Page 1 of Circle of Days

Seft trudged across the Great Plain, carrying on his back a wickerwork basket containing flints to be traded. He was with his father and two older brothers. He hated all three of them.

The plain stretched as far as he could see on all sides.

The summer-green grass was dotted with yellow buttercups and red clover that merged, in the distance, into a haze of orange and green.

Great herds of cattle and sheep, many more than he could count, grazed contentedly.

There was no path, but they knew the way, and they could make the journey with time to spare in a long summer day.

The sun was hot on Seft’s head. The plain was mostly flat but there were gentle ups and downs that were not so gentle when you were carrying a heavy load.

His father, Cog, maintained the same walking pace regardless of the terrain.

“The sooner we get there, the sooner we can rest,” he would say—a stupidly obvious statement that irritated Seft.

Flint was the hardest of all stones, and Seft’s father had a heart like flint. Grey-haired and grey-faced, he was not big but he was very strong, and when his sons displeased him he punished them with fists like stones.

Everything that had a cutting edge was made of flint, from axes to arrowheads to knives. Everybody needed flints, and they could always be traded for anything else you wanted, food or clothing or livestock. Some people stored them up, knowing they would always be valuable and never deteriorate.

Seft was looking forward to seeing Neen.

He had thought about her every day since the Spring Rite.

They had met on his last evening, and had sat talking into the night.

She had been so warm and friendly that he felt sure she liked him.

As he toiled in the pit during the weeks that followed, he often pictured her face.

In his daydream she was always smiling and leaning forward to say something to him, something nice. She looked lovely when she smiled.

When they parted she had kissed him goodbye.

He had not met many girls, working all day in a hole in the ground, but those he had met had never affected him this way.

His brothers had seen him with Neen and had guessed that he had fallen for her.

Today as they walked they mocked him with vulgar comments.

Olf, who was big and stupid, said: “Are you going to stick your thing in her this time, Seft?” and Cam, who always followed Olf’s lead, made thrusting movements with his hips, which made them both laugh, sounding like a pair of crows in a tree.

They thought they were witty. They carried on in the same vein for a while, but they soon ran out of jibes. They were not imaginative.

They carried their baskets in their arms, on their shoulders, or on their heads, but Seft had devised a way of strapping his to his back with strips of leather.

It was awkward to put on and take off, but once it was fixed it was comfortable.

They had made fun of it, and called him a weakling, but he was used to that sort of thing.

He was the baby of the family, and the cleverest, and they resented him for being smart.

Their father never intervened; he even seemed to enjoy seeing his sons quarrel and fight.

When Seft was bullied, Cog told him to toughen up.

As they progressed, Seft began to feel the weight of his basket, despite his contraption. Looking at the others, he thought they were not as weary as he was. That was strange, because he was just as strong as they were. But he found himself dripping with sweat.

It was noon, judging by the sun, when Cog announced a rest, and they stopped under an elm tree and put down their baskets.

They drank thirstily from the flasks they carried, stoppered pots in leather slings.

The Great Plain was bounded by rivers to the north, east, and south, but across the plain there were few streams or ponds, many of which dried up in summer, so wise travelers carried their water.

Cog gave out slices of cold pork and they all ate. Then Seft lay on his back and looked up at the leafy branches of the tree, enjoying the stillness.

All too soon Cog announced that they must move on.

Seft turned to pick up his basket, and hesitated, staring at it.

Flints from underground seams were deep, shiny black, with a soft white crust. When they were hit with a stone, flakes broke off, and that way they could be shaped.

The flints in Seft’s basket had been part finished by his father, bashed into roughly the right shape to become knives or axe-heads or scrapers or piercers or other tools.

In this form they were a little lighter to carry.

They were also worth more to an expert flint knapper, who would knock them into their final form.

There seemed to be more of them in Seft’s basket than there had been when he set out this morning. Was that his imagination? No, he was sure. He looked at his brothers.

Olf was grinning and Cam was sniggering.

Seft realized what had happened. While they were walking, the others had taken flints from their own baskets and surreptitiously added them to his. He recalled, now, that they had come up behind him to make coarse jokes about his romance. That had distracted him from what they were really up to.

No wonder the morning hike had tired him.

He pointed at them. “You two…” he said angrily.

They fell about laughing. Cog laughed, too: he had clearly been in on the prank.

“Wretched pigs,” Seft said bitterly.

Cam said: “It was just a joke!”

“Very funny.” Seft turned to his father. “Why didn’t you stop them?”

“Don’t complain,” his father said. “Toughen up.”

Olf said: “You have to carry them the rest of the way now, because you fell for the trick.”

“Is that what you think?” Seft knelt down and tipped flints out of his basket onto the ground until he again had roughly his original load.

Olf said: “I’m not picking those up.”

Cam said: “Me neither.”

Seft lifted his basket, lighter now, and shrugged into it. Then he walked off.

He heard Olf say: “You come back here.”

Seft ignored him.

“Right, I’m coming after you.”

Seft turned around, walking backward. Olf was marching toward him.

A year ago Seft would have given in and done what Olf said. But since then he had grown bigger and stronger. He was still scared of Olf, but now he would not yield to his fear. He reached back over his shoulder and took a flint out of his basket. “Do you want another stone to carry?” he said.

Olf gave an angry roar and broke into a run.

Seft hurled the flint. He had the powerful arms of a young man who spends all day digging, and he threw hard.

The stone hit Olf’s leg above the knee. He howled with pain, limped on another two paces, and fell to the ground.

Seft said: “The next one gets your head, you dumb bullock.” He turned to his father and said: “Tough enough for you?”

“No more of this nonsense,” Cog said. “Olf and Cam, lift your loads and get moving.”

Cam said: “What about the stones Seft has left on the ground?”

“Pick them up, you stupid fool.”

Olf staggered to his feet. Clearly there was no serious damage, except to his pride. He and Cam collected the flints and put them in their baskets. Then they followed Seft and Cog. Olf was limping.

Cam caught up with Seft. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said.

“It was just a joke,” Seft said.

Cam fell back.

Seft walked on. His heart was beating fast: he had been frightened. But he had come out of it all right—for now.

In the days since the Spring Rite, he had made up his mind to leave his family at the first opportunity.

But he had not yet figured out how he would make a living alone.

Mining was always a team effort, never a solo job.

He had to plan his future. It would be too humiliating to have to go back to the family, dispirited and starving, and beg to be allowed to resume his old role.

All he knew for sure was that he wanted Neen to be part of his plan.

A high earth bank surrounded the Monument. The entrance was a gap in the circle that faced northeast. Some distance away was the cluster of houses belonging to the priestesses. No one went inside the Monument today. The Midsummer Rite would be held tomorrow.

People came to the Monument for the quarterly ceremonies, but the gathering of so many people from near and far was also an opportunity, and they often brought with them things to trade.

Some were now setting out their wares. They knew not to go inside the sacred circle.

They favored the area near the entrance, and stayed clear of the priestesses’ houses.

There was a rumble of chatter and a sense of excitement in the air as Seft and his family drew closer.

People were arriving from all directions.

One group met every year at a hilltop village four days’ walk away to the northeast, then followed a well-worn trail, said to be an ancient road, new marchers joining them as they went from village to village, until they arrived, a long column of people and livestock, at the Monument.

Cog stopped next to a couple called Ev and Fee, who made rope out of honeysuckle vines. The miners emptied their baskets, and Cog started to build a pile of the flints.

Cog was interrupted in his work by another miner, Wun, a small man with yellow eyes. Seft had met him before, several times. He was a gregarious type, everybody’s friend, and he loved to chat, especially to other miners. He always knew what was going on. Seft thought he was nosy.

Wun shook hands with Cog, using the informal left-to-right handshake. Right-to-right was formal, indicating respect more than friendship. The affectionate handshake was right-to-left and left-to-right at the same time.

Cog was as taciturn as ever, but Wun seemed not to notice. “All four of you here, I see,” he said. “No one guarding your pit?”