a clod of
dirt, crumbled it between fingertips.
Earth fell through his hands, slow, as if looking for
something good in it. SER turned to set the next row.
Ward didn't leave. Finally, he grunted, motioned at
a patch where weeds grew high. You miss this?
SER nodded, didn't argue. Ward didn't look angry, just
tired. Mouth pulled thin, eyes gone
grey, Ward glanced at Roland. Did your uncle know you were out
last night, boy? Roland shook his head, foot
grinding a stone into the mud. He's at market today.
Won't know unless someone says. Ward snorted, half approving,
half not. Keep it that way.
He looked back at Sir, as if deciding on something.
You eat? Sir wiped his brow.
I will. Ward lingered.
The three stood silent, daylight crawling over their shoes.
Ward cleared his throat, offered no more, and strode back toward
the house. Roland watched him disappear,
face hard to read. Think he's got nicer?
He asked. Sir shrugged, squinting against
the sun. He's gotten old.
They finished the field's edge. The crows steered wide.
Around Rollin's invention, wind caught the bones again, setting
feathers spinning, plates tinkling, A faint music not
quite right for joy or sorrow. Roland fetched water.
Dipping from the little tributary, then climbed onto the
fence, legs swinging over weed and furrow.
Sarah watched him, envy flickering low and quick.
Roland lived with his uncle. Too, But nobody hit him, and
nobody made him eat standing up. That was a small kind of luck.
He would take it if he could. Want to try fishing after
chores? Roland called, sudden hopeful.
SER looked at muddy. Rose Ward would want potatoes
dug or the chicken coop fixed. But Roland's face waited, eyes
wide, already thinking about the river and a quiet spot away from
the road. Maybe, SER said.
If. Ward, let's up.
I'll wait by the big stone. Roland promised, already jumping
down, running off before SER could take the words back.
The day passed like work days always did.
Sweat, dirt, blood under a fingernail from a stubbed thumb,
the crows darting and bitching on the far line of fence, but
the beans safe for now, the rows half straight, half crooked.
No one came to bother him. Ward shouted once or twice from
the house, but didn't cross the yard again.
Other farmers passed now and then, nodding or scowling, never
stopping long. At noon, Sir took a piece of old
bread with an onion 8 sitting on a stone, the sun overhead so hot
it made the sweat dry, white streaks on his arms.
His mind drifted. He wondered if Vera had heard
about his face, if she would care, if she'd laugh, tell her
brothers, add another insult to the pile he carried.
He didn't care as much as he thought he would.
He wandered about tomes, the old stories of boys his age, heroes,
or at least ones with better luck, banding together for
purpose. Now Vera kept tomes in its songs
and tales, but none of those stories matched what boys here
were or did. Still, Sir, let himself imagine
walking out past the river, carrying the sword with the
silver woman, and finding some purpose waiting in the hills.
Stupid, but better than counting potatoes.
Afternoon crawled on. Ward's shadow stretched across
the yard. Then the sun dipped below the
roof line, dragging red along the windows.
Work done. Said dumped the hoe by the door.
He wiped grime from under his nails, scrubbed his face with
the water by the door, spat out dirt.
The bruise on his eyes still glared, but no longer boiled.
He thought about Roland waiting on the big stone near the river.
He thought about nothing at all for a moment, letting the quiet
sink into his bones. Serre looked back at the house
ward in the window, pipe held between dry lips, watching but
not saying a word. Serre set off toward the river,
not hurrying. Boots squelching in red mud,
each step lighter the further he got from home.
He followed the dirt track along the edge of the field, boots
sticking in clay that sucked at each step.
At the fence, he gripped the post, swung himself over, and
crossed the brush that the village let go wild each year.
Midges rose in dense clouds. They're buzzing thick.
He ducked his head, waved one hand in front of his face, and
picked up his pace. The air changed, damper cooler,
carrying the sour river smell. He reached the water where the
current bent around an old split boulder.
There was Reed grass and wisteria tangled along the bank,
roots reaching down where they touched the slow run of the
Karma. Roland sat waiting, legs
crossed, a battered can perched next to him, lines already tied
with his clumsy knots. His eyes caught says as he
neared, hopeful and nervous, already bright from just the
promise of company. Round worms.
Roland said, holding out a tin cupped in both hands.
When he lifted the lid, 3 fat blind things twisted in cold
soil. They were under the through.
SER took one, baited his line, the hook pricked the pad of his
thumb. He sucked at it without
complaint. The two boys stood in silence
for a bit, casting lines into muddy current, letting the worms
sink behind slow moving foam. Roland watched the colours
change in the water. Ward yell when you finished.
SER shook his head, not really, just pointed at what needed
doing. Didn't say much.
My uncle's the same. Roland replied, voice small.
He flicked his line, swinging the bait to a deeper.
Eddie. Thinks if he talks less, he's
working harder. SER waited for a bite.
Maybe that's. True.
Maybe it's all they know. A Heron moved downriver, head
bobbing, legs too thin to make sense.
Above the mud. The sky widened out, blue piling
into thick afternoon gold. Sound travelled better here, the
slap and trickle of water, birds arguing in the reeds, a dull hum
of someone's hammer far up the bank.
They fished without much luck. Sometimes a line jerked, but
nothing came up except weeds caught against the hook.
Roland didn't mind. He watched his float drift, bump
into Sears and drift apart again.
Their hands brushed when they reached down for more worm.
It was just them, alone beside the river.
Zeer glanced over, saw the feather and bone contraption
tied to the handle of Roland's pack.
It spun in the little wind, rattling.
Ward called it ugly, he said. Roland smiled.
Thin but real. Who works, though?
Not everything pretty works, and not everything that works is
pretty. They let the line sit, eyes half
lidded against the light. Roland's stomach growled.
Sir heard it and fished 1/2 cob of bread from his pocket, handed
it over. They shared it in slow chews,
flicking crumbs to the ants that worked under their boots.
After a long while, Roland started.
You think you'll ever leave? Sir didn't answer at first.
He watched his float circle in lazy spirals.
No sign of fish, He wanted to say.
He'd thought of leaving every day but the words.
Wouldn't come. They never did.
Maybe, he finally said. If I do, I'll send a letter from
somewhere, better or worse. Roland nodded as if he'd figured
it out long ago. He watched his own hands, dirt
caked deep under each nail. I'd go if you did.
Not much to go with, Sir said. No gold, no map, just bruises.
Still more than most. They fell quiet again.
A cloud drifted over the sun. The world dulled, everything
going grey and soft for a moment.
Roland pulled his line. Back checking it.
A bent hook. A slick of plant muck.
He set it aside, picked up a smooth stone and skipped it
across the surface 3 jumps before it sank.
You ever see magic? He asked low, as if someone
might overhear across all that empty field.
Not real magic, Sir said, rolling the thought around,
unwilling to lie. Old arts, Boxy fixes cuts with
his medicine, and the minstrels do tricks, but real magic?
Not here, not for our sort. My aunt swears she saw a fire
start itself once behind the church.
Sere shrugged. Maybe, maybe she did.
Roden looked at him, eyes sharp. Do you want it?
Magic? Sere thought on this, feeling
each breath fill his chest, each movement scratch his healing
brow. Wouldn't say no, could make
something of myself. Men don't beat boys who can burn
a man's house? With a word.
Roland nodded. I'm trying to build something
that works, doesn't need spells. A breeze stirred the grass.
Their lines swung wide. Sunlight came back.
And. Glared off the water, it was
bright enough to turn their shadowed faces white, eyes gone
narrow and hard against the shine.
SER stood, brushed his hands on his trousers.
We should go, he said. Wardle off.
Sooner or later, the worms went back in the tin.
The lines wrapped slow around rough sticks, tangled.
Sometimes they walked the river's edge together, feet
leaving heavy marks in soft earth.
Silence so complete that even the birds kept their distance.
Around them. The world moved on slow,
uncaring. Just another working day,
another patch of sun and water at the.
Break in the trees. Roland stopped and looked back
at the river. You ever wish you were someone
else? He asked, not looking at Sir.
Sometimes. Sarah admitted.
Rarely changes anything. Roland smiled and started.
Toward the village, the way kids do when they think there's
something good waiting. But no, there isn't.
Air fell in beside him and together they crossed back into
the line of muddy yards, the drawn faces of hungry neighbors
watching from doorways, the smoke of dinner fires already
climbing the sky. There wasn't much to say after
that. They nodded a quiet goodbye and
split off down different tracks, rolling toward the noise of his
uncle's house. Sir, back to the empty lane
where Ward's shadow crept across the floor.
The day dulled to a close, aching and quiet, full of work
and absence, the kind of evening that comes and goes 1000 times
before anything ever changes. So washed his hands in the
bucket, let the water turn clouded with dirt, and sat at
the kitchen table. Ward hadn't set a place, but the
old man grunted from his chair. The lamps threw up brittle
shapes along the plaster walls, stretching everything thin.
Good field work, Ward said, eyes refusing to meet his.
He found Stew left in the pot, cold but filling.
He ate without complaint, letting each spoonful anchor him
to the day Ward poured himself a drink, staring over the rim,
lost in habits that neither asked to be broken nor
understood. Sir finished, scraped his bowl
and watched Ward for a sign of approval, anger, anything he
expected. Nothing.
He got nothing. He stood, pushed in his chair
and stepped out again, the air colder now, sky purpling above
the thatch. The night came down hard, stars
flickering between whips of high cloud.
Sir lingered at the stoop and looked out on the Fens.
The scarecrow, Roland billed, shuddering in the gusts, bones
and feathers flashing slow and promising nothing.
The world waited unchanged, unmoved by his wanting, and he
let himself wish for something small as silence, just the wind
and cold dirt and the shape of another day.
He stayed until the cold forced him in, then let the door shut
out the dark, but the house cooled fast once the sun
dropped. Sir closed the shutters over the
windows, fitting the warped wood tight to keep the draft out the
hinges. Wind, the only light left, came
from the fire in the stove, orange burning down to ash.
Ward moved heavy in the other room, muttering as he settled,
boots thumping the wall, his sign to be left alone.
Sir gathered the chipped plates and took them to the corner,
rinsing each in the bucket. Bits of onion, skin and limp
carrot floated in the grey water.
He poured it out under the back step, careful to keep his shoes
clean. The chickens would pick at the
scraps come daylight if the fox hadn't got to them first.
Inside, Ward started snoring in his chair, loud, ragged, deep
enough it rattled the windows. Sir watched him a moment,
looking for sign of a waking fit.
Sometimes Ward woke angry, lost somewhere else, started shouting
about things Sir never saw or understood.
Tonight he slipped deeper, haired, lolling arms folded
across his chest, empty glass on the table.
No danger here unless morning brought something new.
SER swept the hearth, dragging the old broom in slow arcs,
pushing the ash toward the pitted clay.
He liked the quiet work, the effort of it, the feeling of
making some part of the house better.
Not much, but enough for an evening with no one yelling.
The wind whistled through the thin spots in the wall.
He stuffed rags there, packed stone behind them, let the
warmth stretch a minute longer. Fire gone low, so unrolled his
palate on the hard patch by the stove.
The heat here lasted longest. He stripped to his shirt, folded
his boots under his head. Even after he lay down, the
scrape of straw pricked at the saw places on his back, the
clean lines traced by years of broken sleep.
He pulled his blanket close, breathed in the last smell of
baked bread and lingering sweat, and let the dark come down.
The night broke twice, Once to the sound of village dogs
boiling up, fighting over something in the road, their
howls swinging wild, rattling old glass and setting every bird
into shrieking fits for 5 minutes straight.
Ward never woke, Sir. Watch the shutter seams light up
with passing lanterns. Patrols coming and going, men's
feet crunching grit and mud until the pack moved on.
The second time, it was hunger that woke him.
Stomach twisting, mouth gone dry.
He lay a while listening to his own heart, then pulled his boots
back on and padded to the larder.
There not much hunks of old cheese rubbed in salt to keep
mold at Bay. A bit of smoked fat backford
with white 4 grain onions and a bag of dried beans.
He peeled a slice of cheese, chewed it slow, waiting for the
craving to fade. He stood a long while at the
small window above the sink, watching the sky through the
cracks in the. Wall night pressed at the panes.
Nothing moved out there but the wind and the glimpse of a cat
sliding thin over the rooftops. The stirring hung in him long
after he crawled back under his blanket.
He drifted, caught on the edge between one day and the next,
memories flickering out of order.
His father's face, his mother's last cough, Ward's hand smacking
his shoulder, Rowland's odd smile in the cold and grey under
the willows. When he woke for good, the air
had changed, thick with the coming of rain.
The wind had shifted east and pressed the smoke down over the
houses, turning the yard to grey, the fence sagging under
the weight of it. Ward already stood over the
fire, heating thick porridge in the iron pot.
His eyes had the brittle shine of someone who hadn't slept, or
had slept hard and angry. Eat quick.
Ward grunted. He scowled out the window,
twisting his jaw. Clouds.
Moving up, going to rain long and mean.
Get the barrel set under the eaves when you're done.
Serre nodded and put a spoon to the porridge.
It was hot and bland. His favorite thing.
Better than nothing, better than the taste of rust and old
grease. He ate all of it, scraped the
bowl, swallowed the last dregs of salt.
Ward poured him thick tea, brown, bitter, poured his own,
and went to the other side of the room.
They ate without talking, listening to the drip and tick
of water leaking in at the lean to roof.
So scraped his bowl clean, washed it in the bucket with a
splash, pulled on his coat and boots.
Outside, the sky bruised up heavy and close.
He moved the rain barrels against the back wall, lining
them under the drip line just as water taught him.
Each one settled with the promise of catching enough to
wash, to cook, to keep the house flexible if the river ran muddy
or the village wells soured in a dry spell.
It mattered every bit. The pigs squealed for feeding,
their slop bucket long empty. SER fetched weeds and peelings.
Spread the mess in the through. Watch them battle for it.
Shoulder to shoulder, teeth snapping loud enough for him to
hear over the wind. Past the barn, the fields
glistened under a low fog. Crows picked the new beans,
staying clear of the bone and tin scare far off someone else's
dog yapped at nothing, warning nothing, just staking space.
He slogged out farther. Crossed through a patch of grass
lined with dew. Mud pulled at his heels, but he
kept moving, head down. Roland stood at the far end,
balanced on the broken fence rail, arms out for balance, hair
blown wild. No coat.
Thought you weren't coming? Roland called SER, climbed the
fence, dropped on the far side and watched as Roland jumped
down beside him. I'm never late.
Sir said. Roland grinned, teeth
chattering, arms tucked under his ribs.
Want to see the trap I set? He asked.
Sir nodded. He followed Roland through brush
and slick grass until they reached a patch below the first
big Willow by the river. There, tied to a crooked stick,
a length of twine snaked through mud, looped tight and tied to a.
Forked branch. The end of the line vanished
underwater. Anything there?
Seer asked. Roland shrugged.
Maybe. Or maybe rats chewed the bait.
He took the line, braced his feet and pulled.
Slow resistance. Then the line jerked, caught,
went slack. Seer knelt beside him, watching
the water swirl eddies where the bait pulled up mud.
Together they worked the trap. It spat up nothing this time.
No fish, no water rat, not even weeds.
Just old silt and bits of broken shell.
Roland, wrap the line up, not disappointed.
Better tomorrow, he said. Always is, Sarah replied.
The rain started as a shiver of wind, then fat drops angled off
the river, smacking through the scrub and stinging their faces.
The boys ran for the willows, huddled under the leaning trunk,
watching water pelt the grass flat.
Everywhere the world rang with water, their boots soaked.
Through at the seams. Feet wrinkled, already sore
still, Roland grinned, showing every tooth.
You think we can build a raft this year?
He asked, kicking a soggy branch at the riverbank.
If we do. Ward won't let me near it, SER
said. Not unless I promise to clean
the house end to end through planting season.
We could build it behind the barn, Roland said dreamily.
Float it out at night. Take it all the way to Sailor
Bridge. SER smiled at the thought.
He leaned back against cool bark, listening to the rain
pounding down, filling every rut and low ground and carrying the
smell of mud thick as Stew. He didn't know if it could be
done, or if Ward would let him out of chores long enough to
have a hand in it, but in that moment, with the river rising
and the Willow shaking in the wind, he didn't care.
There the world faded to the sound of water and far of
Thunder. The space between storms and
what might come next stretching open wide enough to let them
breathe. The rain settled in, steady as
drumming fingers. The river took on a slick Sheen,
water rising in fits. Sere dug his hands in the mud,
idly tracing lines beneath the willows cover.
Roland squatted beside him, kicking pebbles.
Towards the roots, letting water Wick up his trousers.
Neither minded the wet anymore, their backs pressed to the
thickest part of the trunk, watching wind slap the river's
surface. A sharp sound cracked from
upriver, wood splitting, maybe a cart's axle or a branch giving
out. Underweight, Sir.
Stiffened, hand hovering over his knee, he exchanged a glance
with Roland. Out here, you paid attention to
what snapped. Roland shifted.
Probably old Thomas's boat. His voice was hopeful, but
unsure. SER listened close, head canted.
Rain changed the world's voices. If it was Tomas, the boat would
drift past soon, maybe leaking, maybe not.
If it was something else livestock loose a tree down the
village would want to know. SER stood, mud sucking his
boots. I'll look.
You stay if you want. Vollen hesitated, hunkered lower
under the scrubby branches, but he followed anyway, curious,
unwilling to be left behind. They followed the tree line
upriver, sliding through slick grass, letting rain soak their
hair to the scalp. Thorns caught sleeves, shoes
stuck and pulled free with wet pops.
The sound came again, sharper, closer.
Then a curse in a man's voice bounced off the water.
Soweth dropped into a Crouch, reflex drilled by years of
hiding from Ward, from older boys, from trouble that was
never his but always found him. Roland mirrored him, small hands
smearing mud down his shins. Through the break in the
willows, they spotted the source.
Not to Moss, but a stranger, tall, with a coat bunched high
on his shoulders, pushing a cartwheel from the water's edge.
The man's ribs showed through his shirt when the wind lashed
it close. He fought the wheel, dragging it
by rope tied haphazard to its hub.
Grey hair plastered his skull. Sayre watched, silent.
Out here, strangers could mean stories, danger, or nothing at.
All travellers passed sometimes, usually headed to the lumber
camps east or the old crossing at Sailor Bridge, but most kept
clear of the fields. This one looked beaten by
weather and hunger. The man yanked the wheel free,
nearly falling backward into the mud.
He cursed again, stopped to breathe, then caught sight of
the boys. Both froze, ready to bolt.
Either help or piss off. The man barked.
SER didn't move, kept his weight grounded.
Roland's hand closed around SER's arm.
The stranger watched them, wary, sizing them up as much as they
did him. Finally, SER stepped.
Forward. Where you headed?
The man spat, wiped a hand across his face.
Where you think, Chituma? The gods know you don't have a
real bridge, so I'm crossing here.
He glared at the wheel, wasn't told the crossing was this bad.
Rain came harder, rattling leaves overhead.
The cart lay out of sight behind the willows.
The road these days ran to mud once you left the village
centre. Sir kept his eyes on the
stranger, making a slow judgement.
The man's hands shook, not from cold, but lack of food.
Maybe age. Serre pointed.
Parts worse. Up by market Rd. best cross near
the stones where roots grip the bank.
The man scoffed, but nodded. You show me, I'll owe you.
Sir nodded to Roland. They led the way through the
lowest ground, detouring as much for safety as to keep the
stranger Insight. Sir never put his back to him.
Roland stuck so close his elbow knocked Sirs when a root tripped
them. They moved out from the thicket
wound through brush, boots squishing in deep puddles.
Once at the thick stones, the stranger manoeuvred the broken
wheel behind, grunting as he hauled the rest of the cart
through, rain making everything slick.
With both boys pushing at the lower rim, the worst of the mud
passed quick on the far bank. The man fished something from
his pocket. A lump of salt pork wrapped in
linen broke it in half and handed 1 to Sere.
They meant payment. The man grunted.
Better luck here than out there. He stared at Sere's face for
three long seconds. Sere felt that gaze crawl across
his bruised eye and rest on the old scar under his chin.
The man shrugged and gathered his belongings, water streaming
from his sleeves, then started down the rutted cart path into
the heart of the village. Roland sniffed the pork, looked
at SER. You going to eat that?
SER took a bite, chewed, handed the rest to Roland.
Salt stung his cracked lips, but the fat softened hunger that had
built since morning rain spit harder.
Come on, SER said. Can't get wetter.
They trudged back through the brush, wind pushing at their
backs, faces cold and stiff, the encounter stuck in Sez's mind.
Travellers usually passed without help, without a word.
If they could, villagers would gossip about a stranger, quick
rumours, packing the alleys before supper.
This one wouldn't be any different.
They got to the Willow, found the river up an inch, running
brown and quick. You think we'll end up like
that? Roland asked, flicking rain from
his eyelashes, Dragging wheels through muck.
Sir Shrugged. Maybe.
He kept his eyes on the water. Rain muffled the world.
Even the crows gave up, hunkering down with heads under
wings. Sir and Roland slumped under the
tree, both soaked through, neither talking, just breathing,
listening, letting the weather pull the aches.
Down into their bones. Filling the world from scalp to
boot sole. When the worst of the storm
passed, they splashed back toward the house.
They kept quiet, knowing there'd be questions later, chores
waiting, the real world crowding back in before they got fully
dry. Their hands and cheeks stung
from cold. Mud coated their ankles and the
smell of wet earth clung. Even after the rooster called
from up the lane. The rain let up by the time SER
reached his yard. Ward stood in the doorway, eyes
narrowed, whole frame hunched against what he couldn't
control. What'd you get up to?
Ward called, voice cut flat. SER shook water from his coat,
helped a man with his cart. Ward grunted, sniffed.
Not approval, not quite blame. You eat.
SER nodded. Ward jerked his head at the
stove, where soup simmered thick with barley and what little
carrot hadn't gone black. Serre stepped inside, peeled off
his coat and let the heat sting his fingers.
Ward watched him, silent. The lamps smoked.
Rain rattled what was left of the tin on the roof.
It felt like the whole world huddled in on the edge of that
moment, wet, emptied out. Sir held his bowl in both hands,
feeling the ache of the day's work, roof overhead and nothing
more aside. The storm eased and for a time
there was nothing but the low scrape of spoons on pottery and
the half light of another day closing down.
The soup's warmth moved down Seyer's chest to his legs, slow
and thick. He scooped the last dregs from
the bowl with bread gone soft at the edges.
Ward snuffed at his own bowl, blowing steam, clear eyes fixed
on nothing. Rain dripped from the eaves, but
the wind changed, bringing hush instead of clatter.
The room felt less crowded when they ate this way, side by side
at the table, noise outside louder than anything said
within. Ward reached for the bottle
under his chair. He filled the cup less than
halfway, hand steady for once. That man you helped.
He muttered, not a question. He go to Bells or further on,
didn't say. Sarah answered.
Kart looked empty. He was tired.
Ward tapped a finger on the wood.
Too many strangers these days, some come looking for work, most
come running from something else.
His jaw clenched. If he comes back, don't open the
door. Sir.
Didn't nod. He wiped the bowl clean, set it
on the table, then stood to rinse it.
Ward rose as well, stomach rumbling with the meal.
Not pain. You hear anything out there?
Ward asked, the turn sudden. They considered.
Just the river up. Cartwheel broke.
Sounded right. Ward moved to the door, arm
braced across the frame, checking the yard.
He grunted. SER set the dishes to dry.
The chores comforted him. Simple, repetitive, each thing
in its place, each scrape and rinse.
A reason to stand near fire instead of Ward's silence.
Ward came back in. If rain keeps, river might flood
the lower fields again. Dig the West ditch in the
morning. Use the long spade, not the hoe.
Deeper this time. SER only nodded.
The lamp flickered. The little home held its heat,
but the way the sound of the rain returned every few breaths
told him the storm wasn't finished.
He tucked his bed roll close to the wall, checking for leaks.
The sky outside went dark purple, then black.
Ward kept to the chair, staring off drink untouched when he
finally moved. It was to the pallet he kept
next to the kitchen, knees cracking.
The bottle sat full cup beside it.
Some nights that was all the difference between calm and
trouble. SER lay in the dark.
Wind pushed water through narrow cracks, made the rafters creak.
He listened, ear pressed to the ground, to the quiet talking of
the river Thunder. Far off St.
Dogs barked, tiresome and close. His own eyes stung the crust of
sleep gathering in the swollen corner.
Ward had marked two nights before.
He touched it, felt it pulse, then let his hand fall away.
Sleep filtered in, not deep or peaceful, but enough.
He woke with dull light, the promise of more rain.
The house was damp, breath misting as he rolled up his
bedroll. Ward already had the kettle on
back to Sir, shoulders hunched in a way that meant aches and
little patience. Heat and get to the ditch.
Ward said. No greeting.
SER dug into a crust, drank tea that stung from being steep too
long. He gathered his jacket, a
patched thing more whole than cloth, and hefted the long
spade. Outside, the mud sucked at his
heels. The river's voice had grown a
slow, heavy drag, pushing past its banks at the lowest spots
where rats dug holes and pulled young beans down by the roots.
He worked the West ditch, cutting deeper, wide as Ward
insisted, each shovel load pulled at his back.
Mud stuck to his boots, the spade handle worn smooth from
old hands. His breath smoked in the
morning, cold sweat already thick under his shirt, mixing
with rain that stung through holes under his arms.
A slur of crows huddled on posts, watching him.
The fence still held Roland's scare, bones clacking, feathers
limp with wet. Now and then it shivered and the
crows would lift, circle and come back.
Not fooled for long, SER took a break, kneeling by the open
runnel, sucking wind. Hands roar.
He looked over his work, a line fighting flood, nothing more.
The village woke late, under rain.
The Roosters sounded thin doors creaked as people scanned for
news. Roland's voice called through
the fields, bright and out of place, echoing up from the bend
in the lane. Sir wiped his brow and watched
as Roland came up with his usual hop boots caked near to his
knees. You see?
Him. Roland called, not quiet.
Pooh. Sir, spat the stranger from
yesterday. He was at Bells shed trading
story for Stew. Said he'd seen the river gods,
had a scar along his hip from fighting goblins or maybe
smugglers. Bells laughed him out, but he's
still poking around. Ma says to keep doors bolted.
SER pushed the spade in harder, turning over Wet earth.
Ward said the same. Roland stood beside him, small
hands in pockets. Want help?
My uncle's gone off to the mill, no chores left but minding hens,
and they're hiding from rain. SER nodded, handed Roland a
smaller spade left beside the field.
They worked slow, not talking much, hacking the ditch deeper.
Rain eased halfway through. Mist hung over everything,
field, fence, river at the edge, Balu and Viti crossed with their
own gear, swinging buckets and making noise for no one.
Lavu followed. A net rolled under his arm.
They saw SER and Roland. Balu raised her fist in
greeting, breaking the silence that worked its way into
everything on rainy days. He called out.
Town's half flooded old man. Sarah's pigs got loose.
You coming? Sarah searched Ward's window for
a sign. None when the ditch is done.
He called back. La Vue smirked.
That'll take all day. A racier bitty kicked mud,
sending it spattering. Loser buys at market next week
if the bridge holds. The boys laughed, but there was
edge to it, hunger and boredom and the stir of something new
behind their joking. Roland dug faster.
We can finish, let's go after. His face was red with strain,
but eager. Sere leaned into the work,
letting Roland keep pace. They finished the ditch, boots,
cake thick with mud, arms trembling from effort.
They followed the others into the village, past hedges bent by
weather, dogs nosing for scraps, eyes at every window.
The stranger's story travelled faster than his steps.
Men and women mouthed secrets, children warned to stay in.
Stu kept close to the door. So no.
Hungry face could smell it from the lane.
Sir felt the shift in the air. Old days repeating trouble,
bending the villagers quiet back until it threatened to snap.
Roland stuck tight, whispering plans for rafts, for new traps,
for ways out that could work if only the river ran low for a
week or two. If only Sir thought.
Nothing ever changed. Until it did.
They moved down the lane, voices echoing up between rough walls
and battered doors toward whatever the day would bring.
Sir and Roland marched after Balu, Vitti and Lavu across the
Slough that passed for the village's main Rd.
Their boots squelched, mud caked to their calves.
Rain had churned up the lane and water cut grooves where
cartwheels made ruts. It was easier to walk the edge
where coarse grass held the soil together, so they hugged fence
lines and dodged chicken wire twisted low near the stumps at
the market end. They found people out in spite
of the weather, old Sierra cursing while she swung a switch
at 3, thick bellied pigs rooting under her apple tree, a knot of
women hauling water in battered tin jugs from the well.
Balu and Lalu flanked a loose pile of lumber, salvage from the
last storm, poking for anything straight enough to use as a
fishing pole. Vitty shouted something about
market treats and got told off by a mother picking through what
root vegetables could still be found.
When the boys clustered together, their voices nodded,
trading news quick and hard. You see him?
Balu said, pitching his voice low.
They say he's at the Smithy now, asking after spare iron and
shade. Nobody knows whose kin he is.
Lavu rolled his eyes, sending water through his hair.
Don't matter, he's got no horse, so he's not running from any
law. Pockets are empty, so Ward won't
have any work for him either. Viti fished a cracked plum from
his jacket and split it with a pocket knife.
He's not alone either. Someone saw him talking to the
Miller's wife last night, but she said nothing about it when
DAR asked. Roland pressed into the group,
careful not to draw much attention.
You think he'll stay long? Balu gave a shrug.
If he finds coin, sure. If not, he'll move on.
Once the roads dry, SER kept quiet.
He scanned the square for a glimpse of the stranger.
No sign. Just the black mouth of the
Smithy stretching behind anvil smoke and a boy pumping bellows.
Up above, the clouds turned the world flatter, slate edges
blurring where roof slumped into grey.
The commotion started near Bells Stall.
The butcher, elbows slick with fat, argued with a round faced
man in a sailor's coat. Sir caught phrases as he and the
others drifted closer. Don't know him.
Slept in your shed, didn't he? If he pinched my cleaver?
Arguments here never lasted. Gossip cut them short, replaced
by the thrum of 100 smaller worries.
The stranger was not at the stall.
Vt whistled low, slicing the silence folk here.
Scary easy, Balu leaned in, voice half mocking, half
fearful. Old Sarah swears he's marked
left hand gone white from old frostbite.
They say that's keep a sign in the northern valleys.
Says he is pricked up. Old wives tales bled into
mornings like. These any hint of the Keepers
old wounds twisted into myth. He kept his face slack, hiding
any flash of curiosity. La Vue snorted.
Sarah's got a tail for every new face.
Remember last year, she said the Mills new scullery boy was a
demon boy couldn't count to 10, but he could muck a.
Stall. The paws hungover them, a
bracing chill. Raulin broke it, nudging Sir's
arm. You want to check the river, see
if the raft logs washed loose? Sarah nodded.
The other boys caught the signal and peeled away, leaving the
square behind, the storm of small rumors fading into the
steady beat of their boots on wet grass.
They cut across the Meadow behind the tannery, heading for
the slow bend where the logs they'd salvage had been stashed
weeks before, hoping for a break in chores, a chance at mischief
bigger than pond fishing. The short grass made walking
easy, save for spots where hooves and feet.
Had pressed mud into pockets at the bend.
The river ran quick and high, grey light shining on crests,
logs and rubbish gumming up at the first snag.
They picked their way down the bank, picking out their own
marks in the bark cuts made with Balu's knife and a half burned
cattle brand. Vitty had found two logs
remained where they'd left them, pinned by thorn roots, bark
peeled by the flood. We could drag them up today,
Lavu said. If wool doesn't catch us.
Balu grinned, eyes bright under dripping hair.
If he does, we say, therefore patching the fence.
No sense letting all his curses go to waste, SER put his hand on
the nearest log, feeling the weight.
The work it would be. He glanced back toward the
tannery, nervous that Ward might stroll by at just the wrong
time. Roland scrambled down the bank,
shoes slick with mud, more eager than the older boys.
Give me your belt, he said, and Balu handed it over.
Roland made quick work knotting the strap around a root, looping
the rest to the logs. Notched end.
Pull together, SER said. They heaved, mud slipping under
boots, arms burning. The log rolled up to dry ground,
bark scraping thin lines on exposed shins.
Second log followed slower. Every few moments one of the
group would slip, curse, then scramble back, hands muddy but
stubborn, unwilling to let a little rain send them home
empty. A figure appeared at the top of
the bank, shadow sharp even in the grey.
The stranger stood watching, wordless coat hanging off bone.
Silence cut sharper than wind. The boys straightened, panting,
hands clenched on rough. Wood baking my raft?
The stranger finally asked. His voice was not quite a
threat, not quite a joke. Sarah met his gaze.
Cut these last months for ourselves.
A beat passed. The man's mouth bent, some old
pain or humour twisting at the corners.
Roe, careful currents run different under rain.
Balu tried bravado. You ever cross here?
Not with anything worth losing, the stranger replied.
There's a shelf in the shallows. Step wrong and your raft will
spin. Take this bank instead.
He pointed downriver, where stone gathered beneath slower
current. The boys hesitated.
Grown men rarely gave advice in town, not to the likes of them.
The stranger's eyes ran over their boots, the lines of their
arms, their hands wrapped tight with twine.
Burn and weather. You build it right, you might
get. Clear to cellar.
You build it wrong, you'll wake up in the dead marsh with the
Keeper's ghosts. Rain picked up, flattening any
last words. The stranger slipped away as
sudden as he'd appeared, boot prints dark in the mud.
The boys looked at each other, uncertain.
La Vue set his jaw. We build it better than last
year. Balu laughed, shaking out his
arms, fear draining out in the sound.
We don't die. We don't learn.
There traced ripples of the rocks weighing the words.
The stranger's warning pressed in with the weight of river,
sky, and all the small dangerous hopes that came of being young,
muddy and determined to get across no matter what waited on
the far side. They got back to work.
Under the threat of rain and watcher's eyes, the raft pulled
together, brown water rising, logs slick.
The world closed in to the sound of rope pulled tight, breath
steamed out and cold bursts, mud and bruises and the throb of new
plans gaining shape beneath the clouds.
They didn't move for a minute. Each of them caught breath or
spat mud, lungs still fluttering from cold and close call.
Rain slackened over the river, thinning to mist where sunlight
caught it. Roland wiped grit from his hair.
Balu checked an ankle that had twisted on a root.
Viti hunched over, arms wrapped around his knees, grinning at no
one. Lavu rocked back, staring at the
pink scrapes blooming on his knuckles.
Sir blinked mud from his lashes, blood from the edge of his eye
stinging as it mixed. With dirty water, he thumbed the
wound, wiped the rest down his sleeve, and sat up.
The current still carried splinters of log downstream,
vanishing around the point. There was nothing left to
salvage. They hold themselves to standing
water. Streaming from their boots,
their coats hung heavy, shirts clung to backs, making every
movement stiff and raw. Sir checked each face.
Nobody crying, nobody angry, just wide eyed and run through a
kind of wildfire, jittering behind each gaze.
Roland started laughing, a mad hiccuping sound, and the others
joined one after the next, until even La Vue barked something
that might have been a cheer. Let's get home, Balu said after
the laughter wound down. Ward will have my head for
losing that rope. Viti winced.
Your head? If my ma sees the shirt, she'll
tell me twice. Once for the mud, once for the
RIP. They.
Limped up the bank, squelched across the grass, coming behind
sheds and rowing trees to keep out of sight.
Going through the square wet and filthy, would bring questions.
And questions got back to parents.
For now, they wanted dry clothes.
Hot food, if they could steal it, and maybe a blanket by the
stove before the bruising set in.
Ladoo checked over his shoulder, wary.
That man was watching us, Kept one eye on the water, one on us.
SER shrugged. No harm in it.
He told us about the shelf, and Kwal told us after you'd already
started. Vidi muttered, but not with any
real blame. In the lanes, muddied folk
glanced out, judging likely trouble versus old news.
The butcher's window had fogged over again.
Men drank in the back, hunched like dogs around bones while
mothers yanked kids from the ditch, ordered everyone inside
before supper. The sky grayed again, hinting at
another wave of rain. SER peeled off at the lane near
home, pressing mud from his sleeves, hair plastered flat.
Ward silhouette stood in the lean to's shadow, pipe glowing
orange between quick drags. He spotted Sir, didn't move,
didn't call, just watched. SER slipped inside, boots off at
the door, every inch of him heavy with river stink.
Inside the fire had been built up to a hot rolling Bank of
coals, bread crusted on the stoves flat, and a kettle of
beans let out slow, thick burps of steam.
SER stood for a minute, feeling the heat, not yet ready for what
came next. Ward.
Sat at the table, turning the pipe stem in his hands, he
watched every drip slide from SER's collar to the floor.
Lose something? Ward asked.
There didn't lie. The rocked went river, spun it
out below the shelf. Ward eyed him, slow, mouth
tight. And my rope gone with it.
A long silence. Ward's knuckles went white on
the pipe. Nobody drowned, no Sir.
Ward stared, weighing the fact his rope mattered, but a body
floating downstream would matter.
More. He grunted and looked to the
window, as if that could settle it.
Search stripped off his soaked shirt, scrubbed himself with
rough cloth, then slid dry clothes over skin still itching
from mud and cold. The wounds throbbed, elbows
skinned, bruised, bleeding at the edge.
He poured tea, hands rattling on the tin, then slumped by the
stove, holding the cup to his cheek.
Ward. Tapped the ash from his pipe,
voice softer now. Next time you test a river,
check your knots and don't take what you can't put back.
SER nodded. Heat seeped back into his bones.
He ate beans with salt and lard, scraping the bowl clean, jaw
aching from the cold. Ward filled his own mug and sat
by the window, watching the dark pile up across the fields.
Neither said much. Sir listened to the drip from
the eaves, letting the ache in his body replace the sharp
nervousness of the morning. The house settled under the
familiar weight of quiet, the kind that hid old tempers and
made room for a full belly and a safe floor.
As dusk pooled in the corners, Sir thought of the river and the
stranger, the way the current cared nothing for rope, wood, or
boys, earning scars. He let his thoughts wander,
tracking the bruises on his body, each 1A tally proof he'd
made it through another day, River flung but back in place.
He went to bed before Ward finished his tea, boots and
socks set neatly by the hearth. He lay on his pallet, eyes on
the ceiling, watching dusk sift through cracks, listening to
Ward move slow and heavy, breathing in and out long after
the lamps went dark. Rain started up again, harder
this time, hissing along the roof line, pressing every bruise
deeper until the only thing left was warmth and a gentle sting of
skin, the promise of another wet morning.
Morning crawled in grey and wet. The rain had let up, but fog
pulled thick over every furrow. Sir woke with soreness, running
from neck to ankle. He sat up slow, testing each
limb before he trusted it to carry his weight.
The house felt cold, the fire long died down to ash and the
smell of beans lingering stale in the heavy air.
Wad was up, boots by the door, pipe in hand.
He nodded at Sere, face still caught between anger and
something softer. You've got work.
The fence by the lower fields come loose.
Pigs will get out first time their noses find mud.
Sere nodded, didn't argue. He wanted to slump back under
the blanket, sleep another hour, but Ward's tone didn't allow it.
He scraped together the last of the bread for breakfast, chewed
quick, and hauled on his jacket, one sleeve sticking to the
scrape where a plank had caught him the day before.
The yard outside was slick with mud, puddles shining dully among
the rats. He checked the chicken pen, two
eggs, the rest of the hens fluffing wet feathers.
And glaring out at the grey. He left them to their bad mood.
He found the fence sprawled in a shallow arc where the current
had undercut posts 1 by 1. He drove stakes back in, packing
wet earth around the base, tying boards off with what rope he
could salvage from the shed. Thin stuff, not meant to hold a
pig with half a mind to run. But all they had left since the
raft had gone. Roland's voice cut through the
quiet. Heard you all got soaked
yesterday. He appeared at Sir's side,
rubbing mud between his palms, face pinched with a small bruise
running along his cheekbone. Yeah, lost the raft.
Ward's rope too. You catch it from your uncle?
Roland shrugged, eyes on his boots.
He said next time I lie about chores, he'll set me to picking
nettles until my hands can't close.
But he wasn't too mad. Said everyone gets a taste of
river at some point. They worked side by side, fixing
rails, keeping their eyes down. SER could tell Roland's mind was
still on yesterday, the cold water, the logs breaking loose,
that spot where the stranger had appeared, then vanished.
Roland cleared his throat. You think the raft stuck
somewhere? Hurry down by now, SER said.
Maybe buried in the marsh. Roland nodded.
Think we'll try again? Sircs merked more hope than
certainty. Maybe when the river runs lower,
or if we can get more Roe. The two kept at it until the
posts stood half straight, rails patched into something that had
passed an inspection from a tired uncle, if not a determined
pig. Balu strolled up, boots caked,
hair flattened by sleep, working a crust of bread between his
teeth. Anyone else's folks out for
blood? He asked, eyes poking at their
faces for a shared answer. Hypogist granted and fixed the
stove. Lavu called, coming from across
the oats, sax lung on his shoulder.
He said if it ain't broke, break it so you can learn to fix it.
Don't know if that was meant for me or for you.
Vt pushed through a hedge, clothes clean for once, though
his hands were purple from Berry stains.
Eat before you show up, Balu, or you'll never grow into those big
words you sling. For a while they set shoulders
together, fixing fence, passing quick grins and snatches of
quiet humour. The world felt washed lighter in
spite of bruises. Choice, the disappointment of
the lost raft. A roar of voices rose from the
village square, sharper than morning clatter or usual market
noise. Sara and the rest stalled,
glancing up. A woman ran past the end of the
lane, shawl Askew, calling something they couldn't catch.
Vitty nodded in that direction. Let's see.
They wiped hands and. Boots.
Quick as they. Could and trotted through mud
into the open square. The crowd pressed tight near the
Smithy. Farmers, mothers, children with
bare feet sinking in the muck at the front.
Someone taller than the rest. The Stranger.
He stood back to the forge, hair tangled, wet coat patched at
every seam. His hands moved in calm gestures
as he spoke, voice raised to cut through questions.
You think I came here for trouble?
I lost a wheel. You gave me bread.
You think that's crime? I've seen worse river towns than
Tuete Murdam. Trust me, you let me be and I'll
move on soon as the sun dries the road enough for my boots not
to stick. Old Sarah pointed her stick,
chin quivering. Folk go missing every time
someone new passes through. Last time Mara's hen vanished
and Old Bart was found crawling down by the fairy with half his
hair gone. Troublemakers hide behind bad
luck. The crowd muttered agreement,
children pressed close to Mother's.
Only the Smith kept quiet, hammer in hand, letting the
stranger face the tour. Balu leaned close to SER.
If they run him off, he'll just camp up river.
We'll still have to see him every time we fish.
The stranger's voice never rose. You want me to go?
I'll go. But storms don't care who's here
and who's gone. Flood will come, with or without
my say. Someone in the back shouted.
What's in the pack, then? The stranger loosened the knot
and showed wet blankets, a tin cup, a stub of candle.
No weapon, nothing to steal. Burma's faded.
The Smith finally spoke, quiet but clear.
If he does wrong, we deal with it.
Until then, let the man dry his boots.
No one cheered. The crowd simply melted, each to
their own worry, eyes still flicking back at the stranger,
each boy and girl and mother and old man making their own list of
reasons to remember a face or forget it.
Seth and the others slipped. Away as quick as they'd come,
heading back through the now empty lanes.
Levoux shook his head. Folk need someone to blame every
season. Flood, lost cow or stranger.
With wet feet, Roland scooped a Pebble, tossed it end over end.
You think he's keeper marked? He said, not joking.
So shrugged, feeling the scrape beneath his sleeve.
I think he's just passing through.
Balu nodded slow, half convinced.
Let's hope the river runs someone else in next time.
Someone who brings rope. Mud splattered their boots as
they trudged back for chores, the stranger's face lingering in
their memory, a reminder of how easy it was to be marked, to
have your troubles named by someone else, to be chased from
home just for needing shelter in the rain.
Sir fell to the scrape on his arm, the ache in his side, the
weariness of another day just beginning.
He bent to the fence and started work, boys beside him, sun
trying and failing to breakthrough the new clouds.
The noon sun broke through sludge colored clouds, spilling
A watery beam across the fields. It brought no heat, just a Gray
glare that stung Sur's eyes. He shrugged his jacket higher,
scraped muck from the gaps in the fence line, and tossed
another slick stone toward the ditch, hoping for the clunk of
it hitting water instead of mud. The others kept at their chores.
Larvu trekking fence posts up river Barlu, fetching barbed
wire from a pile stashed behind the granary.
Viti, flattening a tin sheet by jumping it under his heel.
Roland, smallest but quickest, ran relay for nails, handing
them out one at a time from the battered sack at his hip.
Pros circled far overhead, their shadows whisking over the new
mud. Sir watched them, thinking
briefly of the raft, of all the pointless work that had gone
into it, of rope lost and bruises earned, all for a few
breathless seconds afloat before fear took the rest away.
By early afternoon, the fence ran mostly straight again.
They had more posts than patients, but not enough wire.
Roland held what was left of the sack supply, fingers blackened,
cheeks pink. He handed Sir a nail, then
squatted at the corner style, worrying a stick into the air.
I could fix this with a different kind of trap, Roland
said. Maybe a basket if I could get
more Willow twine. Make it so the pigs push out but
can't fit through. Foxes get caught though.
Ward would curse louder. SER half smiled.
Ward curses whatever gets caught.
Pigs, foxes, boys. The nail bit the.
Wood, you ever wonder what you'll do next year?
Roland asked, not meeting his friend's gaze.
If we're not stuck on fences and wet beans.
Don't know, Sir replied. He straightened, wiped grime
from his brow. Maybe work another field.
Maybe not even be here. Roland looked up, hope fighting
through worry. Go to Sailor Further, somewhere
different, somewhere not so weighed down.
He picked at the flesh on his palm, felt the dirt grind soft
places, roar. Balu came up, scowling at Lavu's
pile of posts. We got enough to last.
Through flood should be done before supper.
Vitty stood, brushing crumbs off his hands.
Mark is dead. Nobody bought a thing.
Strayner was still standing by. The Smith wouldn't say a word to
anybody. La Voux rolled his neck, spat in
the dirt. He'll either leave tonight or
wait for stories to die down. You ever notice how folk forget
all about trouble once they can eat with both hands again?
Sir said nothing. He watched the fields edge for
movement, his uncle's lean figure, a stray animal, anything
that needed rooting out before dusk.
Ward hadn't shown since breakfast.
The house window stayed dark, shadows pacing behind the
curtain like restless moths. Rattle cut through the breeze,
hooves up the lane, wagon creaking.
The boys crane to see the source.
It was old Bart, hair still patchy from some fever, poncho
flapping over hunched shoulders, leading a donkey with two sacks
thrown over its back. His wife walked alongside, her
face lined like cracked leather. They avoided the boy's eyes,
focusing on the rutted Rd. keen to mind their own fortune and
not borrow anyone else's. People got used to looking at
the ground in Teutoma. Looking up too long gave you
ideas. CIA pulled another plank into
place. Pressed the board down while
Roland nailed it fast. The rhythm settled him.
The ache in his ribs and shoulder made sense in the small
world. Just for a bit.
Wind caught a curl of smoke from the chimneys, dragging the
villagers smell over the wall. Sweat, Stew, long dead fire, the
reek of boiled cabbage. Baloo glanced at the sky,
measuring time, sun still holding.
You want to try fishing again? I'd take a splash over another
hour, stacking posts. Vitty shook his head.
Not after yesterday. That river's up.
You lose a line now, and you'll lose a hand with it.
Love who grinned, teeth bright beneath the grime.
You're scared, just say it, my da used to say.
Better a fool with dry feet than a clever man floating home.
The argument played out as it always did, nobody really
wanting to stay behind, but nobody strong enough to call for
another risk so soon after being scraped from the rocks.
Sir let the banter ride, feeling his limbs slow, sweat drying
cold across the field. Ward's shape took up the open
space by the door, pipe stem clamped between teeth, hands
folded against the gathering chill.
He watched but didn't speak, eyes running over the boys and
the fixed line of fence beyond. When SER caught his gaze, Ward
nodded once, not quite a blessing, not quite an
accusation. You think your uncle's mad?
Roland asked, following SER's stare.
Sere shrugged and started packing up the leftover wire,
metal stiff under his raw hands. He's always mad, Rain River
Market. There's always one more thing.
The. Work wound down, fence closed,
tools gathered, hands scrubbed in the cold through until the
dirt ran off and only small red scars and scabs remained.
The boys headed for the lane together, trading leftover bread
and splitting a pair of dried plums Barloo had nicked from a
loose crate by the market. Sun lowered through the haze,
painting light long and yellow across any unbroken patch of
ground. At the crossroads.
La Vu clapped Sia's shoulder, careful this time to miss the
bruised side. You coming by Vichy's tonight?
Sir considered hunger twining around his rib cage.
Ward would expect him home unless a chore came up.
He didn't bother asking out loud.
Ward's rules could be guessed by how long the light stayed in the
kitchen window. Roland peeled off for home,
promising with a grin to bring the last coil of wire back in
the morning. The others carried on, boots
leaving thick prints in the lane, dust mixing with the
memory of rain. SER watched them go, then
started his way back. The square was empty.
The stranger was gone from the Smith's shadow.
The only sign he'd ever stood there was a faint heel print in
the churned mud and an old scarf balled up in the corner.
A Gray cat sniffed at it, tail high.
Says stomach nodded, anticipation turning to a kind
of hollow relief. He reached his house, steeled
himself for the slow close of evening.
Ward's sharp look, the clink of spoon against pot, the dull
scrape of feet over old floorboards.
Life shrank to the routines that never gave peace.
But at least ask. Nothing more dangerous than
showing up on time. He stepped in, boots thumping
gently so as not to wake old anger.
Ward looked up, nodding once without a word.
The day had held. No new disasters, not yet.
Sere let his guard down just a little as dusk smothered the
last of the sun outside. Inside, work warmed and
exhausted. The future shrank to the
distance between hunger's end and the next morning's mud.
Inside, the air smelled of wood smoke and cabbage.
Ward had left. The window shutter cracked,
letting a sliver of cold slip in.
He sat at the table, bowl in front of him.
Slow, chew, head down over his meal.
The stove rattled in the corner, filling the room with a heat
that never reached SER's toes. Ciac scraped his boots on the
threshold, careful not to leave mud tracks.
He hung his jacket by the door, shivered once as sweat cooled on
his skin, then crossed for the kettle.
Ward slid the Stew pot toward him.
A crust of bread floated in thick broth, Beans, a grey
onion. No meat tonight.
Heard the fence. Held Ward said, voice steady.
Didn't lose a pig, Sir. Nodded, spooning Stew into a
cup. The ache in his arms deepened
when he gripped the handle, every scrape a reminder of the
day's work. He sipped, heat burning a path
down his throat. Ward watched him for a moment,
pipe smoke drifting between them.
I'll mend the roof tomorrow. Storm left a leak by the
chimney. You help, it'll go fast.
There didn't protest. Helping on the roof meant hours
off from wedding or chopping. It left his feet clean.
He nodded again, chewing bread that stuck in his teeth, jaw
working at a dull rhythm. They ate in silence, the only
sounds the scrape of spoon against tin cup, the click of
Ward's pipe, wood shifting in the stove.
Out in the lane, dogs called and a wagon bounced past, wheels
grinding on the stones. The usual noises.
No sign the day held anything. Different or dangerous?
When food was gone and bowls rinsed, Ward pushed back his
chair, weight heavy on his bad knee.
He filled his pipe, tapped tobacco into the bowl, then
settled again, gaze fixed to the glowing coals in the stove.
Sarah took the cue. He knelt by the fire and fed
scrap wood into the mouth, nudging embers to life.
The warmth spread, made the room seem less like a stable and more
like somewhere meant for people. Ward spoke, not loud.
Focal, calm down about the stranger.
If nothing goes missing tonight, Sir poked the fire, He's gone
already. Ward's mouth twisted, not fully
convinced but not ready for a fight.
One. Less thing, then.
A long pause. Ward tapped ash into a chipped
mug, blew smoke toward the ceiling.
You want something more than this?
The question hung. Not cruel, just hard, like all
his questions. Stair rested, hands on knees,
thinking about the raft, the river, the bruises from
yesterday. He let the silence stretch
sometimes. Don't see where else I'd go.
Ward snorted half a laugh. Nowhere's any kinder than here.
It just shows it's teeth a different way.
Sir grunted. There was truth in that, whether
he wanted to hear it or not. Ward stood, joints cracking, and
climbed the narrow stairs to his own cot.
Before he stepped out of sight, he called down.
Don't let that fire die before you sleep.
They won. SER kept watch on the flames
feeding them slow, head sagging as eyes blinked shut.
Heat and the ache of bone drew him near sleep.
He pressed his back to the. Wall, let the stoves glow.
Fade to coals. He didn't dream much, just the
river, cold and wide, logs spinning rapid through the mist.
He woke twice to the sound of rain, once to the howl of a
distant dog. Each time he checked the room,
the window shutter. The low sound of wards breathing
on the floor above. Each time he found everything as
it should be, just the small safe order of a house after hard
work, no stranger at the door, no new disaster.
He drifted down again, fire hot at his feet, and let the day
empty out of him by inches. Morning came slow.
The house carried the close burnt smell of last night's
firewood having finally burned low to ash and pipe stems.
Sir rolled from his blanket, body bent stiff with aches that
had settled deep. He spent a minute watching dust
swim through the 1st crack of daylight, listening to Ward
breathe heavy upstairs. No urgency today.
No pigs loose, no storms tearing the roof free, no neighbors
howling about lost chickens or muddy footprints through the
square. Just chores and the feeling that
comes after work's been done enough times to leave the whole
place changed, even if nothing shows.
Ward's boots sounded overhead. He came down, tying his belt,
pipe tucked in the corner of his mouth.
He paused behind Sir, looked out the small kitchen window, then
nodded, wordless at the sun creeping up the east wall.
Sia filled the kettle, stoked the remnant coals.
He set the pot to boil, swept crumbs from the table, and
divided what bread was left into two rough hunks.
Ward watched without complaint. Kitchen tasks were a sign the
boy knew what was needed, not a reason for speech.
They ate and drank with no hurry, just chewing and
swallowing, letting the morning settle.
Wind pressed light against the glass in the yard.
The old hen picked through ash, searching for bugs.
Ward stood empty, cup in hand. Let's see the roof, then the
north gutter, he said. Rain's off today but won't stay.
Gone up and down will be the death of my leg someday.
He set the ladder to the eave, testing rungs with a boot.
Sir followed, arms full of patched shingles and a leather
pouch of nails. He climbed behind.
Ward moving slow, careful over the rotted slats on the Ridge.
Chill winds stiffened their fingers.
Ward pointed with the pipe stem right, there's the worst,
cracked all the way through. You take that side.
So set to the work, prying loose the broken tile, fitting another
in hands nimble from so many seasons of this same repair.
Ward did the gutter, scraping Moss, clearing twigs now and
then he worked beside Sassette, showing with small blunt
gestures what deserved a second look, which patch might last the
season, which board ought to be yanked and burned from the roof.
All of Tumar stretched. Patched homes, staved fences,
Gray River, waiting for new rain.
Children's voices rose faint. Someone drove cattle past the
old Smithy and a dog whined at something no one could see.
Sere found a rhythm in. Fetch, pry, fit and hammer.
Sweat cooled on his brow, stinging in the breeze.
He timed his breath to the drive of each nail.
Ward worked silent, sometimes humming A nameless tune, pipe
bouncing between his teeth. They finished half the seam
before Ward's knee forced him down.
He brought water with a grunt, past the jug without looking for
thanks. SER poured a measure, let his
arms rest across bent knees, staring at the shifting light on
the field, rows on the ground. Again, they checked the gutters.
Run, booted aside the leaves. Ward tapped Sir's arm with his
knuckle, A nudge, more approval than scold.
You done a good job. When I'm dead, you could rent
yourself to half these houses and eat better than I ever did.
The half smiled, shrugged, not ready to picture Tiritoma
without Ward grumbling beside him.
He wiped his hands on his pants, then wandered the edge of the
fence, checking each plank he'd pinned the day before, thinking
how easily water or time could undo any work, how each nail
held the world together only until the next storm.
The day drifted on. Ward busied himself sharpening A
hatchet, then splitting a few lengths for the stove.
He never made a show, kept his back to the window anytime he
noticed Sir watching. Around midday, Roland appeared
at the fence, one hand waving, the other cradling a coil of
salvage wire. SER waved him in, signalling to
skirt the mud patch near the through.
Roland's face carried no trouble, just bright curiosity,
still asking without words whether there'd be time for
play, invention, or talk without grown-ups.
They found a place in the yards, Lee knees pressed to their
chests, backs to the warm wall. Roland uncoiled the wire, set it
down, got it from the river near Sailor Crossing.
Some trader lost half his load last week.
Thought we could use it. Building something new, not just
patching. The fence for Ward, so reached
out, ran fingers along the wire, thinking Traps or something
better. Roland shrugged.
Hopeful Trap, if we must. Or maybe more hooks, fishing
lines, something of our own. I broke up an old clock, could
turn it into a bell for the gate, make some use of what
washes up. They sat in silence, watching
the chickens, the sweep of wind through grass.
The slow gathering of cloud for next week's rain.
Many were grown. You going to stay?
Roland asked. Not just for today.
But for the. Years neither could see see Juan
SE ran his tongue over a nick in his tooth, stared at his hands.
Don't know, world's got more. Fields than to eat homa.
Maybe I'll go, or maybe it'll all be mud and fences wherever I
end up. Roland nodded, chewing his
cheek, wheels in his mind spinning behind his quiet.
If you go, I hope it's somewhere you can use a hammer and a mind,
not just a hoe snorted, looking sideways at his friend.
If I make it out, I'll write you a letter, tell what's different,
what's the same. Roland grinned, satisfied by the
promise, even if he suspected such letters only landed in
dreams. They let the rest of the day
burn. Slow tasks followed, one after
the next. Ward called sere to heft, water,
scrub the through, close the shed by sundown.
Arms ached, but the yard stood right.
Roof patched, gutter clear, fenced tight.
For tonight at least. At supper, Stew filled bowls
again, no meat, just roots, but enough.
Ward offered Sir extra, which he took no questions.
When the coals died and Ward went up to his bed, Sir lay flat
on his own mat, staring at the wobbled reflection of fire in
cracked window glass, the world outside fading to quiet save the
rustle of leaves and wind pressing W.
Sleep found him like that, belly full, muscles worn, mind neither
at peace nor at war, ready for what little rest would hold
before chores and river and hard questions returned with the
dawn. The next sunrise came with a
thick blue haze. Mist hovered knee high along the
fields, muting every sound except the rooster's lonely crow
and the splash of water from the well.
Sir pushed out the door into cold that woke every bruise from
the river crash, the kind of ache that was as much memory as
muscle. His boots tracked rippled prints
through dew. He rolled his shoulders blue
into his hands and crossed toward the lean to for axe and
bucket. Ward's voice drifted from
inside, low but sharp. Bring back enough kindling
stoves burning low. So grunted acknowledgement and
passed through the thin strip of woods that bordered the plot.
Along the edge. He paused.
Someone had been there, a basket of broken branches, boot prints
pointed away from the house, a smear of muddy cloth tangled in
bracken. He stooped, checked the ground.
Nothing missing that he could see, just the quiet, the Press
of woods and old tracks swamped by rain.
Sere swung the axe, splitting logs on the fresh stump he and
Ward had set last year. The sound cut across the
morning, echoing between houses, starting to wake.
Smoke lifted through scattered roofs.
Dogs sniffed the ground close to the door, wary of fox scent
after a string of missing hens in recent days.
The rhythm settled his mind. Raise, swing, crack, each log
smaller than the one before, each blow steadier.
He gathered a pile, mounded it in his coat and trekked back
through the grass inside, Ward, crouched by the stove, poking at
dying embers. Something out there?
He asked, not glancing up. SER shrugged.
Dropped wood in the box tracks. Maybe Bart's boy hunting
mushrooms again. Nothing looked off.
Ward nodded, not pleased but not worried either.
He pressed the fire to life, a touch of warmth found the
kitchen's dim. Roland sent word, said he'd be
along later with that spool of wire and something new he wanted
to show. Told him to make it quick.
Reign's coming back. SER nodded.
He poured oats in a pan, stirred as they cooked, eyes tracking
wind against the shutter. 2 crows dragged themselves over
the yard, wings ragged, calling something harsh and lonely.
Breakfast finished and shed in quiet.
Ward refilled his pipe and Sayre shouldered out, determined to
have the cows seem to before the drizzle returned.
The air was damp, full of the coming weather.
He checked the fence once more. Tight where patched.
Loose in places he'd meant to get to later.
He tested the chicken gate, watched the hens gather for
crumbs and paste once around the yard for any sign of
disturbance. By mid morning, no trouble yet.
Found him. Rollin showed up with the wire,
hands full of a battered tin, proud as ever.
Made a bell for you, he said, holding it out by the loop.
The handle was a bent spoon, the striker an old nail.
Gates swings, wind moves it, makes a racket, wakes you up
before hens do. SER looked the piece over,
nodded sincere approval. Waldo claim it's his idea.
Roland grinned, pleased. Let him.
We'll know what. They fixed it over the old gate,
looping wire twice through the frame, setting the bell to spin
with every gust. Roland fetched stones to wait
the bottom and Sir tested. The Clapper rang sharp enough to
summon Ward from the far room. He stepped out, squinted at the
sound, but said nothing while Roland worked.
Sia asked. You see who cut through the
field this morning? Roland shook his head.
Nobody. I saw Mills quiet, heard, not
moved yet. Might be the stranger again, but
he hasn't. Shown since the Smith.
A pause. The air between them tightened.
Every boy in Twitama had learned the rule.
Talk little, watch much. Don't name trouble unless you
wanted it to come down hard. They finished hanging the bell,
set the wire straight, and watched it tinkle as the wind
picked up. Rowland's pride was obvious.
A little piece of invention, something to add to a yard that
usually only. Changed when cows broke loose or
the roof caved under snow. You want to check the traps by
the willows? Roland asked, hopeful foot
scuffing the dirt. Sir glanced at the house.
Ward was inside, cleaning the kettles.
Say for now, let's go, he said. They tramped along the fence,
row boots sinking in last night's softened mud.
The traps were nothing special, just bent saplings with twine
loops, baited with chicken giblets left from Ward's last
culling. One had sprung.
The bent branch hung limp. Snare cut through nothing in the
grass but snapped twine and a few black feathers.
Fox, Sir. Guest.
Roland nodded, peering for tracks.
He's fast, still hungry, got more patience than any man here.
They checked the rest, righted one that had slipped, then
crossed to the riverbank, eyes on the muddy slope and the clots
of weed drifted by the flood. No sign of the stranger.
Or anyone else. For a while they sat on the damp
boulder that used to mark the edge of town before the river
cut it off from the main road. Roland dug at the Moss, thinking
on whatever scheme or plan kept his mind moving when chores let
up. You ever want to take the road
out, Roland? Asked quiet, not really looking
for an answer. Every week?
Sarah admitted. Never get far.
Roland nodded. We could though.
If we had rope and tools and enough bread to last to sailor
or beyond, nobody would follow, except maybe the others.
Sere picked up a stone, tossed it in the shallows, watched
ripples spread to the far reeds. Maybe 1?
Day. The words felt weightless.
Maybe a lie, maybe a wish. They sat until clouds rolled
thicker, promising another downpour.
Together they made for. Home, boots heavy, each carrying
small victories and old aches, no closer to the road out than
they'd ever been before going in.
Sayre checked the bell Roland had fashioned.
It swung in, the new wind singing sharp, marking time
between rain and supper and the hope, always dim but never gone,
that something different could begin if only they found the
right moment to start. The rain arrived mid afternoon,
sudden and cold. Fat drops peppered the yard,
sending chickens running for shelter beneath the sodden lean
to. Roland dashed for home with his
hood pulled low wire and battered tin tucked under his
coat so Ward wouldn't claim it. Sir stood in the doorway,
watching clouds flatten the sun and blur the line between fields
and sky. Inside, wood moved steady,
dragging a bucket from the stove to the small table, water
sloshing with each limp. He eyed the grey outside and
grumbled, voice pitched for no one in particular.
Flood will rot what's left if it keeps up, beans won't set and
roots go soft. We'll be buying cabbage from
across the bridge if we're lucky.
Stayed out of the way, clearing unused tools into the corner,
scraping mud off boots at the stoop.
Rain hammered the roof in sharp lines, finding every mist patch
along the seam, now 3 drops at the corner by the stove, now a
slow drip through the. Wall where last storm's wind had
found a gap. Ward went about his chores
without complaint, but SER could see the old man's shoulders
hunched tighter than before, each step measured.
No storm knocked him off task. Instead, he checked the food
barrel, poured flour into a sack, counted beans, and sniffed
the cabbage at the bottom of the basket for soft spots.
Afternoon dragged Sir patched holes with rags, tied another
board over the leaky frame by the door.
Each fix bought them a day or two of comfort.
Nevermore, the house ticked with the storm's rhythm, wind
bullying the shutter, rain beating without pause.
Ward called for Stew early, the scents steeping the house in
onion. They ate at the table, steam
curling thick between them, bowls balanced on bent knees.
Sir dragged bread through broth and counted every bite, more
habit than hunger. He watched Ward eat, trying to
guess what weighed behind the quiet, what to expect at the end
of the meal. Ward finished first, set his
bowl aside and looked into the space just past SER's ear.
You ever hear stories about this place, back before the water
turned? He asked, voice slow.
There was a fairy once, just up river.
My da said Men crossed in the dark for work.
No Lantern, Blind trust and luck.
Enough folk talked about gods thick as midges in the fields.
Nobody locked their doors, so chewed slow, unsure why the old
man was talking story on a storm night, but he listened.
Stories didn't often make their way out of ward without effort
or whiskey. Ward looked down at battered
hands. No one back then would have run
a stranger out in the rain, not unless he'd done something to
deserve it. Now all it takes is the sight of
a new face for folk to tighten their grip.
Sir picked at flakes of bread, words finding him slow.
People get mean when things go missing, when floods take more
than they bring. Ward nodded, accepting or
forgiving, Sere couldn't tell. The storm pressed in harder,
lights in the window gone yellow as lanterns flickered down the
lane. Sere cleared up scraping bowls,
rinsing off at the barrel in cold water that numbed his
fingers. Ward set the fire, dropped new
wood on shewed Sere from the chore.
Rest while there's time, was all he said, so SER took his place
by the stove, huddling with the last of the warmth, listening to
the creaks of the roof, battling the wind.
Dusk fell hard, dragging a sheet of rain between house and
window, voices in the lane muffled by water and wind, so
distant now they could have been dreams.
The knock came, three short raps, cautious, not desperate.
Ward stiffened, so did SER. Nobody came to their door at
this hour. Not unless something was wrong,
or they carried news no one wanted.
Ward moved first, pipe in hand. Who's there?
A voice, the stranger, clearer without a crowd, just passing,
looking for dry. Don't ask for more.
Ward eyed Seer a silent warning, then cracked the door.
The stranger stood hunched. Hat dripping, coat streaked
black hands empty, nothing more than wet skin and windburn.
Ward let him in. Sir stood, muscles coiled by
habit, watching as the man shook rain from his shoulders and
moved toward the stove's edge, careful to leave the doors, mud
outside. Ward fetched a mug, poured what
was left of the Stew, passed it across without ceremony.
The stranger sipped, saying nothing, eyes focused on nothing
but the steam. When he finished, Ward spoke
again. On through sealer or just?
Moving to move. To the hills, if weather holds
waters up. Silence pulsed in time with the
storm. SER didn't ask questions.
He watched the shape of the man. The way his hands shook just
enough to notice the pale scar under his jaw.
Ward leaned, voice weary but not unkind.
If you've done wrong into Atoma. Don't sleep here if you haven't.
You leave at dawn. The stranger nodded.
No trouble behind me. No luck either.
Sir relaxed some, letting the heat find his bones again.
The wind sounded less fierce now.
Rain softened to a patter. The stranger curled close to the
stove, eyes closing, breath falling into the rough rhythm of
rest earned by walking hungry. For a while the only sounds were
his breathing and wards. Old boots on the floor.
Sir sat up until sleep found him.
Listening for danger, for comfort, for the gentle
insistence that even here, under storm and strangers, life
pressed on, one breath tied to the next.
Sir drifted in and out of sleep, eyes open in the dark, body
never settling all the way. The stranger's breathing mixed
with the creaking stove and the wind grumbling under the eaves.
Ward shifted. Now and again in his chair.
Boots on the rung pipe gone out. Every so often.
He blinked at the window as if expecting something to move
outside, face lined by the faintest glow from the stove's
coals. The rain never really stopped,
only slowed to find mist that pattered the roof so softly Sir
could hear the strangers steady breaths.
He caught a whiff of travel. Old sweat, wood smoke, sour
wool. Familiar enough to forgive, but
enough to keep some part of him awake.
The air thickened with the smell of damp clothes and burned
onion. When at last sleep found him, it
came the way it always did. A cold at his toes, a dull throb
in his side. Dreams thin and quick.
He saw the river rising, saw the raft break again, saw Ward
standing on the bank calling for someone who never turned.
Sometime in that long stretch of night, a sound brought Sir
awake. Not the stranger, not Ward, but
a sharp tap at the glass. He tensed, chest burning, hand
halfway to the iron poker beside the stove before his mind caught
up. Ward, still in the chair, sat up
straight, one eye open, peering from under his brow.
Another tap 3, then two like pebbles or knuckles.
SER climbed up, feet bare and silent.
He crossed the dirt flecked floor and peeked through the
shutter's slab. Roland stood in the cold just
outside the fence, rain soaking his.
Hair. He shivered, holding something
wrapped in cloth. He must have slipped out while
his uncle slept. Ignoring the risk, he caught
SER's eye and gestured fast. Come quick.
Quiet now. Sir looked back at Ward.
The old man hadn't moved, only stared at the stranger who slept
curled by the fire, oblivious. Sir tugged his boots on and
slipped out into the rain. Mud sucked at Sir's heels as he
cut through the yard. Roland pressed the wrapped
bundle to Sir's chest, breath sharp and urgent.
You awake? Sorry, couldn't wait, He
managed, wiping rain from his lips.
SER jerked his head to the side, pulling him away from the
windows line of sight. What are you doing?
If what it's for you? Roland whispered, shaking out
the bundle. Inside was a thin battered book
and a stub of pencil. Found it in the old school house
under the boards. It's blank, almost all of it
except some numbers at the start.
Figured you wanted something not wet and rotten for once.
Sarah took it slow, thumb tracing the frayed edge of the
cover. Something real in his hands.
The book's first few pages held a spidery hand.
Figures, the type old Sarah used to teach underneath blank pages.
Not even a mouse trail. Ready to hold words or sketches
or plans for something different.
Roland's eyes sparkled in the meagre porch light.
Don't lose it in the river. Sarah tucked the book under his
arm. Wait for morning next time.
He whispered, not wanting to sound as grateful as he felt.
Roland grinned and slipped back over the fence, boots knocking
quietly on wet wood, gone quick and sure as any fox.
Serre waited until the dark swallowed Roland's shadow, then
crept back inside. Ward hadn't moved.
The stranger still slept by the stove, breath rising and
falling. Sarah placed the book in a crack
behind the timber frame, wrapped in dry cloth.
He stretched out on the pallet, dirt still clinging to his feet,
heartbeat slowing by degrees. The quiet fell back into place,
tracing out just another hour of dark somewhere outside the wind.
Rattled a loose shutter inside, Sir held on to the weight of the
book under the boards, a secret pressed between mud and memory,
something he could use, maybe, to put down proof that his days
in Twitoma had once belonged to him at all.
He listened for Ward's breathing, for the stranger's
restless shifting, for the slow drizzle of rain threading
through the seams in the roof, and kept his eyes on the pale
outline of the door until sleep took him into morning.
SER woke to grey light pooling under the door.
The fire in the stove was stone cold, the air heavy and still.
Ward stood at the sink, pouring water from the barrel over his
face, the noise sharp in the quiet.
The stranger had already gone. The only sign he'd ever been
there was a swirl of mud near the hearth where his boots had
dried overnight. Not even a dish out of place.
Ward eyed the empty spot and grunted.
Gone before daylight didn't take a crumb, he said.
He dried his cheeks on his sleeve and moved to the.
Table lighting the stove from the last scrap of fat wood.
The kettle went on. He didn't ask where Sir had been
last night, though Sir still felt the unease of it in how
Ward looked at him like he was weighing lies or making a tally
of secrets. Sir fetched bread and cut 1/2 to
share. Hands working slow.
He felt the tightness in his chest ease when he remembered
Roland's book, Dry and safe, The spot behind the timber stayed
untouched. The knowledge steadied him some.
Ward blew into his mug. He'll find nothing but more rain
on that road. What a man can walk away from,
he'll walk, but the weather keeps coming after.
Same as curses. Sir nodded, not sure what to
say. Breakfast went quiet.
Ward handed Sir work. Scrape Moss off the east wall,
rake stray branches from the lane before the ox cart came
through at noon. Sir took the broom, pulled on
his boots, and stepped into the wet.
The ground sucked at his souls, but the worst of the rain had
passed above thinning clouds, let sidewise sunlight slant into
puddles and glint silver across every broken surface.
Sarah got. Low and started scrubbing the
wall, shoulders flexing against rough stone and grit as he
worked. Kids shrieked in the distance,
their mingled laughter and argument riding the wind.
From behind Sarah's house, the crows took their usual.
Spot on the. Fence indifferent.
Halfway down the lane he found Roland huddled by the gate,
hands stuffed in his pockets, hood pulled over his shock of
straw hair. He kicked at loose stones, eyes
flicking quick over Sarah's shoulder.
Did Ward see you? Roland kept his voice careful.
No, he didn't care. Strangers gone, Sir replied,
voice clipped but not harsh. Roland looked relieved, then
curious. You keep the book, Yes, Dry and
safe. Roland's cheeks flushed with the
pride of it. He stepped closer, voice
dropping even lower. Carpal of the younger ones.
Saw tracks by the mill say he followed the river.
Old Bart's dogs barking at nothing up past the willows.
You think he'll come back? SER shrugged, scraping Moss from
the lowest stone. Why would he?
Tuuma's not much of a place to stay when you've got nothing
holding you. Roland poured at the grass with
his heel, considering. Hope he's not hungry.
Haven't seen anyone head north with him.
You think he's really Keeper Marked?
SER shrugged again, pushing the broom hard until Green flecked
the road. People say that about anyone who
doesn't fit. Roland nodded, his tone almost
hopeful. Maybe he'll write us from Sailor
or further on just to. Prove he's not like the stories
say. They shared a brief grin.
Small private Sir watched the sun climb and for the first time
all week felt the mud starting to dry on his boots.
Just then, Belu, Viti and Lavu rounded the lane, each carrying
a different excuse for being out.
Bucket, shovel, sack of feed. Lavu smirked.
At the pair. Fen still holding or you boys
thinking of flying the coop with the next stranger?
Balu nudged him aside. Whole places talking about that
man. Old Sarah says he's magic.
Vitisma says she saw him fix his own boots without thread.
What did he really do say? There, kept eyes on his work,
shoulders tight. Ate some Stew, slept near the
fire. That's it.
Viti swung his shovel like a blade.
Means more will come soon. That's how it starts.
Marseille's a stranger today, A storm of beggars.
After no one said what everyone was thinking to why Toma barely
fed its own. The sky, clearing in patches
now, made the village look smaller, every roofline and
scrubbed fence showing its scars.
SER pressed Moss from the last corner and dusted his knees,
eyes tight. Nobody's coming for us.
Nobody ever does. The others digested that, each
in their own way. Roland, still half a boy and
half a shadow, said we should fish while things are quiet.
The river's up, but not wild. Sir considered the broom, the
wall, the work left. Ward watched through the window,
not waving, not stopping them. Sere nodded down to the willows.
But keep close. The group made for the trees
slipping by the back paths, breath carrying the first hope
of a new day where rain might end, where the river might
finally give up something worth carrying home.
Sere's pocket weighed a little heavier.
A blank book, a pencil stub. The promise that stories of his
own might finally begin. They left the scrub stones and
narrow lanes for the overgrown paths snaking toward the
willows. Mud clung to their boots, but
the ground had begun to tack up, each step holding a bit less
drag. The air smelled of dead leaves
and river water, the trees trembling with last night's
rain. Ahead, small birds sifted
through reeds, chasing bugs and calling in bursts.
The river still ran, swollen but not crazed, moving fast at the
surface, then slow and black below.
Balu and Vitti shoved through brush first, eager to prove they
hadn't lost their nerves since the wrecked raft.
Levu knelt at the bank, eyes sharp for fish, finning in the
shadows, arms draped over knees. Sir moved last, the book and
pencil in his pocket grounding him more than the weight of ore
or spade had ever done. Roland lagged behind him,
lifting his boots clean over roots, quiet but watchful.
They set their old fishing lines with not so familiar.
They barely looked while tying bits of worm and whatever bread
crust was left would have to do for bait the lines.
Hissed as they cast out floats bobbing between twigs and leaf
mats. Nobody spoke much for the first
while. Wind swayed the Willow branches
overhead, making dappled light flare and fade on the boy's
faces. Balu hummed under his breath, a
tune from the last time musicians had come through on
market day. Changing the words and laughing
to himself, Lavu leaned out far enough to point with his pole.
Fish are thickia waters, warm from the rain.
Viti nodded, squinting at a float that danced.
Could be flood. Chased them up or scared them
out. Roland dug at the dirt with a
stick, then after a while brushed his hands on his
trousers. He glanced at Sir and then
nodded at the slim books outline in his shirt.
You going to write the truth, or the lies, or just the numbers
and fence lengths Ward wants? Sir shrugged, not ready to talk
about what he'd do with the empty pages.
Maybe both, maybe more. Silence again, soft, easy.
Balu pulled in a sunfish, spines flashing as he unhooked it, the
first real catch since the flooding.
Not much meat here. He said, voice softening around
to the tiny thing. You toss it into Stew, No one
even knows but your teeth. Lavu caught two more, grey slick
eyes bulging. The fish fought, flopped on the
grass, then stilled, each one stacked beside Balu, heads
pointed up River. Viti joined, pulling up a little
perch, grinning so wide his cheeks cracked dry.
Time slowed in the Willow shade, river noise blending with the
whispering grass. Roland set his pole down,
busying himself with rocks. He sorted them by shape.
Scratched A spiral pattern in the silt, then traced an arrow
that pointed downstream. Ever think about following it?
He said, voice half lost in the wind.
Sealer looked at the line, the ever present edge of current,
how even a stick or leaf drifted along faster than a pair of
boots could manage. Wouldn't.
Get far on foot. Water gets cold past sealer.
Riverbends swallows itself. More marsh than Rd.
But he let the words hang. Possibility, even just spoken
felt risky. Viti let his gooty float out to
deeper water. If we all went, maybe nobody
would notice for a while. No chores, no fence lines.
Lavu frowned. We'd be found quick enough,
warded, have every neighbor looking my Pennsylvania followed
the tracks to the first puddle and drag me home by my ear.
Balu smiled but quieted. Wouldn't be the same after you
came back either way. The fished the pencil from his
pocket. He opened the book, balancing it
over his knees. He didn't write anything, not
yet, but held the point above the paper, feeling the promise
of what could fill it. Names.
Curses, plans. A story about 5 muddy boys whose
world might only be as wide as the next bend.
They filled up a Creole with a handful of small fish, enough
maybe to show Ward and call it a day's work done.
The river rolled on. Wind picked up, carrying the
smell of rain upstream. The world opening and closing
with every turn of water. When the sun drifted behind the
trees and dusk started whispering, Sir closed the book
and tied it tight with a bit of twine.
They gathered up poles, mud, bruises, hope, and walked slow
back through the willows, boys once more just heading home at
the end of the day. No one hurried.
If the world changed tomorrow, or if it never did, they all
walked it together, at least for now, toward the lights of
Tweetoma blinking on beneath lifting haze.
Dusk stretched itself over the village, turning muddy lanes to
ribbons of shadow and setting every broken window aglow with
lamplight. The boys trudged home along the
half dry track. Boots squelching now only in the
deepest ruts, Sere LED with the creel fishtails sticking out
limp and glassy eyed. Balu and Lavu swatted at each
other with reeds. Roland trailed close to Sere,
finger resting on the twine that tied the book closed.
Even Vitty, usually quick with a joke, walk silent, lost in
thought as the chill set in. When they reached the edge of
the yards, the group split without a word or promise to
meet the next day. Each dove for home, heads low,
eyes already adjusting to the flickering gold from kitchen
stoves and hearths. Sere moved quick past the dark
heap of the Smith's shed, skirted the churn mud at the
well and found the seraphine door standing part way open, a
sliver of light spilling into the wet dust.
Ward had beat him home. From inside, the scrape of a
chair and the clink of crockery echoed.
Sir let himself in, Boots left near the door.
Ward sat at the table, back to the wall, Stew glistening in a
chipped bowl, loaf stubbed down beside him.
The air was thick with boiled fish and wood smoke.
Ward didn't look up. You'll catch anything worth
gutting there. Dropped the Creole by the
hearth, lifted out the. Best of the hall.
Rivers slowed, floods gone, fish moving up river.
Ward grunted approval. Set down his bread.
You get on those branches in the lane.
Eiling cleared. Sere crouched by the basin,
washing mud from his hands and arms, cold water biting every
scrape. A long silence while Sere worked
the knife through scales. Ward watched, not speaking, but
his eyes followed each cut. Each.
Flick of the blade. It wasn't a test, just the way
Ward marked what mattered. Food cleaned, chores done, the
small order of a house that kept itself going even when the rest
of the world slipped. They worked side by side as dusk
pressed hard. Ward broke kindling, fed the
stove and watched the pot without hurrying.
SER rinsed sliced fish, laid them out flat and sprinkled
coarse salt from the last of the sack.
When supper started they ate with clean hands and little
talk. Steam rose windows glazed with
sweat. Ward tall bread and passed half
to Sir, kept the other for himself.
Outside, rain started again, slow, gentle.
Now the worst of the clouds had moved off to the West, leaving a
quiet that pressed against the glass.
Ward finished his bowl first, leaned back, eyes on nothing.
Strangers gone, he said. After a time.
Old Bart saw him crossing the Marsh Rd. at dawn, headed
towards Selah or the next poor village with work to spare.
SER didn't reply. Finished swallowing, set his
spoon aside and wiped his hands. You lock the gate?
Ward asked, voice lower. Twice over.
SER answered. The bell rolling made had rung
twice in the afternoon wind. Ward nodded.
He tapped his finger on the table, slow, the sound muffled
but steady. You got friends enough in this
place, Mind you, don't pick up more trouble than you can carry.
SER took that in, hearing more warning than comfort.
He stacked the bowls for washing, wiped crumbs from the
table, then sat a long moment watching the last curls of steam
fade into the ceiling's beams. Ward poked the coals, set the
kettle. For morning, get your rest, Ward
grunted. Weather's breaking work will
pile up soon as the lane dries out to cleaned up, dried his
arms by the hearth, Ward went to bed.
Up the ladder, back bent, sheets rattled as Ward settled, and
soon the old man snores rolled heavy through the house.
Seer waited. He took out Roland's book,
united the twine and laid it open by the lamps dim edge.
His pencil hovered. A line, A name?
A sketch of a raft, or a plan for a trap.
He wrote a date the way Misses Seer used to show, and filled a
page with the rivers twists as he remembered them, quick and
plain. A knock sounded, gentle but
insistent. Just two taps this time.
He stiffened, tucked the book away, and moved to the door.
On this step was lavu, hair wet, cheeks Ruddy from a run.
He held out a bundle of rags, the last coils of barbed wire
they'd scrounged and forgotten near the ditch.
Lavu shrugged, half a grin. Din one it lost spoil it left to
roast. Seya took it, nodding.
Come in. Lavu shook his head.
Got chores, Ma wants me home before dark tomorrow.
Sir nodded. Lavou went off into the
thickening rain, leaving Sir alone on the step wire, heavy in
his first. He brought it in, locked the
door, checked the windows. He made sure the bell on the
gate was set, that the shutters wouldn't swing loose.
He pressed his hand to the book spine where it rested behind the
beam, letting the quiet soak deep in the night.
The house settled and the world contracted to the safe limits of
walls, stove and roof repaired by honest hands.
Above, Ward rumbled and turned, and rain ticked a steady song on
the fresh patch over SER's bed. He lay down, feeling the day
heavy on his bones, the hush around him neither promise nor
threat. Sleep pulled at him while the
river grumbled out beyond the willows and the rest of Titoma
faded into dark. Just one more small piece of
history waiting to be written. Next scenes can further develop
Sir's use of the notebook, a surprise visit or confrontation,
more from Ward's past, or a turning point with Roland or the
village kids. Specify your next interest or
I'll proceed naturally to complications brought by the
weather, new arrivals, or choices made by Sir and his
circle, always keeping immediate concrete action and grounded
realism. Sleep came heavy, then light.
Sir woke three times, once to Ward coughing overhead, once to
the bells, faint tremble only wind, and once to the rain
tapering off, leaving a stillness that rang in his ears
at dawn. The clouds were gone, sun
pressed tentative gold through the cracks.
The house felt different in that light, walls softer, rats
touched by something like promise.
Ward thumped down the ladder, boots thudding mud from soles,
pipe clenched in his jaw. He moved slow, pain obvious in
his winces and the way he leaned into each step.
Sir hauled himself up, rubbing the scar at his brow.
He listened to Ward breathing as he worked the stove, old lungs
rattling more than usual. The kettle spat as it came to
boil. Ward stared at nothing, thinking
through the day before it began. They ate slow, sipping
yesterday's tea and tearing crusts off dry bread.
Fields will need turning. Ward muttered, voice gravel
dragged before noon, before the mud sets hard.
He wiped his hands, coughed again.
I'll fix the N wall. It won't get done looking at it.
Sir nodded, pulled his shirt on, boots laced raw.
He took spade and hoe off their hooks, stepping into the cold.
The air had that clean sting that followed a storm rich with
rot and life and expectation. He checked the lane, mud now
thick and half set, streaked by faded wagon ruts.
Crows already. Pecked old seed at the furrows.
Where the earth met the last of the cobblestones.
Balu leaned against a fence post, chewing A stalk, eyes
restless. You ready?
Balu called. Sia shrugged.
Work was work. Balu motioned, trotting along as
Sia started breaking the top layer of damp soil.
Balu took the next row, neither speaking as the rhythm set in.
Each thump of spade and scrape of hoe spaced them in their own
thoughts. Sunlight dried mud to clay
within an hour, and every footstep left a print less deep.
Shout came from the hill, a small figure waving a hat.
Roland darted toward them, breathless by the time he hit
the field. They're pulling logs from the
river, he said. Down by the Miller's place.
Thou replied from our raft. Roland shrugged, catching his
breath. Could be or the stranger's cart.
Sarah's boys are already fighting for kindling.
Sere looked at the line of willows.
Let's check at midday. Work's owed here.
Roland didn't argue. He let Sir finish her row, then
helped clear rocks. By late morning, sweat shone
through their shirts. And the ache in Sir's side
pulled hard. Ward wandered the field's edge,
hat crushed in his hand, pace uneven.
He tapped A plank against posts at the N wall, wiped sweat from
his mouth, nodded sour approval at the boys.
Before lunch, the three set tools aside, wiped grit from
their faces on their sleeves, and crossed the road by the edge
of the old mill trail. Down where the ground dipped
close to the water, half the village stood watching the river
gasp up broken lumber and battered planks.
The logs bobbed against the rocks, some marked from work,
others. Knew.
Sarah's boys argued over a thick beam.
It's ours, Found it first, The Miller snapped.
No fighting. What the river gives, it keeps
if you brawl. Rawl and crouched low, eyes
searching for any mark from their raft.
Baloo stood back, wary of the scuffle.
Sarah spotted a tangle of rope frayed at the ends, wrapped
around a plank that once belonged to their Jerry built
craft. He kicked it free, mud streaking
his boots brown. Ward said not to bring trouble
home. Balu muttered at his side.
Sir just nodded. The river would keep what it
wanted. He left the log for the Miller,
took nothing but one length of cord and a bent nail, passing
both to Roland with a thin smile.
Near the edge, Old Bart fished a crate from the Eddy shaking
river, silt from what little was inside.
Never know what you'll need, he grunted, teeth flashing, and
slung the remains onto his Barrow.
The boys watched the gathering for a while, then made their way
back up the lane, shoes caked but shoulders eased by movement
and the sun warm on their backs. Fields waited, shores pressed
in. But for a little while there was
nothing loud into Itoma. Just voices, laughter, a river
running brown, and the promise that what washed away might one
day make its way home. Changed, but still.
Known Sere tucked the pencil behind his ear, mind half on
work ahead, half on the blank book kept dry between the walls.
The day stretched long, the pain of new blisters already fading
beneath sun and mud. When evening came, he'd have a
new story to set down, a record of what the river wouldn't take
even if he wasn't sure what it meant yet.
Late afternoon settled in with a blue colored sky, the light
thick and pooling in waterlogged ditches.
The fields worked over twice since dawn grew soggy, clods
giving way under each boot. Sears hands were raw across the
knuckles. Ward's hammered pace set
expectations high. Sears bent to the last row,
scraping out stubborn weeds, mud streaking his wrists.
Ward hovered up, ground deep in thought, shadows darkening every
line in his face. By supper, SER trailed mud into
the lean to shoulder, aching. He washed at the through cold
water, biting, then stepped inside to the smell of onions
and stale bread. Ward leaned on the table, knife
tracing slices from a block of cheese.
The boards creaked under his shifting weight, his knee never
fully set after the last cold snap, but he didn't let on.
They ate, jaws working slow. Ward spit a rind out the window.
Sara's boys were by looking for that old saw blade, he said.
I told him nothing comes free, not even rust can go for
nothing. He eyed SER.
You give away what's meant to patch the wagon, you patch it
yourself. SER nodded.
Chewed rain started soft again, ticking on the patch tin above.
The rhythm filled in the empty space between man and boy after
Ward, settled by the fire pipe between his teeth, tuning out
the rest of the world, Sir Cleared plates as quiet as
possible. Later.
Ward pointed A gnarled finger at him.
Boy, you're not a fool, and you're not owed a smooth life.
You show up, you do what's right, you leave more standing
than you found, that's all. There.
Wiped his hands on rough cloth, the words echoing in his ear.
He wasn't sure if it was warning or blessing.
Maybe both. Ward squinted, as if seeing
something distant. Going to need you next week.
Chihal's got an offer. Wants help clearing the lower
marsh. You'll work sun up to sundown.
Pay's half gone before you get it.
Debt on seed see. His jaw worked.
Spit wetting his lips. You old enough, You stay out
there. You keep your feet dry.
Don't let him pull you into their mess.
SER didn't answer. He knew how work changed hands,
how every paid hour was already owed somewhere else.
It didn't matter if it was Marsh or Field, Twittomao always found
a way to call its own back. In the end, night came.
Sayer spread his blanket on the hard palate, letting the ache of
new work settle his thoughts. He turned to the gap in the
boards, slipped the book out, lit a nub of tallow candle and
wrote Wet again. Field near, gone to clay.
Chihal wants help, Marsh side, Ward says.
Keep my feet dry. Baloo's got the cough.
Roland still dreaming traps stranger gone.
Sierra's boys starting trouble near the mill all counted.
Still here. He pressed the pencil down,
letting each word score a bit deeper.
The candle guttered. He left the page open to dry
somewhere near midnight. A.
Howl rose from the near fields. A dog, maybe, but lonelier than
most. Sir listened, body drawn tight
beneath the thin blanket, the sound crawling under his skin.
Ward didn't stir above, but Sir's eyes never closed all the
way. After the wind changed, the
candle burned to a black Wick. Morning came clear, washed out,
no rain, but thick fog pressed flat over every patch of ground.
Sir followed Ward into the yard without a word.
Today they'd walk to the marshlands, survey what the
Chihals needed, see what could be cleared before the next
storm. The path twisted by the river.
Mud sucked at their boots. Ward LED with a limp, pausing
here and there to point out Berry brambles, to motion toward
a rut that had turned an ankle. His silence was instructive.
Step where he steps, eyes up. Do nothing without seeing the
lay of things as they came upon Chihal's plot.
The old man himself stood there, arms crossed, face barely
visible under a battered hat. Jihad's sons, bigger than Balu
Mina when riled, work to the edge of the bog, pulling rotting
branches from what used to be a pasture.
Jihal grunted at Ward. Fields.
Will kill a man or teach him something, he spat, eyed.
Sir, that's the Seraphin boy. Knows a hoe from a harp.
Ward's face didn't change, knows enough.
No one shook hands. Jihal pointed.
With his stick. No majors for this.
Work all hands and back. Keep your boots, earn your coin.
Start where the ground turns black.
Stay out of the sinkholes. Chihol took the spade.
Chihol's boy shoved his way. The handle was slick, worn from
100 grips. No shortcuts here, only stubborn
roots, brambles lashing the ankles and every step weighed by
sucking mud. They worked silent.
The sun, when it burned through the fog, stung their necks.
She held sons, grumbled orders. Ward ignored them.
SER didn't look up. By midday, blisters split his
palm, sweat salted the lines on his jaw, and the world shrank to
ditch, clod and the next yard gained.
The job went long when. Ward finally called time.
SER's arms shook, boots waterlogged.
Chihal nodded. Kurt counted coins into Ward's
palm. Back after the next downpour, if
you're willing. Ward just grunted, and the two
headed home. At the bend, Ward coughed up a
line of river mud, Spat, wiped his face.
You did the job, took nothing for free.
Remember, this kind of work gets paid with your bones, not just
coin. Sarah said nothing.
He stared into the haze. The marsh rolling away to Grey
and thought about how the village always circled back,
river, mud, muscle, coin, debt all keeping them rooted no
matter how the years changed. When they got home, Ward sat by
the door, boots off, rubbing his knees.
Town will need fixing soon as flood season kicks up.
Could use your head, not just your back.
There went. Inside, Roland's wire bell
jangled in the wind. The book waited.
Behind the plank, each day marked and scored, waiting for
the next story stamped in mud and muscle.
Outside, Twillimer breezed another day across the fields,
waiting for the next reason to change.
The work from the marsh set into Sir's bones.
For days after, he walked to stiff hands.
A low ache curled inside his ribs and patches of skin scraped
raw from shovel blisters. Ward noticed.
But said nothing except the occasional grunt as they crossed
paths in the kitchen at dawn. Outside, the mud began to recede
as sun pressed down and the river quietly.
Lowered routine found its rhythm fence repair in the mornings,
mucking out the pigpen, hauling water whenever it was Ward's
turn by village rules. In the evenings, Sayre and
Roland stripped bark and twisted new cordage for traps that never
seemed to catch more than the slyest old fox.
Roland was always bright with new ideas.
Build a Weir in the river, set up a net across the lane for
sparrows. Invent a bell that rang
different for animals and humans that did the labour.
Roland made the noise one night toward week's end, with a faint
light holding over the fields and the yard.
Soft with the smell of wet straw, Sir sat on his haunches
by the patched fence, Roland beside him over the hill.
VT's laugh echoed. Balu's voice, lower and angrier
followed. Then a short Yelp and silence.
Viti's head popped up above the grass.
He's caught, chased the. Hens again?
Roland giggled. Zejust shook his head.
He'll bring the old man down if he's not careful.
The boys straggled together under the high branches, sharing
what little bread they'd saved from supper.
La Vue scratched a bug bite on his arm, staring out over the
last row of beans heard at the Smithy.
We might get a festival if the weather holds.
He said First since that sickness 2 springs ago.
Something to mark the river going down.
Balu scoffed. Festivals mean extra chores and
busted teeth if old Sarah tries to dance.
Even Roland made a face. But the minstrels might come, he
said. Stories, magic, if anyone passes
for it. Maybe a fight if we're unlucky.
Sir, Chewed Crust, letting his mind wander.
The thought of a festival pulled at his stomach, a little thrill
blasted through with the memory of last time.
Cakes, games, Ward drunk enough to forget being angry for a
whole evening. The square packed, all noise and
faces and the fleeting sense that every boy in Tiutama might
slip out from his place for one night.
Night fell thick, houses shuttered and chimney smoke
trailed off. Ward called once from the steps.
Nothing urgent, just the voice that signaled bed was expected.
Honesty 2 Sir slipped in, found Ward spooning Stew into a bow,
content with enough labour done to avoid another speech about
lost opportunity. They ate together, the candle
pooling light, the night pressing solid at the windows.
Ward finished first. As always, and stared long at
Sir across the table. Festivals.
Not for the likes of us. You go keep your boots.
Easiest place to lose. What's yours?
He paused, grinding a knuckle into his palm.
If coin changes hands, keep your share hidden.
Give a portion to your ma's old tin up in the rafters.
Still there? You'll need it before.
Long Sir wiped his mouth, nodded.
A ward went up the ladder without finishing his tea.
Sir looked after him, saw the stoop of a spine bent by years
along roads that never LED far enough away.
After the house quieted, Sir took out the book, sketched A
wavering line through the crowd, five boys under lanterns, faces
caught somewhere between men and the children they'd soon forget
being. He left space at the margins,
I'm sure what would fill them. Maybe Roland's bell, maybe a
face from the road, maybe nothing but the spatter of
festival rain that night with the roof.
Patched and his limbs humming from the day.
Sir slept a little deeper, wind rattling the gutter but not his
heart. The week rolled fast.
The sun chewed up the last puddles.
Women strung banners, old, reused, faded from the bright
red and yellow they'd once been. Balu got Dragoon to fairy tables
from the meeting hall. Roland stole bits of candle
scrap from every doorstep, boasting he'd make lanterns for
their end of the green. Lavu bribed the Baker for the
promise of burnt crusts, and Vt begged his older sister for
boiled sweets, though everyone saw his hand come away empty.
Sere hold brush to the edge of the lane, gathering anything
dry. For the need fire Ward sent him
with a coin, one for a loaf only, and change or proof, or
both. By supper at the Baker's, sere
waited in line as Sarah's girls argued in the flowery heat,
leaving with a stiff black loaf and dirtier boots than before.
By nightfall, Tuitoma changed torches stood upright along the
square, flags whipped, walled, shaved.
First time in months His neck showed scars Sir couldn't
remember. The village drew in together,
not one house holding back. Even the Smith's widow, who
hadn't stepped out since the last flood, stood at her door,
candle in hand. SER.
Roland and the others drifted along the fire lines, shoulder
to shoulder, picking sausages off racks when nobody looked,
trading kicks and whispers beneath the buzz of minstrels
tuning up by the barrels. Someone fired off a bread roll
at Balu's head. He caught it, bit off the crust,
threw the soggy scrap back at Viti, who howled and ducked
under a horse's old tack. Ward found Serre in the crowd,
pressed a copper into his palm. Don't by chance, he said,
nodding toward where men pitched dice behind the fish cart.
Spend it honest. Zaire pocketed the coin, heart
thumping. For once he felt older than the
other boys, responsible seen. Lanterns snapped open overhead,
colours trembling in the warm breeze.
The minstrel started the square, scuffed hard by boots and bare
feet. Music and laughter spilled as
wild as the river had weeks ago. Boys drifted off in pairs and
clumps, faces flushed, no one thinking of chores or fences, so
danced. Awkward at first, then easy spun
by Roland under a string of flags, feet light worries shed
for a night. Ward somewhere close, but far
enough to let freedom taste real.
He caught the bell Roland made tied above the cake stall,
ringing sweet and sharp every time anyone passed.
He watched the faces, old, young, marked by rain and
poverty, glow strange and hopeful in the leaping shadows.
He made no promises as the festival wore its hours down, no
plans for escape or return. For once just presents the Press
of warmth at his back, the ache of muscle that felt like
gratitude. Before midnight, With the last
tune winding out, he tucked another few quiet words in his
book, left the rest for the morning, and walked home in the
pale, scattered light, one of many, but not alone.
Lanterns burned low. But steady as festival night
stretched deeper. The square filled with smoke
from fire pits and the sharp smell of spilled ale.
Younger children tumbled in the grass.
Old men lean close and traded stories.
Sir moved through the crowd with Roland at his shoulder, dodging
elbows and slaps, the scrape of boots and laughter building
under his feet. At the far end, Balu and Lavu
argued over rules of a ring toss.
Sarah's biggest girl let Lavu win, which meant he had to buy
her a barley bun. Vt pocketed half melted sweets
from a cracked dish, looking around for the Baker's eye but
never getting caught. Ward stood with the men by the
torches, pipe dead between his lips, surveying the crowd like a
landowner counting fence posts. He met Sir's gaze with a quick
nod, a sober warning to steer clear of the dice games and
fights brewing near the cider wagon.
Sir nodded back, heart tight with the comfort and weight of
that brief attention. Music swung higher.
The minstrels stamped their boots, said spoons spinning on
drums sang in a language no one here knew, but everyone
pretended to half remember. People clapped along, some
stumbling drunk. Most just glad to have lost the
feel of a hoe or broom in their hands for a few hours.
For a while, nobody seemed tired.
Nobody was poor. Roland tugged at says sleeve.
Come see what I've done, he urged and pulled him behind the
outbuilding where the lane turned toward the river.
He pointed to a narrow trap rigged in the grass, almost
invisible for foxes. Tomorrow the trip wires light
just enough to ring the bell down by Ward's gate.
If it works, we'll have every dog in Tutama baying before
sunrise. It was nothing special, but
Roland's pride made it better than the festival's bonfire.
Sir Knelt, checking the bend of the stick, nodded approval.
We'll all think it's magic if you catch anything before the
barn cats. Roland grinned.
Or he'll curse and blame me for the noise.
He looped the wire tight, wiped his hands on his shirt, then
leaned against the fence, watching the shadows flicker.
Across the square, a woman shrieked someone's name, the
good kind laughter spilling over it, and music spread on the
wind. SER listened, breathing in the
scent of warm bread and tallow, smoke boots twitching to the
memory of the last tunes. Rhythm footsteps crunched behind
them. Balu bumbled around the shed
wall, holding a plum and a broken mug.
Levu, a step after you 2 run off to start trouble.
Balu grunted, mouth half full. Roland shook his head.
We're planning a revolution you 2 want in?
Viti caught up next, cheeks sticky, fists tight around a
handful of boiled nuts. Best revolution gets the last
sausage, then I'm in. The four stood together, leaning
against cold stone, not talking much, just letting the sounds
from the fire's edge fill in the silence.
Lantern light made each face older or younger depending on
the turn. A scuffle broke out at the cider
barrel. Two men, both with shoulders
broad enough to block the path, fell over the bunting line and
kept swinging, more noise than real threat.
Ward and Sarah's eldest closed in, voices low and firm.
The fight ended with curses, nothing broken but pride and
maybe a jaw to be iced in the morning.
Lavu rolled his head back, sighed.
Some night last time they fought.
The fence broke before bones, so let himself drift.
He pressed the books corner where it rested under his
waistband, making a note for later.
Festival scuffle only pride lost.
Near midnight the minstrels played their last voices raspy,
sunburned cheeks glossy in lamplight.
Slowly, the crowd shrank as mothers gathered children, men
stretched sore backs, girls wandered home in clusters.
And only Ward and a few of the other elders kept watch from the
square's edge. The boys moved together down the
lane, feet kicking dust as the fires dimmed.
At the Seraphine gate, Roland paused, face quiet.
You write it down. All this, Sir, nodded, showing
just the pencil, not the book. Good, Roland said.
Else no one will believe half of it, Barloo snorted.
Turn for home won't matter. The pigs will get out tomorrow
and nobody will remember a thing but the mud.
The group scattered in twos and then alone, each swallowed by
the dark and a day's hard earned exhaustion.
Sere stepped into his house, boots soft on the floor.
Ward had left a wedge of cheese set by a clean mug.
An unspoken reward or just a habit, Sere couldn't tell.
He finished it slow, washing down the last bread crumbs with
river water. He sat beside the dying fire as
night faded into the first hint of blue, scribbled in the dark
face warmed by the last stub of a festival candle.
His hands wrote it all tonight. Lanterns, fights, music like
Thunder. No strangers.
Roland's bell worked. Ward watched, didn't yell.
Lavu's pride bruised the tea still grubbing sweets.
Balu left with a purple mouth and no voice.
For once, the world felt full and fair.
He closed the book, pressed his palm flat over the cover, and
listened to the heavy hush of a village emptied by sleep.
When he finally lay down, the air still smelled of smoke and
bread. The quiet.
Filled with festival echoes, feet on dirt, laughter, and the
certainty that whatever the morning brought, it would begin
with something worth remembering.
The morning after the festival stung with cold clarity.
No cloud cover, just brittle blue overhead and every noise
sharper than it had been under lanterns and music.
Light leaked through the cracks, painting the floorboards pale.
The world outside felt bigger somehow, stretched thin after a
night when all fences dropped. Sir shuffled to the kitchen,
bare feet numb on. Wood.
Ward was already up, jaw stubbled, eyes heavy.
He sipped hot tea with both hands clamped around the mug.
The house tasted of old smoke, sweat, and fresh dawn.
Ward's boots rested by the stove, still muddy from the
square. Sir didn't speak right away.
He poured what was left into his cup, noting the stale crusts and
the half heel of cheese. Set aside last night's wedge,
now a memory. Ward jerked his head at the
door. Pigs got out, woke half the line
screaming at the field. You see Balu's face, Sir?
Shook his head. Kid looks like he tried to bite
a cartwheel. Ward managed 1/2 smirk, then
winced and massaged the muscle above his brow.
Town will be full of 6 stomachs today.
You'd best try to get the fence mended before noon and check
Sarah's barn. Viti went home on the wrong side
of the tracks. Roland's Ma was hunting him
before sunup. Sarah nodded, finishing his tea
in silence. Without the music and noise.
The festival lingered in his bones as soreness and
exhaustion. A good ache, but an ache all the
same. Outside, he found what was.
Left from the night ashes from the need.
Fire still stank near the square.
Pigs rooted at the ditch, snuffling for lost crusts and
peels. Lantern glass speckled the
grass. Someone's cap floated in muddy
water at the foot of the old Willow.
The boys crossed paths at the edge of the bean patch, Balu
scowling and clutching his head, Lavu clutching a split lip.
Viti limping from the thigh but grinning, and Roland following
with two eggs cupped awkwardly in his hands.
Lavu poked at his mouth. 50 years from now.
Bet I remember the taste of that bun more than anything else.
Viti hobbled past. You remember getting caught?
That's why. Balu squatted down.
Pig spooked. Before I got the gate tide.
Sarah's been up an hour cursing me from one end of the lane to
the next. You owe me for that fence, Sir.
Ciac ignored him, crouched to gather the broken line, checking
where the pigs pushed through. The fix was rough, but with all
four boys helping, they drove stakes and patched holes with
whatever scraps lay handy. Barrel slats, the wire Roland
found last week, bits of rope from the lost raft.
They worked quiet, nursing small pains, each breath blowing out
festival warmth. Roland handed over the eggs.
Proud. Found these out by the Willow.
Only thing the pigs didn't break.
You want them for your breakfast, Sir?
Took the eggs, pocketed them. Wardle, thank you.
Or at least not swear. The pigs, hungry, circled
nearer. Balu shooed them off back to the
pen. With you not getting another
treat. As they finished the patch,
Sarah's voice rang out from further up the road, shrill and
insistent as ever. If I catch you boys cutting
through my garden one more time, I'll turn you all to scarecrows.
Empty bellies, empty heads. They grinned, shrugged, and
pushed. Past the gate, dusting off their
hands. Lavou's lip bled a little, but
he didn't care. Viti limped softer with every
step. Back at the Seraphin house, Ward
was by the stoop, rubbing his knee.
He caught sight of the eggs, nodded.
Something right in a day's trouble.
Sir handed them over, earning a rare grateful grunt.
Ward stepped inside, left Sir on the stoop.
The morning air felt honest, sharp, cold, full of chores and
smoke. Everything simpler than the
rumours and excitement of last night.
He checked his palm. The faint pencil mark from the
book lingered from where he'd pressed his hand.
He'd write it all down tonight, every bruise and laugh and
noise, every trouble that hadn't chased them home.
Roland looped back through the yard, waving as he jogged to
meet his uncle at the Mill Rd. Balu and Lavu argued into the
distance about the best way to clean blood from a shirt.
Viti ducked back toward his mother's, already plotting to
sneak out once his limp passed inspection.
Seyam watched the lane, gathering in the sense that
nothing special waited for him, but nothing too bad either, not
while the fences held and the boys kept showing up in the
fields and the work got done. The festival would fade by
nightfall, become another story to nest in the pages of his
book. He took a breath and picked up
the hammer, set himself to building what could be mended
day by day, patch by patch. Rain clouds hung beyond the
north fields, but for the span of the morning, the world was
his own. The day moved slow, the kind of
slow that settles into muscle, one fence board at a time. 1
nail wobbled through half rotted wood, one complained from ward
at each turn. By noon, Sir's knuckles stung
where he'd missed a head and caught skin on iron.
He worked quiet, lost in the swing and set of mending, the
kind of work that didn't change a life but kept a house from
tumbling in on itself. The sun felt higher than it
really was. Steam drifted from the ruts down
the lane. Roland's voice bounced, half a
song, half a list of all the bits he'd scavenged out of
ditches. A cracked bell, 2 rusty nails,
the bench shaft of a hoe. Roland sorted each piece at the
edge of the road, face crumpled in concentration, his plans
bigger than whatever could be done in a morning.
Ward stepped out, held in one hand a coil of fine wire Roland
had left by the stove. Take this to him, Ward said.
Can't have him sneak in for it and trip the bell again.
Set it straight. Derrick took the wire down the
path. Roland looked up, grin
stretching from ear to ear. You saved it.
I thought Ward would keep it for closing chicken coops.
Says rope for the coop, says next time you set off the bell
by accident, you fix the hinge. Roland shrugged, taking the wire
and rolling it up. Careful, Maybe I'll make a new
bell. One only rings when it matters a
raiding fox, or if the Baker comes to throw old bread.
Ward would trade you a week's dinner for that.
Rollin's smile twitched. He'd forget my name if I didn't
bug him once a week. They're bent to help him sift
the rest of the pile. Festival didn't cost you much?
Roland shook his head. Nothing but a sore foot, Ma, let
me try the sweet cider. Worse than river water.
I'll stick to Stew. I want my head to hurt for a
reason. They sorted in the sun, counting
nails, arguing over which bits might spark a real idea.
A shadow passed. Sarah's big rooster strayed too
near, eyeing the pile. Roland shooed it off with a
stick, then turned to SER, eyes sharp.
You write anything yet? Sir?
Tapped the notebook pressed into his coat.
Just lines, not sense of it, yet.
Might never make sense. Doesn't have to, Roland replied.
Matter of fact, we do the work. Write it down, somebody will
believe it happened one day someplace.
SER didn't answer. He folded a strip of tin to
catch light and slipped it into the book's Backpage, thinking
maybe later he'd write a game they played or the exact shade
of bruised green along Viti's shin.
Viti and Lavu joined after lunch, both picking at bread.
Balu trailed them, shoulders slumped, hands hidden in deep
pockets. Jara wants that sore back, says
she's got stumps to clear. T shrugged.
She always wants something back, he says.
If we bring her apples in the fall, we can keep the sore till
the frost. La Vu grinned, eyes glinting.
I say that means it's ours for two months and hers for a day.
They moved as a group to the river carrying fence wire.
Shoes and plans for what might be fixed next.
They patched holes in the footbridge using driftwood and
Roland's best 2 nails. They cleared brambles from the
bank, piling thorns and scraggly grass high, throwing stones at
the rats that nested among them. After a few hours, sweat pasted
shirts to their backs. The water sparkled in the sun
where it passed over stones. Balu stripped his boots and
waded in, daring the rest to join.
Viti was first, tugging Lavu and Rolan along.
Sir followed, rolling his pants to the knee, stepping careful
where the stones got slick. The river was cold and fast but
clean, and for a few minutes the boys forgot chores, scrambled to
splash each other, all howls and curses and laughter, nothing of
work or want. From the far end of the bank,
Ward called out, harsh and sudden enough.
Get to before you catch sick. His voice cut through the
chatter, sharper than a switch. SER scrambled up, breathless,
hair dripping, watching. Ward, size up their work on the
footbridge. Ward grunted, spat, then nodded
at the repair. You did better than I expected,
was all he said, already headed home.
Even after the others pulled out, boots squishing, shirts
clinging, bread shared between mud smeared fingers, the day
stretched. Warm they lay on the bank,
sunlight in their faces, water drying slow.
No one talked about leaving, or the stranger, or death still
owed. Time moved, but the world
waited, wound tight, and in that hour nobody minded anything at
all. They parted when the sun
dropped, each to his own house, mud caked on legs, the river's
pool steady behind them. Sir made for his door, notebook
safe in his pocket, head full of words and hands empty of fear.
He slipped inside, wards heavy tread behind the stove, marking
safety and work and the end of another day.
The wind had turned. Carrying a promise of rain and
maybe, just maybe, something worth writing about, next night
fell slow and straight, cold air following the line of the river
into every crack and seam of the Seraphin house.
Ward set a small log on the stove, coaxed the flame to life,
dropped Stew bones in water to simmer for tomorrow.
The kitchen window rattled. Rain threatened again.
Out in the West, Sir. Sat on the stool by the table.
Boots off, trousers stiff from dried river mud, Ward pulled the
coat from his shoulders, grimaced at a pain in his hip,
but covered it with a cough. He ladled the last of today's
Stew, thin, mostly roots and salted fat, into two bowls,
handed SO1 without a word. The kitchen hummed with low
warmth and steam, the quiet between them filled only by the
scrape of spoons and the ticking stove.
Slow licking, salt from his thumb, still tasting river and
sunlight on his teeth. Ward's gaze fixed on the fire.
It was the comfortable sort of silence, the house bound
together by the business of eating and staying warm.
After a while, Ward cleared his throat.
Jihal sent for me once. Hands for the mill.
Grains rotted in the lowest bin. More work, less coin for it.
He didn't expect an answer. Sir nodded.
You want me to go? Ward weighed that, staring at
the bottom of his bowl. Not unless the fence comes down
again. This mill won't close without
every family tossing in. He looked tired, but the edge of
worry never quite left his mouth.
Don't cross him, Chahal, Don't cross his boys.
Sir nodded. They finished eating.
Ward stacked bowls, rinsed them in the pan, then limped to the
door to check the latch against the coming rain.
He stood there, pipe in hand, looking out into night.
SER sensed more on his mind, but the old man kept his thoughts
pressed down. SER fetched his notebook, slid
into the corner by the stove. In the spare candlelight.
The family was done with talk. Now was the hour for grinding
pencil marking out lines. He flipped to a fresh page and
listed Bents held. Bridge patched, water low.
Rollins Bell still on the gate, Ward cut in hip.
Juhal's boys want more than coins worth.
He sketched the bend of the river, the run of the fence
line, the spot where Roland had scattered trap wire, and where
the fire from festival night still stank in memory.
He wrote the. Sound of Barloo's laughter when
Vitty fell in the water. The way Labu's lip split and
healed clean, he let the words trail notes without poetry,
lists without lies. Rain began as faint static,
growing steadier on the shingles.
The house breathed in, breathed out.
Sir sharpened his pencil, set the book aside, and listened to
Ward Pace in the narrow hallway, boots soft against the planks.
Before bed, Ward spoke, voice low.
You do your work, you keep your pride.
Nothing wrong with that. Not in a place where the river
doesn't care unless you prove you're too stubborn to drown
there. Didn't speak.
He crawled under his threadbare blanket, let the words shake out
the last hint of festival, then slip away to the hush of water
on the roof, roof on his bones. He woke sometime near dawn, cold
pressed in hard. Ward rustled upstairs, coughing
until the house shook. Sir looked at the window.
Darkness, a slash of. Moon, the bell on the gate
swinging with every gust. Somewhere in the yard a dog
barked. Maybe Barts, maybe one gone
wild. Sir kept still, listening for
trouble, the kind that sometimes slipped into the yards after
rain. Nothing came.
He dozed again. Then woke when first cold grey
pushed through the window. Ward was already in the kitchen,
boiling what tea could be found, face drawn, anger worked out,
only fatigue left. Sarah pulled on boots, rubbed
the ache from his wrist and crossed to the door.
Rain slacked the world outside, slick and fresh.
The fields waited, sopping and shining.
Earth turned over with last week's Labour.
Roland was there before the sun cleared, hair stuck with sleep,
one eye still puffy. He moved quiet, careful with the
latch so Ward wouldn't bark. He held a new tin thing spinning
on a wire, the latest attempt at keeping crows from their beans.
Try this, Roland said, voice low, grinning.
Sir took it, spinning it with a. Flick of the wrist, the dull
shine catching just enough light.
You never stop. Sarah mumbled, half smiles
showing conned. Not while Ward keeps feeding us
his stories about the old world. Roland shrugged, hope sparking
behind the fatigue. The boys set out to the field,
crows already lining the fence, watching for mistakes in the
coming days. The rain fell again, washed thin
by wind that carried the sharp scent of frost from the high
woods. Chores stretched patches,
hauling, shoveling, shoring, all without fanfare.
Old men kept to the fire. Young ones listened for work and
for news from upriver. A new child at the mill, a
cousin sent off to the market, a rumour that Chahal's second son
had been knocked senseless in a fight nobody saw, but everyone
heard. Thayer wrote it all down.
Slow and careful tales of weather, work and laughter.
Detail by hard detail. Each day another notch cut into
history's bone. The world went Gray and brown
again. Another day, another cold
morning. And.
Boys who walked the lines always expecting something harder, but
never quite broken by it. End of the week, The mist hung
thick at sunrise, sinking over the fields and the half rotted
fence. Frost licked the edges of the
grass, turning mud crisp for an hour before the sun worked it
loose again. Serre walked with Roland along
the main road, boots leaving paired marks near the ditch.
All week the work stayed steady and the quiet grew heavier,
house after house, pouring smoke and worry into the morning air.
They passed the root shed the 1 old Bart had rebuilt after the
last storm, and Roland pointed out a row of tiny footprints.
Fox gut something again? Sir nodded, noticing tufted fur
by the gate, a reminder that not even fences held their line
forever. In Twitoma, at Ward's place,
chores had slipped into routine. Roof patched as needed, stove
fed, pigs penned behind a gate with new hinges Roland had
managed to fix so they didn't rattle every time the wind
picked up. Ward's limp was worse.
He moved with both hands braced against the table for a moment
before pushing upright and muttering about old age, about
the way the world wore through flesh, same as it did boot.
Roland left, his latest invention, A twist of wire and
tin meant to clang when crows landed hanging by the window.
Take it, he said, shy but hopeful.
Might keep one more mouthful in the ground.
SER watched him go, a lump in his throat when the door closed,
the boy's outline fading with the mist.
He put the. Contraption outside, let it spin
in the wind, listening to its hollow tink as crows scattered
overhead. Inside, Ward sat at the table,
leafing through a scrap of worn paper covered in figures.
Chateau wants another week's labour out of me.
Out of you too. Says he'll pay on time.
He spat to the side. We'll see if his word holds
Better than his fence, Sir. Sat warming his hands on the
mug, Ward pushed his way. For a while.
Neither spoke with more than a grunt.
The air in the house was thick with fatigue, bone deep, the
kind that doesn't lift after a meal or asleep.
You write in that book? Ward asked, not unkind.
She nodded. Every day, little things,
nothing to fill a page, but enough to remember what was
real. Ward side long and low.
Good. You keep it close.
There's a use for every memory one way or another.
Outside, crows swept the bean rows and the sun burned higher
in a thin patch of blue. Lavu's shout carried from the
far lane, someone chasing a runaway pig, laughter behind it.
The world, still moving no matter how many days, felt the
same. By noon, SER had finished
mending the fence again, this time with better nails.
The men from Chihal's spread came down the path, calling Wood
and him to bring spades, help dredge the irrigation ditch one
more time before the cold really set in.
SER went, shoulders squared, the weight of the week settling
evenly as he followed Boots, sucking in the first thawed
patch of. Earth near the mill, They worked
quiet, grunting through the mud, Chihal's boys boasting,
laughing, one of them nursing a swollen hand from the latest
fist fight. Roland drifted at the edge,
sharp eyed, always finding something worth saving among the
debris. One good nail, a splinter of
glass for a lens, a rag to pad against the cold.
When the ditch was dug, Ward collected the pay, muttered a
thanks that wasn't gratitude, just acknowledgement of a
transaction closed. They shared a hunk of dark
bread, half frozen and sour by the water's edge before trudging
home. The sun was falling.
At the fence line, Seren Ward paused, shoulders touching for
the space of a breath. Ward looked sideways, jaw set,
voice gone even. You keep doing what you're
doing. You keep your head down, but not
so far you miss what's coming for you.
Nobody's giving you a thing in this life.
You take the work, you take the blows, but you hold to yourself.
Sir nodded. He watched the wind set,
Roland's latest invention to spinning, flashes of metal
dazzling back at the low light. The crows stayed clear for
inside. SER stowed his boots by the
stove, penned another line in his book.
The air changed today. Roland's bell worked.
Ward walked slow but stood straight.
Jihal paid but not in comfort. River held.
Field held. I held.
Night fell cold and clean, the lamps yellow glow flickering
over the rough floor. Ward dozed in his chair and SER
lay by the fire, the book close, the tired lines of the house
drawn in solid and for tonight quiet.
Outside the village settled, smoke rising from every chimney,
every life turning down for sleep.
The sound of the wind in the wires, a low thread promising
more of the same, may be just enough come the next dawn.
Sir woke deep in the night, the fire only a weak glow under the
kettle. Ward lost to sleep's heavy tide.
Above he lay still, listening, nothing but creaks in the roof
beams, an old owl hunting among the crows.
He was warm enough, stomach full, legs sore, but his mind
spun, slow and certain. He listened to how the house
breathed, settling between storms and labours, filled with
the leftover presence of everyone who'd ever lived and
worked here, still here, even when quiet, pressed in tight.
He pulled the book from behind the log pile, careful not to
scrape the boards in the dark. He ran his fingertips over the
cover, counting dents and Nicks, a physical memory of every week
and day. He found the stub of pencil
working it loose and wrote just by touch.
A coming, beans in fence tight. Roland Bell doesn't ring for
foxes anymore, only sunrise and rain.
Ward says Take what you can. Don't ask.
I don't, I write it. That's asking enough.
He stopped listening harder. No rain on the roof, no wind.
Just the thick blanket of quiet that covered Tuitomo when
everyone slept. He let the book fall shut,
tucked it against his chest, and thought of tomorrow.
More digging, more mud. Another thing to break and fix.
Again, another joke from Lavu and complaint from Balu.
Another meal, hard one. Roland Bright.
With a new idea would be waiting at the gate.
Ward, slow but awake before him, would point to whatever had
failed overnight and expect the world put right by nightfall.
Pierre lay on his side, knees drawn close, feeling all of it.
The ache, the expectancy, the thick pulse of life in small
things. If nothing changed for a month
or for a year, he'd be here for it.
If something big broke, if one river flooding or one fight in
the lane brought real change, he'd be here then, too.
He listened towards breathing overhead, the breath of the
house and the rhythm at his chest as the pages pressed a
steady pulse against his ribs. He closed his eyes, letting the
night sink in, waiting for the bell to ring at first light,
waiting for another day, the same and not the same.
Another chance to mark the record before it washed away in
the cold outside. The.
Crows shifted their weight on the last bare branches, feathers
tight against the autumn wind, their silence giving way to
morning without warning or complaint.
CL let the quiet have him. No promise, no dread.
Just the dark, the soft clutch of hard earned rest, and the
knowledge that in the morning, work would wait and he would
meet it. He slept steady as earth.
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Must be the storm.