The Weight of Grain

Marek tore out of his coat and ran, leaving it in the wolf’s teeth.

His boots skidded over spilled grain. He caught himself with one hand against the wagon, pushed off and kept going.

The road bent into the trees ahead. The sky was paling above the eastern treetops. He fixed his eyes on the bend.

Behind him, his two guards were still by the wagon. The shieldwoman shouted something. He could not make out the words. The last thing he had understood was her telling him to run.

He had obeyed.

Only moments before, the two guards had still been holding the wolves off. The spearman had wounded one and sent it tumbling back into the road. Then the others had come down the bank behind the wagon. The mule had panicked. A wheel had sunk into the ditch, and suddenly there had been nowhere to move the load.

The shieldwoman had pulled him clear when he climbed down and told him to run.

Now claws scraped across a patch of stone behind him.

He ran harder.

Before they set out, the job had sounded like easy money: drive a grain wagon between the Valley and the plains. He should have waited for the rest of the caravan. There would have been more guards, more people with poles and axes. But his wagon had been ready, and the grain was needed.

“Take this one ahead. We’ll send the rest with the full escort.”

Only two guards had been found for him. He had watched them buckle on their equipment while the last sacks were tied down.

He had expected to complain about the road when he got back.

Now a grey wolf moved between the trees to his left, its long muzzle low, pointed ears laid back against its head.

He looked toward it and nearly fell. His knee had been hurting since he jumped from the wagon. Each time his foot came down, the leg threatened to fold.

Keep it straight. Get to the bend.

No house lay close enough to reach. The bend might give him a moment out of sight, long enough to get off the road and into the trees.

At first he had thought they wanted the mule. He had seen hungry wolves follow a wagon before. These had waited while one far larger than the others stood in the road, drawing the spearman toward it.

It had watched the spearman’s hands.

He remembered its lowered head, its eyes following the spear point. The others had moved while everyone watched the wolf in the road.

He could hear one beside him in the brush.

“Get away!”

His voice came out thin. He swung his bare arm toward the trees without slowing.

The bend was close.

Another wolf ran out onto the road ahead of him.

He tried to turn. His bad leg gave way.

His hands struck first, then his face. Grit filled his mouth. Before he could pull his knees beneath him, teeth closed around his calf.

He kicked backward. The grip loosened, caught again.

His knife.

He reached toward his hip and found his shirt.

The knife was in his coat.

He dragged himself forward on his elbows. His fingers closed around a stone. He struck at the muzzle behind his leg and felt the blow land. The wolf jerked away, letting go of his calf.

He tried to stand.

Another wolf caught his forearm. The stone dropped from his fingers.

The wolf dragged him onto his side. He cried out, pulling against its grip, and saw the huge wolf approaching along the road.

Its flank was raw and swollen. He had thought it was wounded. Now the exposed flesh tightened beneath the ragged coat, moving out of time with its breathing.

He had heard other wagoners speak of beasts whose bodies had begun to change. One man had rolled back his sleeve to show the pale marks where teeth had closed around his wrist. Marek remembered watching him rub those scars as he talked.

The man had sworn that something moved beneath the beast’s skin. Marek had never known how much of the story to believe.

Marek had imagined those beasts deep in the woods, somewhere he would never have reason to go.

The wolf stopped beyond his feet. The swollen flesh shifted again.

This looked like what the man had described.

He tried to remember what the wagoner had said to do if he ever met one.

The wolf gripping his forearm jerked backward. Pain scattered the memory.

He struck at its head with his free hand. It would not let go.

The bread he had saved was still beneath the wagon seat. Wrapped up for the return journey. He could picture the cloth tucked beside his water flask.

He had meant to eat it on the way home.

The huge wolf stepped over his legs.

He tried to call to the guards.

Its muzzle pushed beneath his jaw.

The cry never left his throat.

At that same hour, in the village, Volker woke with an ache in his back. He sat on the edge of the bed and waited for it to ease.

His shoulders were stiff as well. Yesterday he had stayed bent over a damaged crossing until the light was nearly gone. He should have stopped long enough to straighten up. He had known that while he was doing it.

From the other room came the scrape of a bowl across the table.

“Are you up?” Talima called.

“Getting there.”

He planted his feet, stood and waited a moment. The stiffness eased as he crossed to the doorway.

Talima had put bread beside his bowl. His rake rested against the wall near the outer door, where she had moved it out of the way.

“The crossing?” she asked.

“Mostly.”

She looked at the way he held his shoulder.

“You said mostly last night.”

“It’ll ease.”

He sat down carefully. It usually did once he had been moving for a while.

The ache brought back the siege-cart yards in the Valley: his shoulder beneath a beam, waiting for the men at the other end to lift; the sudden weight when somebody lost his footing. When daylight failed, lamps were hung over the frames and the work went on. He had liked seeing a finished cart leave the yard, its wheels running true beneath a load he knew it could carry.

He remembered unfinished ones too. A man would arrive wanting room for a heavier load. Another would have orders to save the remaining timber for the next frame. Both would ask Volker how soon he could have it ready. He would stand beside the cart with his mallet in his hand, explaining what had to come apart before anything could be made wider. By the time they settled which work came first, the lamps would be coming out again, and the men who had to lift the beam were already rubbing their shoulders.

He had wanted work where he could finish something and see it used. A sound crossing. A bank that held through rain. People who could tell him what needed doing without sending a rider to ask somebody farther away.

Talima pushed the bread closer.

“Eat before you go.”

He took it.

The reply from the Valley lay folded beside her elbow. She had put it there when they were clearing the table the night before.

“Will you ask him about it?” she said.

“When I get a chance.”

He opened the fold, though he knew what it said. Their request had been received. There was nothing about how much grain could be spared, or when.

He had helped unload grain sent from the Valley after another poor cutting. He remembered the relief of seeing those sacks opened. Its carriers took their surplus to markets they could scarcely reach with their own small carts; the return loads brought salt, good iron and things nobody here could make. Travelling with a guarded wagon also meant more people came home with what they had earned.

The village could not carry everything it needed on its own backs. He had written the request because he expected an answer they could use.

But the answer had come, and the grain had not. Perhaps it was taking its usual time to be counted, approved and put on a wagon. He had also heard what buyers were gathering in the Upper Valley: cart axles, long timbers, heavy rope. The last time so much grain had been wanted, he had been working on the siege carts.

He folded the reply along its old crease.

Talima watched him.

“You think there’s more to it?”

“I think we need the grain before they finish deciding.”

He put the letter back on the table. Speculating would not lower the water in the fields.

By the time he reached the grain yard, the eastern sky had brightened.

Narev was struggling to pull a sack from the cart. Volker rested his rake against the gatepost and caught the hanging end against his shoulder.

“Lift your end.”

“I am lifting it.”

“Towards me.”

The weight shifted. Together they lowered the sack to the ground, Volker moving his broad, flat tail clear as Narev stepped around him.

“There,” he said. “Now you can pull it.”

Narev dragged it beside the other sacks.

“That’s the last from the high strip.”

Volker looked at the two empty drying racks. Before the cutting, there had been talk of borrowing another.

“Your father cutting below today?”

“If he can stand in it.”

The first planting had stood in water. Ravik had helped resow the gaps with grain Narev’s mother had meant to grind. Then rain had flattened ripe heads and left cut grain drying beneath every spare roof.

“Anything about the grain from the Valley?” Volker asked.

“Pa asked the carrier yesterday. Nothing.”

Ravik came through the gate with another basket and set it beside the cart.

“Still only that they received the request?”

Narev nodded.

Volker had written it after the resowing. Ravik had helped count the household bins. They had asked for a grain advance to carry them through to the delayed cutting.

“Will what’s below be enough?” Ravik asked.

“We’ll need everything we can bring in.”

Across the lane, a guard was setting a table beneath the storehouse porch. The collector waited with his book under his arm.

Narev followed Volker’s glance.

“Pa told him we’d try to bring the rest this morning.”

“Then we’ll have to get the water moving,” Volker said.

“He’ll still want it if we don’t,” Narev said.

Volker looked back at the racks. Narev’s father needed the lower fields drained before he could reach the remaining crop.

“I’ll start at the pool.”

Ravik glanced back at the baskets waiting in the lane.

“I’ll finish these.”

“Come when you’re done.”

Volker collected his rake and took the field path.

At the first crossing, he shifted a loose plank back onto its bearer and tested it with his weight. He would bring a peg when he returned. A woman carrying a covered bowl waited until he stepped clear, then thanked him and crossed.

Farther along, fallen grain heads lay in the water beside the path. He hooked two onto the grass. Their grains had darkened and stuck together; when he rubbed them free, they broke apart wetly.

More lay beyond his reach. He could not tell how much was still sound.

He wiped his fingers on the grass and walked faster.

At the old works, the drain widened into a stone pool. Bars caught the reeds washed down from the fields. Water normally slipped between them and ran through the rock.

This morning it stood above the worn mark beside the walkway.

Volker rested his free hand on the stone.

Twice lately he had felt a faint tremor there. Uneven grinding had sounded inside the rock, ending with a knock. The last time, water had drawn sharply through the bars before slackening again.

He had checked the handle that let more water into the passage. It was still against its stop.

There was no tremor now.

He left his hand there a moment longer, then began drawing wet stems from the bars.

He worked until the rake scraped cleanly across their lower edge. The level had scarcely changed.

Volker rested the rake against his shoulder and looked back along the path.

Ravik would have work waiting when he arrived.

Ravik carried another basket through the grain-yard gate and set it beside the cart.

Narev stood beside the cart, brushing loose kernels from a tray into a sack, grain dust marking his pale apron. He picked kernels from the dirt as well, rubbing off the grit before adding them to a little bowl.

Outside the gate, Narev’s sister Ruvani crouched beside the last full basket. She smoothed a ruffled cheek feather, then took one of its handles.

“Ravik. Take that handle, would you?”

Ravik went back out and caught the opposite handle. Together they lifted the basket, carried it through the gate and set it beside the cart.

“Thank you. I was about to drag it.”

“You’d have worn through the bottom.”

“I know. That was why I was still looking at it.”

Narev folded the sack’s mouth.

Across the lane, the taxman sat at a table beneath the storehouse porch, his book open. A guard stood beside the steps, spear upright.

“How much this time?” Ravik asked.

“Five sacks,” Narev said.

“You brought four last time.”

“Pa told him. The collector checked the list. It’s five.”

“And the lower plots?”

“Still count.”

“Ma’s keeping the seed apart,” Ruvani said. “She told us not to bring those sacks out.”

“She’s changed the meal measure as well,” Narev said. “The small cup now.”

Ravik knew the cup. Before, he could take more without asking.

He had eaten at their house often enough to know where the meal was kept. Narev’s mother would send him to fetch it while she tended the pot, calling after him to fill the measure properly. He had never thought much about what remained in the bin after he put it back.

“Ma’s gone without supper the last two nights,” Ruvani said.

Narev drew the sack’s mouth closed.

“She’s keeping it for us until we cut below.”

“Then don’t bring him the fifth,” Ravik said.

Narev looked up from the sack.

“Pa’s the one who has to answer for that.”

“He can’t give away what you need to eat.”

Narev pulled the cord tight.

“We know, Rik.”

Ravik waited for him to say they would keep it. Narev bent over the knot again.

Ravik looked across the lane toward the porch. The taxman had not put the water in their fields. That did little to improve the sight of him sitting there.

If only some message would call him back to the Valley.

Ravik had seen the guard checking bank paths and crossings. This morning, the man was waiting beside a table.

“Tell Volker Pa can help tomorrow, if he needs people,” Narev said.

“I will.”

“Will you need him all day?” Ruvani asked.

“I haven’t looked yet.”

Narev set the sack upright against the others.

“If Pa goes, I’ll help you cut.”

Ruvani glanced at the empty racks.

“If we can get into it.”

Ravik nearly told her they would. Volker knew the works better than anyone; between them they had always got the water moving again. But he had not seen it this morning. He looked toward the field path.

“Come back this way. Let us know about the water,” Ruvani said.

Ravik nodded and went through the gate into the lane.

Ravik had gone only a few houses along the lane when Neli called his name.

She waited at the edge of the lane, her hair in a high ponytail and her cream satchel slung over one shoulder.

“There you are. I saw Volker at the crossing. He’s going back for tools.”

“Did the water move?”

“He said he’d need the spades.”

Neli fell into step beside him, her tail swaying.

“Have you eaten?”

“Not yet. I was going to eat when I got back.”

“When would that be?”

“I don’t know.”

She took a piece of bread from her satchel and unwrapped it. She had saved him the thick end crust.

“You remembered.”

“You always take it first.”

He accepted it with a smile.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

They walked on while he broke off a piece and Neli tucked the cloth away.

“Are you coming all the way out?”

“Only to the first crossing. I’m taking meal to the house beyond it. They filled the collector’s measure this morning.”

Ravik stopped chewing.

“There’s grain still wet on their mats,” Neli said. “They can’t grind that. They boiled greens last night. Nothing to put with them. I asked at the next yard, but they’re stretching theirs as well.”

“How long will the meal you’re taking last them?”

“Tonight. Tomorrow, if they put enough water with it.”

“I could ask Narev,” he said.

“Have they any to spare?”

He looked back along the lane. The storehouse porch was hidden by the bend. He could still picture Narev drawing the sack closed, Ruvani watching his hands.

“No.”

Neli waited beside him. He had stopped without noticing.

Ravik held out what remained of the bread.

“Take this too.”

“Eat it.”

“Have you got enough left at home?”

“For us. If I don’t bring any more over.”

She nudged his wrist.

“You’ll need that if you’re going to work out there.”

Where the lane narrowed between the gardens, Ravik went ahead. A man stood inside an open gate, laying wet grain heads on a reed mat.

“Any better at the drain?” he asked.

“Volker’s going back for tools. I’m on my way to look.”

“Can we cut this afternoon?”

“I’ll know more when I’ve been out.”

The man looked toward the flooded plots, then bent over the mat again. Ravik waited for Neli beyond the gardens. When she caught up, they followed the field path along the higher edge of the plots.

From there he could see the strips the man meant. The tops of the grain stood clear, but water filled the narrow places where a cutter needed to put his feet. Even with the drain open, it would take time to fall. He wished he had been able to give a better answer.

“Is that what you’re going to fix?” she asked, looking at the standing water.

“I hope so.”

They reached the first crossing as Volker came around the bend, a rake on his shoulder, gray hair damp at the temples.

Volker held out the rake, his flat tail moving clear as Ravik took it.

“The water hasn’t gone down. I’ve pulled out everything I can reach.”

“Will there be enough grain left?”

“I don’t know. Some of it’s spoiled. I can’t tell how much from the path. Try along the bottom of the bars. I’m going back for the spades.”

“Narev says his pa can help tomorrow.”

“Might take him up on that.”

Volker glanced at Neli.

“You’ve got him fed as well?”

“He hadn’t eaten.”

“I can see he’s being looked after.”

Ravik brushed crumbs from his fingers. Neli smiled.

Neli took the smaller path toward the house beyond the crossing. Ravik watched her go.

“The water’s the other way,” Volker said.

“I know.”

Volker patted his shoulder, then went on toward the village.

“Come and find me when you know what we need.”

Ravik took the main path toward the old waterworks.

Ravik stepped across a narrow ditch where it joined the main channel. Water stood almost level on either side of the crossing.

The grain plots lay in a shallow hollow below the village. Their ditches fed a main channel toward the rocky ridge. At either end, the ridge met higher ground.

Paths climbed over the ridge. The water had only one low way through: the passage beneath the old works, leading to a lower channel toward the lake.

He followed the channel toward the trees, looking for the muddy edges that should have been showing by now. Twice he stopped to rake reeds clear at the crossings.

Sunlight lay across the path by the time he reached the trees.

He should have heard the water by now.

Usually, its rush down the stone steps carried through the trees. Today, he heard only leaves overhead.

The ditch widened into a stone-lined pool beside a rocky rise. Ravik stepped onto the raised walkway along its edge.

At the far end, upright bars caught reeds and branches. Beyond them, broad stone steps descended to a low opening beneath the old building.

He stopped. The upper steps should have been clear of the water. Now their outline was faint beneath the cloudy surface.

Above the water passage, a broad gray door stood in the building’s stone frontage, on a higher landing reached by a separate flight of steps.

The slab fitted tightly into its frame, with no exposed hinges or grip. Ravik had bent an iron wedge trying the seam. Volker’s chisel had left only a shallow scar beside it.

A crew with better tools might cut a way in. He and Volker had enough work keeping the ditches and dams sound.

He turned back toward the pool.

Volker’s heap of wet reeds lay beside the bars.

Ravik crouched and felt for the level notch. It should have been dry. Today it was underwater.

He raked the bottom and both corners. The teeth scraped stone; only two stems and a leaf came back.

Silt scarcely moved between the cleared bars, though water was arriving from the fields.

There was still the flush to try.

The long handle beside the pool controlled the flush gate at this end of the passage. Raising it normally sent water down the steps, carrying stems and silt through the rock.

Ravik drew the handle over and dropped a chip into the pool. It drifted against the bars and stayed there.

He left the gate raised until the water cleared. The notch remained submerged.

He returned the handle to its usual position. He would have to look at the outlet.

Taking up the rake, he followed the outside path around the rocky shoulder. Short steps branched up to the winch ledge; he took the longer flight down to the lower landing.

Just beyond the stone outlet, root-bound earth had slumped across the channel from bank to bank. A broken branch lay on top, its leaves trailing in the backed-up water. Water seeped around the edges, but the pool before the outlet was almost still.

No wonder the flush had done so little.

They would need to cut the roots before shifting the earth. With the torn bank above and wet footing below, Volker would want more than two people.

The outlet lay in a recess under the stone overhang, closed by a heavy flap. Water leaked beneath its lower edge. A lifting line ran from the flap, over a pulley on a timber frame, to the winch on the ledge above.

Ravik moved along the landing.

Roots and broken stalks were packed beneath the flap. Ravik lowered the rake among them, feeling for the sill.

Ripples spread from the tangle. He stopped the rake.

The stems shifted again. Ravik eased back onto his heels.

A toad pushed between them and hauled itself onto the stone.

He let out his breath and moved his foot as it sprang onto the landing.

The toad had left a gap. He worked the rake into it, drawing out dead stems and leaves until he could see a thicker knot just inside the opening.

He crouched beside the recess’s left corner and fed the rake diagonally beneath the flap. When he lifted, the whole tangle came with it. It would not come free.

He lowered the rake, shifted one hand down the shaft and leaned closer, trying to turn the teeth clear.

The rake jerked inward.

Ravik’s feet slid before he could brace them. His shoulder struck the corner, driving the breath out of him. Cloth tore against the stone.

He released the shaft with one hand and caught the wall.

One of the roots had folded around the shaft.

Through the tangled stems, he saw thick fingers tighten. A pale crease opened at a joint, then vanished beneath a dark strip of skin.

The handle pulled again.

The rake dragged his arm straight. His other hand slid across the wall, finding nothing to hold.

Ravik let go of the shaft.

The rake scraped over the sill and vanished beneath the flap.

The weeds parted. An eye caught the light, low behind them. He glimpsed a pale jaw and teeth closing around the shaft.

Wood cracked.

He pushed away from the corner. His heel slipped, and he came down hard on one hip.

A heavy blow struck the flap from inside.

Its lower edge jolted outward. Water slapped across the landing.

A scraping sound came from beneath the overhang.

Ravik shoved himself backward.

He got his feet beneath him and stood, keeping his good hand against the wall. Blood had begun to darken his torn sleeve.

He backed toward the steps. Beneath the flap, stems shook against one another.

His heel struck the bottom tread.

He turned and climbed. His wet boot slid on the next tread, and his knee struck stone. He dragged himself higher with his good hand against the wall.

Below him, something hit the cover again.

He reached the turn where the short steps led to the winch. He took the path toward the upper pool, keeping the rock between himself and the outlet.

The rake broke. He could still hear it. Those fingers had closed around the shaft where his own hands had been.

His sleeve caught against the stone. Pain shot through his shoulder, and he pulled himself free.

Volker would be coming with the spades.

Ravik tried to call his name, but he had too little breath. He pushed away from the wall and hurried toward the trees, holding his arm against his side.

Another heavy blow sounded behind him.

He did not turn to look.