and since I find this bad so good,
how good will be the good when this suffering is done.
— Bernart de Ventadorn, troubadour, 12th century A.D. *
***
Monday, October 19, 2054
Oaklee journeyed toward where the village matriarchs gathered in The Orchard to inquire about her duties during reaping. Today was the first of many in Harvest. Soon, field after field of wheat, rye, barley, and alfalfa would replenish the depleted grain barns. Just beyond the meadow, men were hard at work with scythes, slashing through the golden stalks of wheat, which infused the main dome with a sweet, earthy fragrance. Oaklee ambled past The Forge along the way and observed Connor sharpen tools with a whet stone, his sullen, focused gaze lifting long enough to dip in acknowledgment.
This was a difficult day for her family. It was the first Harvest in New Eden history where her father did not preside as the Earth Element, but instead joined in the celebration from the ground. And Coal was not present to show off in the fields, eliciting the excited chatter of the unattached females, especially when his tunic clung to his sweaty figure. The last two thoughts were enough to make her groan, and she could not resist the private chuckle that emerged despite her despondency.
Lost to her memories, Oaklee touched an apple tree to gather her runaway mind and to greet the Old Biddies that watched over the gardens. She peered through the gnarled branches to the scene shortly ahead. It was the same image she had always known; and yet the anomalous reality further detached her from what should be a joyous occasion, promising the bliss of community bonds and blushes of courting rituals.
Woven bassinets hung in the lower branches of several apple and pear trees, dotting The Orchard with the fruit of soft, pink babies, nestled snug and tight in their swaddling blankets. The matriarchs placed knotted fingers upon the baskets and, with gentle pushes, rocked the sleeping babies to old lullabies. Those awake were given leaves to reach for and fondle, or acorn sacks to kick, which rewarded eager legs with rattles and tiny feet with small lumps to feel and explore.
Younger women held small bundles with doting eyes and dreamy faces, quietly conferring upon blankets stretched on the ground; while others played with the toddlers, chasing them in merry games or hiding behind aprons for peek-a-boo.
This was the way every Harvest. Older women passed on various wisdoms of womanhood to the maidens or newly married women, as the mothers trailed behind the men, bundling the grain or performing other Harvest tasks. The young ladies socialized and vied for the attentions of the laboring young men, who displayed their virility through hours of endurance. And if not from the men, the young women sought the honor of receiving the personal attentions of a matriarch.
As Oaklee neared the gathering, many whispered and turned curious eyes her direction. She pretended not to notice and ambled toward the head matriarch for work direction. Three young women she passed, sitting upon a woolen blanket, pressed dainty hands to their mouths to stifle unkind giggles, looking her direction before drawing heads close to whisper once more. Their long hair shifted in the breeze and boasted decorative braids and herbal flower chaplets, the babies in their arms stirring only slightly with their activity. The village girls were a little younger than Oaklee, although not by much, and they expressed the immaturity of those wishing to seek attention from the young men in the fields. Although Oaklee knew this game and understood the competition, she chose not to reply or acknowledge their girlish notions.
“Come, Your Highness,” Verna encouraged, and the head matriarch’s kind brown eyes silently relayed compassion. The elderly woman dipped her head in honor. Oaklee repaid the honor with a curtsy, lowering to the grass at Verna’s feet. “Do not pay them heed. A man desires a confident woman, not a jealous girl. They shall learn soon enough and trade pettiness for more becoming behavior.”
“I am not offended, Madam,” Oaklee said, fidgeting with the pleats of her dress. “My family is the source of much controversy. I am used to the stares, whispers, and otherwise rude behavior.”
“You poor dear,” Verna said, placing a comforting hand upon Oaklee’s cheek. “You are a strong woman. Your name suits you well.” The elderly woman brushed a thumb across her cheek and then returned to the knitting in her lap. “All of the wee ones are cared for at present. I do have an idea for an occupation, though.” Verna turned to a small village girl. “Susan, please fetch Lady Rain at my request.”
“Yes, Madam.” The little girl darted through the trees toward the gardens, bare feet turning up leaves as braids bounced with each stride.
“You do not wear flowers in your hair this day, Your Highness,” Verna said with a sly smile. “Have you perhaps captured the heart of a young man? Or do you honor Connor’s lad?”
Oaklee lowered her eyes and folded her hands properly in her lap. “I simply do not wish to advertise an interest in courting at present. My heart is otherwise engaged in separate matters of a personal nature.”
“Well said,” the woman replied with a warm smile. “Your mother and father would be most proud of the young lady who sits at my feet.” A tear slipped through all attempts of restraint and slid down Oaklee’s cheek. “There, there,” Verna soothed, caressing her cheek once more. “Have you seen this pattern yet?” Wrinkled hands lifted up a partially knitted shawl for Oaklee to inspect.
“No, Madam. It is quite lovely.” Oaklee smiled wanly and fingered the fine stitches. “Shall you teach me?”
“It would be an honor, Your Highness.”
A companionable silence settled between them. The click of bone needles and the murmurs of feminine voices and of babies wrapped around Oaklee, and the walls of her home seemed to move in. How could one be in the company of others and still feel so isolated?
Not wishing to give in any longer to the melancholy that gripped her, Oaklee swept a thoughtful glance toward the fields. Her brother’s form was easy to identify as he wove in and out of workers, listening, instructing, and assessing. She absently blinked with resignation and searched for the amber curls of her sister-in-law. Oaklee could not locate Ember’s elegant bearing amongst the gathering, concluding that the Daughter of Fire was still caring for the goats. Laurel played with the village children close by in a copse of birch trees edging the forest, her sister’s melodious voice and laughter a balm to Oaklee’s soul. With a wistful sigh, she dropped her eyes and fiddled with the folds and tucks of her dress as it rippled around her legs.
Oaklee heard the faint footsteps before she noted Rain’s approach. The Daughter of Water curtsied before Verna and then faced Oaklee. “Your Highness,” she greeted softly. Oaklee internally cringed with the new courtesy title she was bestowed by the community, even her close friends, but remained emotionless.
“The wee ones have caregivers at present,” Verna said. She casually brushed her long gray braid over her shoulder and lifted her brown eyes to Rain. “Do you have a position upon your staff available, My Lady? Perhaps to offer water to the men and women?”
“Yes, Madam. I would be most grateful for the assistance.”
“Wonderful. Willow Oak, you are employed,” Verna said with a smile and quiet chuckle. “Enjoy this day safe in the company of your friend.”
“Thank you, Madam,” Oaklee said as she rose and curtsied once more. She turned to Rain and offered her arm. “Shall we, My Lady?”
Rain slipped her arm into Oaklee’s with a conspiratorial smile. “Indeed.”
They ambulated through the blankets, baskets, and women, exchanging greetings with those who presented themselves in a friendly manner, and ignoring those bent on jealous musings or dissension. Once out of earshot, they turned toward each other and giggled with relief.
“Oh, how I have missed you,” Rain said, leaning a head on Oaklee’s shoulder for a few steps. “You are ever a good friend to me.”
“You are easy to love,” Oaklee replied, patting Rain’s arm. “It is selfishness on my part. Should I have to work hard to earn your affec
tion, well...” She smiled and Rain laughed.
“Happy for me then, solitary creature that you are.”
“It is joy shared.”
“To think, I have you all to myself. Coal was always stitched to your side, more so this last year.” Rain sighed, the sound long and reflective. “I wonder if he is the source of trouble in a new community.”
Oaklee replied, “And if there are matriarchs to charm and convince he is nothing but angelic?”
“Oh, but he is,” Rain said with a sly smile.
“To be sure.” Oaklee watched her brother pick up a scythe and join the rhythm in the field. “I fear Coal’s thirst for adventure and his impetuous antics shall only lead him into trouble of an unwanted variety.”
“Is the trouble ever intentional?” Rain giggled. “You must miss him.”
“Yes, very much.”
“There are no flowers in your hair.”
Oaklee stopped and turned toward her friend. “Are there rumors?”
“There are always rumors, are there not? But no, fret not. ’Tis my own curiosity.” Rain angled her head and searched Oaklee’s eyes. “May I have your permission to show interest upon his return?”
“You do not need my permission, silly toad.” Oaklee giggled.
A faint smile touched Rain’s lips. “There is another who owns your heart, I believe. One whose eyes must surely reflect the skies on a cloudy day.” The smile grew. “He is a handsome man. I would not suffer much under his kisses.”
“Rain Daniels!” Oaklee squealed in astonishment, raising hands to her cheeks. “Such things you say.”
“Do not be pretentious.” Rain batted the air as if what she said was not the slightest bit improper. “To kiss an Outsider...”
“If you swoon, I shall leave you on the meadow floor to fend for yourself,” Oaklee admonished playfully.
“Please ensure my dress is pooled around me in a dramatic fashion so I maintain propriety while dreaming of clandestine meetings and forbidden kisses.” Rain slid Oaklee a side-glance.
Oaklee groaned, “Oh dear Lord,” but finished with a mischievous look of her own.
Rain’s humor faded and she drew her dark brows together. “Harvest does not seem the same.”
“No, nor shall it ever be. Nothing is as it once was and I fear change shall only continue to torment us.”
“Thank you for being my friend.”
The abrupt change in topic worried Oaklee and she stopped and faced her friend once more. “You are easy to love, Rain.” She gathered her friend into an embrace and whispered, “With time he shall discover this truth and make all your immodest dreams come true.”
Rain looked out over the fields and did not laugh as Oaklee hoped. “No man in New Eden shall want me once they know the truth of my birth.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Oaklee pulled away and locked eyes with her friend. “I thought you wished to show Coal your interest?”
“Never mind. Just the silly things I say. Shall we?” Rain gestured toward the pump well.
Buckets and ladles crowded the well as a young woman pumped and another filled, taking in empty buckets and lining up those recently filled. Two young women, hair adorned in flowers and styled fashionably, fetched buckets and moved toward the fields.
The young village woman who filled buckets glared at Oaklee, hesitantly meeting Rain’s eyes. “Why is she here?”
“Laynie, her Highness shall join us in the fields and you shall remain civil.” Rain’s tone brooked no argument and Laynie simply nodded, handing Oaklee two buckets before retrieving another empty vessel. “I shall be behind you shortly,” Rain said with an apologetic smile.
Oaklee smiled in reply, feeling her cheeks warm, and turned toward the golden field, the only one in the main biodome. Her father once explained that it was a conditioning field as the Mediterranean dome was hot, dry, and more demanding on the body. This week, the men and women would practice in the cooler air until a routine was established and their bodies were prepared for the more difficult task of reaping field after field.
She searched the landscape in a broad sweep for the other water bearers. By their glow, cheeks and lips prettily blushed rose, and the swing of their hips, Oaklee figured the two young women stayed close to the outskirts where The Orchard met the meadow, and where the young men congregated to demonstrate their strength in the front fields adjacent to The Rows. So Oaklee followed the small foot trail around the field, over the small stone bridge across the stream, to the back acre.
The buckets were heavy and the hemp rope rubbed against her palms, but her arms managed after carrying bags of heavy wool and bundles of prepared flax linen over the past fortnight. The water sloshed on the uneven trail, wetting her toes and squishing in her shoes. She wrinkled her nose in irritation, but continued on her mission.
The soprano voices of the women workers, who bundled the felled wheat, grew louder as Oaklee approached. Their songs provided rhythm and much needed entertainment as the men toiled away.
Leaf stood up from a hunched position near the edge of the field and stretched his back. Upon seeing her, he smiled and then wiped the sweat from his face with a hemp rag he kept tucked into his belt. The fabric, gifted by Ember before Mass, was beautifully embroidered with leaves, and Oaklee’s heart smiled at the sentimental gesture.
This morning was the first since her mother died that she had not gifted her brother or father a Harvest token to carry into the fields. Although she normally rolled her eyes at such romantic gestures, she felt empty this day, useless, and all tied to a silly piece of cloth, one she spun and wove herself.
“Do you bring water?” Leaf asked, breathless.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” she answered, ever aware of the many ears listening to their family. She ladled water from the bucket and Leaf drank greedily. Then he took the ladle from her hand and poured water over his head.
“There are others nearby in need of water,” he said, pointing his head in the direction of the workers. “I fear the other maidens prefer the front field and do not visit often.”
“I shall care for your workers, Your Majesty. Lady Rain shall assist me.”
“Thank you, Willow.”
“Oaklee.”
Leaf chuckled and shook his head, bending over to return to work. Oaklee smiled to herself and moved in the direction Leaf suggested, offering water first to several women. Grain coated their aprons and hair, and their cheeks flushed from the exertion. Next, she visited three men who stood in a row, slashing back and forth at the grain to the beat of the women’s cheerful songs.
She continued down the line of reapers, walking around mounds of tied bundles, and hesitated near the midpoint of the field. Fillion’s unexpected presence startled her, believing he assisted Connor in The Forge this day. Oaklee’s mouth parted as she reveled in his appearance, eyes as light as day, glistening charcoal hair with hints of mahogany mussed and fashioned by the wind, his tunic ruffling in the crisp autumn air and clinging to his body. He made a beautiful and cutting figure in the undulating gold and, for the first time, she felt weak simply by gazing at him. A bio-breeze perfumed the air in a sweet, earthy scent, and she blinked as a dizzying rush of foreign emotions threatened to overwhelm and lay siege to her good senses.
She recovered, and directed attention to her occupation, grounding her fluttering thoughts upon something more practical.
“You’re staring at me.” He cracked a one-sided smile.
“Water, My Lord?”
He nodded, his breath coming in fast and deep, chest heaving from the work.
“God, I think I’m dying.”
“Shall I fetch Brother Markus to issue your last rites?”
Sweat dripped down his face and he blinked it away in irritation, his lips forming a subtle smile. Oaklee lifted the ladle to his mouth and he took the handle and tipped it up, sighing upon completion.
“May I offer you another?”
“Thanks,” he said simply, still ou
t of breath. After finishing another dip, he wiped his face with the sleeve of his tunic.
“Do you not carry a rag?”
“A what?”
“You shall stain your sleeve.” She regretted her words the instant they left her mouth, remembering he did not have a woman—mother, sister, or admirer—to supply a token for him to carry as he toiled for Harvest.
“That’s OK. I’ve had three girls offer to do my laundry today.” The smile begged for her to reply.
“Is that so?” She raised an eyebrow. “I wish you much luck while navigating the politics of such offers.”
“No offer from you?” The smile widened into something devilish, before he settled into the familiar unimpressed expression, one that was more coy and flirtatious than anything else. Oaklee stared at him, confused on how to respond.
“I bring you water and you reply with requests for me to do your laundry?” Oaklee turned her head and lifted her chin. “For shame.”
“I’m just teasing you.”
He took a step closer until they almost touched and her head swam in a delicious headiness. It was a most irritating predicament, one she had never known before. Everything within her was ready to run and she blurted, “Please, do not trouble yourself, My Lord.” Oaklee reached for the buckets at her feet. He touched her arm and she paused, looking away.
“Willow?”
“Yes?”
He whispered, “Look at me.”
She gradually looked his way, and her thoughts faded into an intensity of gray that captured her completely. Those otherworldly eyes never missed a beat, always assessing, always discerning, equally as eager to smile at her antics, and, on occasion, allowed glimpses of the man behind the pain and derision. But at this moment, they worshiped her, the adoration evident as he held her gaze.
Her body slackened as her resolve melted, a dreamy rush turning her into a puddle at his feet. But terror gripped her once more within a blink, a breath, a flutter of a heartbeat, silencing the confessions her heart pounded to proclaim in return.
“Willow—”
Elements (The Biodome Chronicles series Book 2) Page 35