Page 24 of Circle of Days

South River was running low and slow. The hot sun gleamed off the precious water. Pia dipped a large waterproof leather bag in and let it fill. She lifted it out, now much heavier than before. Then she stood upright and began to walk.

She did this all day, every day.

Her father’s farm was mercifully close to the river, but his fields stretched a long way upward to the edge of East Wood.

Her shoulder hurt and her breath came in gasps, but she had to carry on.

She passed her mother coming back with an empty bag, and then her father doing the same.

Dadda was ill, coughing all the time. He refused to rest, but he would only half fill his bag at the river, being too weak to carry a full one.

This was supposed to be a secret, but Pia had figured it out.

Everyone among the farmer folk was doing the same: men, women, and children.

People who normally spent some of their time building scratch plows, making pots or baskets, knapping flints or producing bows and arrows, all had dropped their tools to irrigate the parched fields.

There had been little rain in the winter and none since, and now the seeds urgently needed water before they could sprout green above the ground.

As the spirits of the clouds were refusing to do their duty, the people had to bring the water themselves.

Pia went to the farthermost edge of the farm.

The scratch plow made shallow furrows that all ran parallel to the river, a pattern that retained rainwater when there was any.

Pia walked along a row, sloshing the water from her bag until it was empty.

The thirsty earth sucked it in and turned dusty again.

She rested briefly, luxuriating in the moment; but as she stood looking across the area of land that needed to be wetted, she felt dispirited.

It was a never-ending task; or, rather, it would not end until the rain came, and there was no sign of that.

Pia’s family was lucky to have goats. Those creatures ate almost anything: brambles, thistles, tree bark. It was one of Pia’s duties to bring leafy branches from West Wood to feed them. Her mother made cheese most days. Often it was all the family had to eat.

She hoisted the empty bag onto her shoulder and walked down the slope.

As she went she pulled any weeds that caught her eye, but that hardly occupied her mind, so she thought about Han.

Something big had happened at the Spring Rite.

They had both come to feel that their love was a permanent thing.

His mother had sensed it, and Pia had felt that Ani was pleased with Han’s choice.

But they had a problem. There was always trouble when a farmer and a herder fell in love.

The farmer folk were all descended from Alkry the Great, a herder who had despised the slack herder way of life and had founded Farmplace with his wife and children.

That meant they were all kin. They brought new blood into the community in the form of babies sired by unknown strangers at the revel, but otherwise they did not like outsiders.

They did not want their young people to go away and set up home with herders.

The farms needed their youthful strength for weeding and watering, reaping and binding, threshing and grinding.

Farming was work, work, work, and no one could be spared.

It was just as bad when a herder came to live with the farmers.

Herders were lazy and disobedient. The idea that they should do hard labor from dawn to dusk was incomprehensible to them.

They would say things like: “Don’t worry, the crops will grow, they always do, don’t they? ” which drove the farmers mad.

Pia was determined that she and Han would overcome these obstacles, even though she did not yet know how.

As she approached the river she saw a scene that puzzled and troubled her. Her father seemed to be lying in the riverside mud. Her mother was kneeling beside him, speaking to him. Pia put down her bag and ran to them.

She said: “What’s the matter, Mamma?”

Pia knelt down. Her father’s eyes were open. His lips moved and he mumbled: “I’m all right.”

Yana said: “Don’t leave me, Alno, please; not yet.”

Pia was shocked. Mamma thought Dadda might die. Pia had known he was ill but had not imagined it could be this bad. The thought bewildered her. It had always been the three of them. Pia had known nothing else. Life without her loving, kindhearted Dadda was unimaginable.

And he was young! She was not sure of his exact age, but his hair was dark brown with no grey, and his face was unwrinkled.

Yana said: “We have to take him to the house. Help me get him up.”

She grasped him under the shoulders. Pia bent to help and they lifted him to his feet. He clearly could not stand unaided. Mamma said: “Hold him upright for a moment, and I’ll get him over my shoulder.”

Pia took his weight, and was startled by how light he was. He had got thin without her noticing. She held him effortlessly. Yana bent down, grasped him around the thighs, and lifted. Pia let him fall forward over Yana’s shoulder.

Yana turned and headed up the rise. Pia followed, crying.

When they reached the house, Yana took him inside. Pia helped her lay him down on the leather mat. As she did so, he said quietly: “Water.”

There was a jar in the house, keeping relatively cool in the shade. Pia dipped a bowl in the jar, then knelt beside him. She lifted his shoulders until he was sitting upright, and held the bowl to his lips. He drank thirstily.

Pia was caring for him as if he were a child. It was the wrong way round.

He said: “Enough.”

Yana said: “I’ll stay with him. You’d better carry on.”

Pia resumed her work. What was going to happen? Might he get better? Or was it certain that he would get worse and die?

She trudged back up the hill with her load, splashed it in the furrows, then took a diversion from her downhill route to go by the house.

Stepping in, she heard her mother speaking in a quiet monotone, apparently not expecting her father to reply, for she did not pause.

“You’ll rest, and I’ll lie beside you at night, and bring you porridge in the morning, and slowly you’ll recover, and eventually be yourself again, strong and ready for anything—”

Pia interrupted her. “Is there anything you need? Can I help?”

Yana replied without looking away from Alno. “He’s sleepy now. In a few moments he’ll drop off. Just carry on with your work.”

Pia did as she was told.

She carried her bag down to the river. As she was filling it, a voice said: “What’s this?”

She turned to see Shen, right-hand man to Troon. She disliked him. He was a thin man with a long bent nose—bent from sticking it where he shouldn’t, people said. He reported everything to Troon, they said. He looked at her with arrogant dark eyes. “On your own?” he said.

Pia saw no point in answering stupid questions.

“Where are your parents?”

“House,” she said, then hoisted her bag to her shoulder.

Shen turned and surveyed the fields, then spotted the house and headed for it.

Pia decided she needed to be present at the meeting. Shen was sly and malicious, and any visit from him meant trouble. She put down her bag and followed him. She had to hurry to keep up with his long strides.

When he entered the house she was right behind him.

Shen said: “What’s happening on this farm? Two people in the house and all the work being done by one little girl?”

Yana said: “My man’s unwell. A minor thing. He’ll be better shortly.”

Pia said: “And I’m not a little girl. I’m a woman, and I can carry a bag as well as anyone.”

Shen ignored her. “You can’t just stop work, Yana,” he said. “You can’t afford it in this drought. You know Troon doesn’t like anyone to slack off.”

“I’m not slacking off!” Yana said indignantly. “I’m tending to a sick man and I’ll be back at work in no time. And so will he, and then he will want to talk to you about barging into his house and trying to bully his womenfolk.”

“I’ll inform Troon. What you say had better be true.” Shen left, ducking his head to pass through the doorway.

Pia said: “I hate that man.”

“He is vile. But a servant generally does what he’s told. His master, Troon, is the one you should hate.”

Pia thought about that as she returned to her drudgery.

She worked on until it got too dark, then returned to the house with her bag. Her father was asleep. Her mother had put together a meager supper. There was porridge made with last year’s grains, some cheese, and a bowl of mixed leaves: mallow, chickweed, and bracken fronds.

They lay down, and Pia, exhausted physically and emotionally, fell asleep immediately.

She was awakened by her mother sobbing.

She sat up. The cool light of early day came in through the open top half of the doorway.

Yana was lying beside Alno, half on top of him, her arm thrown across his chest, her knee on his leg.

Her sobs seemed wrenched from the heart.

Pia said: “What’s happened?” Yana did not reply, but Pia knew the answer.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” she cried. She thumped the floor rhythmically with her fist. “He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead. ”

Her distress penetrated Yana’s misery. She stopped crying, wiped her face with her hands, and stood up.

Her sudden transformation calmed Pia, who realized it was stupid to bang the floor.

She got up, and mother and daughter hugged for a long time.

At least I’ve still got Mamma, Pia thought, and she felt grateful.

Eventually Yana broke the hug and said: “We have duties to perform.”

They washed the body using a piece of soft leather, then dressed him again, ready for his funeral.

They went outside to look for a suitable place by the river, and agreed on a spot in the shade of an oak tree.

As they stood thinking that this would be the last place where he would lie down, Shen appeared.