Chapter 2
The Village
This realm is more than a place of punishment, of hard work, of trial. It serves as a reminder of deceit, of biding time.
“That’s just cruel,” I whisper.
“Should we…” Haldon trails off, unsure of my commitment to the wellbeing of the prostrated man.
“Help him?” I shrug, watching from my lofted bedroom. The crows peck at Trentin’s drunken body out in the pasture. He’s not dead, but they don’t mind. They’ll wait. The crows jump around, pulling at his already fraying shirt. Help is the last thing I want to offer.
Hal picks haphazardly at the worn straw mat we sit on as his father musters his energy to wave off the insistent birds.
The image rings in so much emotion, and Hal probably doesn’t want to see his father become lunch.
To be honest, Trentin regularly wakes up in the worst kind of places, but this seems a bit too macabre for me.
They do have sharp beaks, after all. I imagine he has some scrapes now.
Would they be satisfied with a little blood?
“I should go out there,” Hal moans, sliding down and out of my little room.
When crows caw, we are reminded of the impending death everyone in my village faces each day.
Their sounds and presence usually indicate something has perished.
I’d argue they’re more vulture than crow these days.
With depleting food stores, the river drying and foxes harassing our hens, many of us may not make it through the next season.
It’s no secret that when you see their slick feathered bodies, a stark contrast to the surroundings out here, they’re feasting on carrion.
Where the black birds land, death is waiting.
They nearly taunt us some days. Out in the fields is where they find gourds and other crops for pickings while they wait for some living creature to finally drop dead.
We don’t live in a desert. But this land is just as dry, hot and unforgiving.
In the books Ma has brought back from the weekly markets I’ve had the chance to read about the Silent Kingdom and their beastly sun.
Some say the sun never leaves their lands, constantly reminding them of the wrath of the Gods.
We don’t recognize any gods here, but I think the Silent Gods might be watching over us just as closely.
Yesterday morning we mended the last of our rope together, creating a sling for the well next to the old irrigation ditch. Sawyer himself was gone all day, as per usual, taking care of sales and other duties for his career. But I am no less thankful to have Hal and Sawyer here with me.
Together, we will get through these times.
It’s lasted so long. Repetitive work. The same familiarity that nearly drains my hope for more.
Since the river has dried, we have had to resort to well water, which is risky by nature.
According to Ma, two years ago when the river had dried the first time, a young boy by the name of Jo fell into the well taking the dried rope with him.
When his body was retrieved, they found his fingertips raw and bleeding, assumed to be the result of digging into the stone walls to avoid slipping below.
I always sicken at the thought of it.
I roll over on my mat, peeking to look outside the small window in my loft again.
A window without glass, shaped by dried mud, but still a window.
Hal is outside trying to drag his father onto a sort of tapestry, hoping to haul him back to the house.
The crows, harbingers of death, continue to caw down at him, almost mocking his work.
The crunch of the hay under my shoulders is a familiar sound as I slowly roll back.
My eyes once again find their place staring up at the small holes in the ceiling.
Thin sunbeams pierce through like hidden stars waiting to be seen.
I slowly reach my hand out for them, delicately admiring the way they kiss my skin as my fingers shift and move.
A ceiling of stars.
Water getting in isn’t an issue since we don’t get any. Everything is parched. Dry, desolate, hostile.
The dryness in my throat creeps up, causing a desperate cough. We need to get that well fixed.
Ma said she was leaving early this morning.
That explains the silence in the house save for the caws of the crows from outside.
Her travels take no longer than a day. She chooses to walk everywhere, always declining a ride from Trentin, though the wagon is broken right now.
But I, too, wouldn’t risk riding with him alone.
Without warning, a deafening crack sounds through the house, echoing through the windows. I jolt up, immediately realizing where the sound is coming from. Dread washes over me and another crack fills the air.
I spring into action, fear flooding through me as I find my better pair of wool pants to throw on.
I tighten them with a piece of rope – a trick Ma showed me.
A few months ago, I grew too thin for them and a new pair was not an option.
A dusty white blouse hanging on the beams above my head will do for my top.
Throwing that on, I slip on my canvas shoes and half jump, half slide down the wooden ladder into the main living area.
As I make my way through the kitchen, I run my hands through my tangled locks, attempting to brush them as I burst through the kitchen door and onto the dirt.
Yards away, Hal is a speck in the dried farmland, piling hay into the wagon with the broken wheel. Looks like he made quick work of delivering Trentin back to his house. Hal looks up warily as I exit the back door and head towards the space between our two houses.
The crack sounds again and I slide to a stop. There, cowering against the wall covered in dirt, sweat and fresh blood lashed across his back is Sawyer. He must have just gotten back from his latest trip.
In front of him is Trentin.
That bastard.
My blood begins to heat up as I march over to the confrontation. Sawyer stands up and raises his hands to Trentin. His gait sways from drink, and small specks of blood and skin cover his body from the crows’ feast.
My eyes lock on the scene and Sawyer makes eye contact with me, shaking his head slightly. Trentin sways and nearly trips on the frayed whip. I have never wanted anything more than to turn that whip on the man and let him taste the tired leather as it pierces his face and scrapes his tyrant mouth.
Trentin spits onto the dirt, the glob settling as he draws in a ragged breath of rage.
His arm cocks back further behind his head, threatening a dangerous blow to Sawyer who is already bleeding from his nose, trying to get his bearings before the next lash.
I don’t know how Trentin is up and mildly coherent after the stunt in the field.
“You leave him be,” I snarl, stepping in front of him to block the path to Sawyer.
Trentin snorts and spits on my face. Unflinching, I move closer, his drunken hot breath filling the space between us. He flexes his arm again as his grip squeezes the leather.
“I said –” I put a finger in his face, pointing a deadly aim at him – “stop.” My anxiety races as I stare at him, not wanting to back down in the slightest.
I can do this.
“Don’t, Liv. This is between he and I,” Sawyer speaks up from behind me. I turn to look back at him, seeing that he regained his ability to stand, wiping blood mixed with dirt from his forehead.
Trentin’s evil grin spreads across his face. “Tell her what you took from me.”
Sawyer grins from ear to ear.
“TELL HER!” Trentin screams, whipping the ground.
Turning back to face the drunk, I realize I underestimated his motivation to deal pain today. My head collides with the back of a hand delivered by the disgruntled man.
Pain erupts across my face as my head is thrown to the side. My cheek stings, no, burns with fire and I fall to the ground. The taste of metal coats my tongue. I lap it up.
“Your punishment for his mistake,” Trentin says, leaning down close to my face. He makes a reach to grab my chin, but I push away, crawling a few feet back to regain my stance. His violence has never surfaced like this, and I fight the fear it evokes.
What happened?
Sawyer grabs me from behind and helps me stand up. All I can do is turn my face into his shirt. He reaches in his pockets and I peek down to see his hands dig up a few coins. He tosses them to the ground in between us.
“You owe me far more than this, Sawyer,” Trentin bites.
“On the contrary, I owe you nothing.”
Trentin bellows a crackly laugh, and I pull my head away to see him hobble closer to reach down for the coins, picking them from the dirt. Just like the filthy beggar he is. Our eyes meet and he mimics the pouty face I used to earn the bruise now forming on my face.
“How cute,” he says, standing up to take a look at the two of us. “A poor, useless ass boy with his pathetic girl. And I do mean girl, she don’t even look like a woman,” Trentin groans out.
Sawyer makes an attempt to fly forward but I press into him to hold him back. The insult may have very well hurt him more than it hurt me.
It’s true, I’ve lost any distinguishing features of femininity, curve, appeal. It’s a miracle Sawyer even bothers to recognize me as a girl he can sneak off with when the candles are blown and work is done. Our secret, innocent moments hidden away in the half-collapsed church in the woods.
Sawyer releases me gently and I softly wipe my face, no doubt marking it with dirt.
“Hey, let’s talk about that.” I reach for his hand.
“I’m fine, Liv.”
“What does he think you took from him?” A million things run across my mind. No one on this land has valuables worth stealing.
Sawyer puts his hands to his hips and shakes his head before walking away with a slight limp. To discuss any moment of weakness would do more harm than good with Sawyer. This is how he deals with it and while I cannot blame him, I wish he would seek me out more.
I watch as he picks up the wheelbarrow sitting next to my porch, pausing to release a sigh with his shoulders as he carries forward towards Haldon who, without a doubt, watched what just happened. I don’t blame him for not intervening with the marks he carries every day from his father.
Coming down from the adrenaline of the altercation, I release a deep breath and assess the swelling on my cheek.
I wince as I run my fingers across it. My hair is unruly and dirtied once more so I’ll have to remember to ask Ma to put it up properly when she gets home.
Sometimes she brings home little blooms she finds along the road and weaves them in.
Her fingers, gentle against my scalp, prompt me to imagine a life as someone who isn’t me.
A woman who has servants for this, servants for that. A proper brush or two, a wardrobe of fine gowns and beaded dresses. Perhaps a bounty of food like the tables I have read about in the few books we have at the house. Savory spices, sour fruits from exotic lands, more to drink than water.
Anything other than what we have here, which is currently nothing. Nothing more than a few potatoes, dried meat and a basket of rotting apples.
None of it really appeals to me.
Just like Sawyer, I release a tired sigh and go to find the rope Hal and I made yesterday. Binding the fibers took forever and we had to let it set. Everything takes entirely too much effort here, and while I am grateful for the work, I wish to relax.
My hip pops as I pull on the shed door, sliding it against the packed earth. Sawyer and Hal are laughing out in the pasture and I pause to look at them. Sawyer is swinging Hal around and I can hear him begging to be let down.
They, too, deserve more.
The rope is not hanging inside the door. Did Trentin get to it?
I sigh and keep digging through the shed of tools and various forgotten projects. Most of the crates are empty, but I spot extra leather scraps that I make a mental note of. My shoes could use a better sole.
No rope.
“Great,” I murmur, pulling another crate to the side. I almost turn to leave when a box in the far corner of the structure catches my eye. It’s no more than the size of a washbasin and I’ve never noticed it before. Maybe it was Ma’s once upon a time.
I climb atop junk and move planks of wood aside, coughing at the dust that stirs up. The box is wedged between a couple of bundled clay pots from Ma’s collection. Gently, I work it out without disturbing the delicate works.
The box is covered in a layer of dust and dead gnats that I wipe away as best as I can.
The thing cannot be described as simple.
The entire outside is painted with whorls and stars, reds and purples expertly blended across the polished wood surface.
I run my fingers across it softly, afraid to ruin its beauty.
My fingers trace the metal studs along the edges, finding an iron lock at the front.
I pull on it, but it doesn’t give. Prying is useless as the edges stay firmly shut.
I go back to the lock, flipping up the keyhole cover. Whatever key is used for this box wouldn’t look like anything Ma has laying around. We don’t even use keys at the house.
Nothing to steal.
The iron lock is cast with initials on the side of it. The initials read E.C. No one in our village rings a bell.
I give up and slide it back in, confused at the odd nature of it being nearly hidden. I frequent this shed and it never stuck out before. Regardless, we could probably make coin from its sale.
Making my way out of the shed, my foot catches on the rope, which apparently was on the ground the entire time. I find myself level with the earth and spitting out a mouthful of dirt. The rope fibers, worn and coarse, are probably too weak to pull up the well bucket but we must try.
We’re all thirsty.
Paying one more glance to the chest in the back, I close the door and continue on towards my two friends.