37. OLIRA
37
OLIRA
Olira stood in front of what was left of the root cellar.
Her breath caught in her throat as she took in the devastation. Last night’s storm had turned violent in the blink of an eye. By the time she was startled awake by the hail pounding against the roof and the loud crack coming from the barn, the fury of the storm was already unleashed at the farm. Now, in the pale morning light, the extend of the damage brought tears to her eyes.
The fields were a sodden mess, her delicate, precious, exotic herbs and plants battered and broken, half buried in mud. The crops she had been counting on had been ripped from the earth, or flattened beyond recognition. The barn had taken a hit too. Part of the roof was gone, claimed by the storm. The torrents of rain and hail had drenched everything inside.
Olira had rushed to the barn in the early hours, while the storm still raged, to secure the animals. She’d found the two cows and Warrior huddled in a corner, shivering and their eyes wide with horror. The goat and half the chickens were missing, a few lay lifeless, their feathers ruffled. Gilann was right behind her. Surprisingly, the slave had rushed out of his cupboard and came after them, too. He helped them drag the cows through the storm and into the house, and he half carried Warrior, who fought so hard that he nearly hurt himself.
Now, the surviving animals were inside the house, drying and recovering from the horror. Olira surveyed the devastation that forced her to confront how insignificant humans were against the wrath of nature. The hopelessness built inside her like a rising tide until she had discovered the root cellar. There, she sank to her knees.
“It’s okay,” Torren said, his voice trembling. “We can rebuild it.”
Olira could see the broken wooden beams through the collapsed rubble. She knew some of the beams were rotten, and she was arranging for them to be repaired before the winter set in. She should have acted quicker. The roof came down, burying their stores of food under the mud, most of the food already ruined.
“Andar, get the wheelbarrow,” Gilann said as he approached the remains. His jaw was set as he started clearing away the debris. “Kowas, get a tarp. We’ll see what we can salvage.”
Torren kneeled beside Olira and squeezed her hand. Tears ran down Olira’s cheeks and she swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. She wiped her face, smearing mud all over. She stood back up and followed Gilann’s example. No point wailing. There was work to do.
The slave was already working without being asked to. He gave Gilann a hand as the two of them lifted a large piece of rubble. Underneath, they found sacks full of spoiled grains. The slave’s eyes met Olira’s for a brief moment and caught her frustration and despair. With all their stored food gone, the slave had just become a burden. Another mouth to feed. And he had also become their only chance at survival. She had no other choice. The decision was made.
The slave’s expression didn’t change, but a flicker of a dread passed his eyes. It made Olira’s chest tighten. She spent the rest of the day avoiding the slave and working herself to exhaustion, so she could escape the guilt that burdened her rhoa .