24. OLIRA
24
OLIRA
Olira crouched low in the root cellar, inspecting the dwindling food supplies with a growing sense of dread. She felt hot, despite the cool and damp air in the cellar. Shadows flickered in the dim light of the lantern, casting eerie shapes on the stone walls. She sighed with defeat. Sacks of potatoes were fewer than she remembered, and the jars of preserved vegetables were down to fifteen.
As she counted the remaining provisions, her mind raced with worry. There wouldn't be enough to last the winter, not with another mouth to feed. Master Tholthus’s deadline, though still months away, was drawing near, and she feared what would happen if she didn’t make the payment. With her root cellar empty, and the winter at her door, she could lose the farm. All her hopes hung on the slave’s recovery and sale. She had to know for sure that he wasn’t broken or dangerous.
The slave, as silent as ever, sat in a corner, a large blanket sprawled in front of him. He was counting the grains in a sack of barley. It was a pointless task that she gave him simply to observe his reaction. He had poured all the grains into a pile on the left side of the blanket and had been making another pile on his right side as he counted them. He scooped a handful from the left, then dropped them on his right one by one, as he counted quietly.
She had been giving him these pointless, tedious, and frustrating tasks all week, watching for any sign of emotion. He hadn’t given her anything yet. He hadn’t raised any complaints when she got him to muck the stalls, then poured the dirt back into the stalls and got him to start all over again. Five times. He hadn’t rolled his eyes when she got him to sort through piles of straw. He hadn’t even sighed when she asked him to transfer water from one trough to another using a spoon. She was running out of ideas and nothing seemed to elicit any response from the purebred.
She should have been satisfied, but instead, she found the man’s indifference was irritating her. Why did she want to see a reaction? Purebreds were supposed to be mindless things who didn’t react to bothersome and meaningless requests. Why did her instincts keep telling her the slave was more than what he seemed?
She hovered over him with her hands on her hips, watching the pile on the right side grow bigger as the purebred counted them. He didn’t look up.
“Stop,” she said sharply. “How many?”
“Sixty two hundred. And fifty five. Owner.”
Olira was impressed that the man even knew how to count. She sized the pile on the right, wondering whether he could have made up the number. It looked about right.
“Start over,” she ordered, watching the purebred’s face carefully.
The man pushed the pile to the left, combining them into one. He scooped a fistful, then started counting again. Olira waited, watching the man’s lips move subtly as he dropped the grains into a new pile.
“Stop. How many?”
“Eleven, Owner.”
“Start over.”
The slave swept the grains to his left again and started over. Olira repeated this several times over the next quarter of an hour. She even called out random numbers to try to distract him. The slave’s face remained flat. Like a perfect, mindless purebred. Her frustration gnawed at the bottom of her stomach. She needed to see something — anything — that hinted at his true nature.
“Start over,” she ordered again. “Line them up. One by one.”
The slave began picking up individual grains and meticulously placing them in a line on the blanket. His movements were precise, almost mechanical. After a few minutes, when he had arranged a long line of grains, Olira stepped forward. With a swift motion, she scattered the grains across the blanket.
The man paused, his eyes following the mess, but his face remained impassive, giving nothing away.
“Start over,” she commanded.
Without a word, he began again, picking up each grain and lining them back up, just as methodically as before. Olira sighed, feeling the weight of embarrassment. She felt like a mean child, prodding a defenceless animal, just to see if it will turn back and bite. “That’s enough. Leave it. Just pack it away, please.”
The slave retrieved the burlap sack and started scooping the grains back inside. Olira bent down to help him, but she froze, her attention caught by a faint noise from outside.
Leaving the slave to his task, she climbed the narrow, creaking steps that led out of the root cellar. The sunlight was harsh after the dimness below, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. The root cellar was built a short distance from the main farmhouse, nestled into a small hill to keep it cool year-round. The farm spread out before her: fields of odd-looking, exotic plants, vegetable patch, farmhouse and the barn, and beyond that, the dense woods that bordered the property.
As she stepped outside, she nearly collided with Gilann, lingering just outside the cellar. Gilann’s posture stiffened, and his face betrayed an attempt to appear casual.
“Gilann?” she called out, her voice firm. “What are you doing here?”
Gilann’s eyes flickered to the root cellar door before meeting hers. He wasn’t good at lying. He could not hide his guilt if his life depended on it. “Just checking on things,” he mumbled, kicking at a loose stone with his boot. “I thought I’ll… umm… check the walls for cracks and moisture. You know, before the rain season.”
“Rain season isn’t until at least two months.”
“And the beams. One of the beams looked worn out the other day. I was gonna check if the wood is rotten.”
“Yes, it is. And I’m getting it fixed next month.”
“Right. Should I have a look and—”
“Gilann.” Olira took a step closer, her voice lowering to a tone she resolved for scolding her brothers. She hadn’t used this tone with Gilann in years. She didn’t say anything else, just let the silence force a confession.
Gilann shifted his weight, glancing over his shoulder toward the path that led away from the farm. “I thought you would be busy at the barn, tormenting the purebred or something.”
“Tormenting?” Olira went cold with anger.
“What else do you call what you’re doing with him? Getting him to carry pebbles and sticks from one side of the yard to the other, then back, over and over again.”
“He needs to move, to speed his recovery, so we can sell him and avoid losing our home. And I’m letting him outside, so he could get fresh air and…” Olira stopped sharply, narrowing her eyes. She had to admit, Gilann almost succeeded in distracting her by changing the topic. If he could have kept that tiny smirk clear from his face, he could have gotten away with it.
“You’re obsessing over him,” he said, still trying to herd Olira away from the topic.
“Gilann. Why are you here?”
Before she could press him further, she noticed movement in the distance, down the path. A figure was approaching, leading a horse with a mountain of sacks and crates on its back. As they approached, Olira recognised Jygan’s confident gait. The tanner’s face flickered between Gilann and Olira, then back to Gilann. His steps faltered briefly before he resumed, his face set with determination.
Olira’s anger flared up to her cheeks as she turned to Gilann, who was now avoiding her gaze altogether. “Gilann,” she muttered. “What have you done?”
Gilann didn’t reply. Olira’s heart pounded as she pieced together the situation. Jygan guided his horse towards them. The saddlebags were bulging with what looked like provisions.
“Gilann! What did you tell him?” Olira snarled, but Gilann was still quiet, and she couldn’t press any further, because Jygan came to a stop beside them.
“Hey,” Jygan said awkwardly, his deep brown eyes searching Olira’s face for a reaction. His presence only made her frustration boil over.
“What did he offer you?” she asked Jygan.
Jygan glanced at Gilann. “Olira,” he said cautiously. “Your supplies—”
“My supplies were gone, and it wasn’t your fault.”
“I should have got there quicker.”
“You don’t know if they would still be there. For all I know, they were stolen within ten minutes after I left them.”
“I should have still—”
“What did Gilann offer you, Jygan?”
A tense silence hung between them, the weight of an unspoken resentment pressing down like a heavy blanket. There was a time she believed she was going to marry Jygan. The tanner had always been there, hovering on the edge of her life, but never taking a step forward. She hated the way Jygan made her feel.
“I know you wouldn’t dare the audacity to offer us a handout, so I know Gilann must have offered something to you for all this. What did he offer?”
Finally, Jygan raised his hands in a calming gesture, the muscles in his forearms flexing slightly under his rolled-up sleeves. “Don’t take it out on Gilann. This trade was my idea.”
“Incense and scented oil?”
Jygan shrugged and flashed her a smile that was barely noticeable beneath his beard. It made Olira’s heart prance like a playful lamb. “Those, and also your mum’s Crimsonplum Harvest Tart recipe.”
Olira rolled her eyes. Growing up, her mum had always invited Jygan over whenever she baked the tart, knowing it was his favourite. Olira always resented that there would never be leftovers.
“You can’t handle that recipe.” She shook her head.
“I guess I’ll have to try.”
“You’ll butcher it. It’ll turn out like mud.”
“Then I’ll eat mud.”
Olira tilted her head back, sighing deeply. She wanted to appear like she was considering, though she also needed a break from Jygan’s intense gaze. “Three years,” she said finally, eyeing the packed provisions. “Three years’ unlimited supply of incense and scented oil and whatever herbs you need. And come over for supper before the final harvest. I’ll bake you the damn Crimsonplum.”
She left Gilann and Jygan — who was smiling like a donkey — to unpack the supplies, while she returned to the root cellar. Stepping into the cool, dimly lit room from bright daylight, she had to stop to let her eyes adjust.
The slave was sitting in the same spot she had left him. The burlap sack lay beside him, now filled with the carefully packed grains. His hands rested in his lap, his gaze unfocused, as though he were somewhere far away. For a brief moment, Olira felt a chill crawl up her spine. She couldn’t tell if he was simply being vacant, or if he was lost in some deep thought.
A strange impulse took hold of her. She found herself creeping forward silently, without thinking. She wasn’t sure what she was planning to achieve, sneaking up on a deadly, mindless weapon like this. Her third step scuffed the floor softly, and the slave recoiled.
Olira cursed the fiends. She thought she saw something in the look the purebred gave her, but her eyes were still adjusting to the dim light, so she wasn’t sure. She blinked rapidly as the slave rose to his feet, favouring his injured leg. He stood ready, his head down, projecting nothing but respect and obedience.
“Help the others carry the supplies inside, please,” she ordered, her voice firmer than she felt.
“Yes, Owner.” Then he turned, his crutch tapping lightly on the ground as he made his way toward the bright daylight.