by Anna Rose
Father and Gebi, both filthy from the day’s labor, came in about an hour later when the stew in the cookpot was boiling merrily once more, and most of the finely chopped turnips had fallen apart enough to thicken the rich broth.
It was a late fall stew, which was always a favorite for Aya. Such a stew in their home was unusual, and Aya wondered what might have happened for this occasion to arise. She hoped it had nothing to do with her.
Mother only served this kind of stew on the night of the winter solstice, and they were at least two months away from that auspicious evening. Aya had already been helping her mother with the annual ritual of turning the current year’s collection of old candle drippings into new candles for that event.
Father would soon be slaughtering all of the hogs, except his best sow, and hanging the resulting meat up to smoke, to preserve it for use during the otherwise barren winter months. Mother would turn the fat into large batches of lard that they would use over the next six months to a year. The crisp cracklings that were a by-product of the lard-rendering process would make for a tasty winter snack as well.
4
Mother had banked the fire to keep the stew from burning. There was enough of it that Aya knew she would have it for breakfast the next morning. That would be a very welcome change from their normal morning serving of bland porridge. Mother always served the porridge thin, the way her father preferred it. It was better than nothing, but the operative word was “nothing.”
“Take your seat, Aya,” Zoraya said, surprising her daughter. “I will take care of serving tonight’s supper.”
Andagebi and her brother, already seated, had not bothered to wash up first. Their faces were grubby with dust and wheel grease, their fingers filthy and blackened by the day’s work. Zoraya placed a steaming towel on the table beside each man, and they used them to wipe as much of the grime from their hands and fingers as possible.
After slicing one of the two fresh loaves of dark bread she had baked that morning into thick slabs, and placing each on its wooden platter, Zoraya ladled up a large helping of thick stew onto each slab, before setting each platter down on the table. Aya eyed her serving eagerly, impatient for the end of the nightly meal invocation. In addition to the turnips she had contributed to the meal, the steaming ladleful of stew before her looked to contain rich-tasting mutton, onion, carrots, winter squash, and some greens, in addition to whatever spices Zoraya had seen fit to add.
She watched greedily as her thick trencher soaked up the hot juices of the stew, and when she was permitted to do so, Aya devoured her supper as though she were starving, down to the very last sodden piece of bread. So efficient was she that nothing was left on her wooden platter but a slight shine of moisture.
Supper was always a mostly silent event, as far as voices were concerned, at least while they all ate. Instead, there was only the sound of chewing and swallowing, as supper was tucked away down hungry gullets.
Wiping his lips with his sleeve, Aya’s father Andagebi cleared his throat to gain everyone’s attention. His second favorite time of day had begun. After supper was when most announcements were made, and discussions occurred.
“We will begin butchering the hogs tomorrow, Gebi,” he began. “The weather will begin to turn soon, and I don’t want to be doing it while the snow falls.”
“Yes, father,” Gebi responded obediently. “I’ll see to the knife and hatchet blades tonight.”
“Good lad. I want to be up before cock’s crow to start. We’ll keep the sow, of course, and the biggest speckled barrow.”
Aya wondered why Andagebi even said that, as foxes had taken the rooster an age ago, and there was not another within leagues. She wisely kept her thoughts to herself.
Andagebi prattled on about minor things until his words became a blur in Aya’s ears. Her father’s need to talk until her ears were exhausted frustrated her. She allowed her thoughts to wander, until, suddenly, her father slapped the table, hard.
He gave a broad smile to his family. He seemed quite pleased with himself, and whatever it was he was about to share. Had she missed something important in his earlier monologue?
“An excellent meal, wife,” he began. His gaze swept the table. “A fine meal for a night of celebration!”
A celebration? What was this?
“First, Gebi, we will be holding your Naming ceremony in the next few weeks. I have engaged the village clerk to come and witness it and record it in the Great Book.”
Aya’s brother had been called Gebi since he was an infant, and would not take his adult name until he was deemed an adult. It seemed that time had come, and she wondered what his adult name would be. Indeed, she wondered what hers would be when that time came for her. There was no set naming convention, but firstborns often took their child name from the parent whose gender they shared.
Gebi looked very pleased with his father’s words and preened when his father slapped him companionably on the shoulder. Not given to demonstrations of anything resembling affection, this was something to enjoy, for as long as it might last. He caught up a large spoonful of the thick stew, grinning from ear to ear as he did so.
Aya seemed to be the only one who noticed as Zoraya got up, took an overstuffed pie from the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard, and set it down on the table in front of her father, placing a serving utensil next to it. Molten berry juice had bubbled through the slits Zoraya had cut into the top crust, staining the golden brown pastry that capped the pie pink.
A sweet dessert, in addition to the otherwise fine meal? What else was on the surprise horizon tonight? Andagebi cut four servings of pie from the pan and passed them out before continuing, licking sticky pink juice and crumbs from his fingers with obvious relish.
“Now then, on to even larger things, Gebi! With the giving of your adult name, I have also found a wife for you! The eldest daughter of the village clerk is of marrying age, and I have agreed to a marriage contract between you and her.”
After taking an enormous bite of his pie wedge, Andagebi splashed some of the weak ale from the ale barrel into each mug at the table, and then raised his to Aya’s brother in an odd sort of salute.
His laden spoon halfway to his mouth, Gebi froze, staring at his father. This was a surprise for him. Aya wondered how her parents had kept it from him, as he spent most of his daylight hours with his father. Then she remembered how father had ostensibly gone to the next farm over for some errand or other and had been “forced” to stay the night while the blacksmith there had fixed whatever needed attention.
“A wife? I am to have a wife?” His fork dropped from his fingers and back down onto the waiting trencher.
It was clear to Aya that this announcement had been the reason for the unusually festive meal they had just devoured. She felt her stomach’s contents begin to sour.
“Yes, my son, her name is Lorisani,” father said in a soft tone at odds with his normal demeanor. “She will arrive, with her dowry, three days hence. Tomorrow, we will begin building an addition onto our home where you and she will sleep.”
Her brother stared into the middle distance, eyes unfocused.
“A wife?” Gebi could not seem to get past the idea that he was being married off. Aya was reminded of a rabbit surprised by torches in the night. It seemed to her that he did not appear pleased at the notion. Why would that be? Did he not want a family of his own?
Mother burst into tears, but Aya’s father affected not to notice her unhappiness. Her son was no longer her little boy, but a grown man who would now have a woman of his own. Aya wondered how her mother would feel once her daughter’s engagement was announced. Would she mourn her daughter’s absence for love, or because her handmaiden was no longer in residence? Then she mentally slapped herself for having such an uncharitable thought.
Father gave Gebi another comradely slap on the shoulder and grinned at him. Aya was an uncomfortable spectator. Gebi seemed only slightly less uncomfortable.
“Soon you’l
l be working on a fine pack of grandsons for me!” Aya’s father enthused. Leave it to Andagebi to think of the marriage as a way to increase his wealth. “With more strong backs to work the fields, we’ll double or even triple the harvest!”
Aya wondered how large the dowry had been, as Loris was one of several daughters in that family, and certainly not the oldest of them.
Zoraya continued to cry silently. Unable to watch, Aya rose from her chair and began collecting the dirty platters and utensils from the table. She left everything at Gebi’s place alone. He would, she imagined, finish everything there before he rose from his place, but with the news, it might take him some time to accomplish that.
She was halfway to the kitchen counter when her father spoke again. His voice was nowhere near as jovial and self-congratulatory as it had been when he spoke of Gebi’s engagement.
“Next we shall see about getting you married off, my daughter.” His voice sounded cold to her ears. Aya heard her mother gasp. This news, it seemed, was a surprise to her as well.
Aya froze and then turned around, surely looking as shocked as her brother had only a few moments earlier. She felt tears beginning to brim and fought to keep from rubbing them away. It would only lead to more tears.
“Husband, she is too young yet for marriage,” her mother broke in, wiping her own eyes with the hem of her threadbare apron. “Not for at least another year!”
Aya watched as Father glanced at her mother, raising an eyebrow. Aya braced herself for an explosion.
“At least a year? The baker— “.
An expression of horror crossed Zoraya’s face.
“Branathar the baker has his choice of many fine girls,” she blurted, her voice wavering a bit. “Unless he is willing to wait a year, he cannot have Aya.”
“Cannot?” Andagebi’s question came out as a low growl.
“No,” Zoraya replied with unaccustomed determination.
“Three women in the same home? That is more than any man should have to bear.” Her father had never considered what his life might have been like if her mother had borne more than a single daughter. “She will be at her most fertile now, and I have assured Branathar that she will produce many fine sons for him. Look at those nice, wide, childbearing hips. I could wish as much for my heifers!”
Zoraya gasped again, and Aya felt sick to her stomach at her father’s words. He made her sound like one of the livestock.
“She is still too small to have children, husband! She needs more time to grow!” Desperation tinged her voice as she pleaded with Andagebi. Aya could see the storm brewing in her father’s eyes.
“Nonsense, woman! You were younger than she was when you had Gebi! You did just fine, carrying him to term. A fine, healthy boy. You have never had troubles with any of your pregnancies.”
“You are taking my son from me, Andagebi,” Zoraya said to her husband angrily, her tears drying on her cheeks. “Do not take my daughter from me hot on the heels of that loss. It is only another year, husband.”
“My father and his father before him worked this land, Zoraya. I need my son and grandsons by my side, planting, and tending and harvesting. Not some worthless female,” he spat, his cheeks awash in a lurid blush. He slid a lewd glance over to his only daughter as he spewed his venom.
Aya tried, unsuccessfully, not to cringe at his harsh words, and saw Andagebi’s ghost of a smile at her reaction. “It is bad enough that I have to provide a suitable dowry to get her married off. I am not a wealthy man, after all.”
“Surely another year will not put us in the poorhouse, Andagebi!” her mother interjected. “I need her here to help me with the chores!”
“Gebi’s new wife will take her place, Zoraya. I am sure that if she is not already trained, I will be able to accomplish that task quickly enough.” Father stared hard at her mother as he spoke, and Aya could see the anger rising in his eyes. “You will not lose a servant, wife. You will gain strong grandsons out of Lorisani.”
“Aya knows how to coax the hens into laying more eggs, Andagebi! Even I do not know how she manages to do that. The hens are old, and will soon stop laying altogether.”
Mother rarely raised her voice against father, and he was startled and angry that she had done so now. Father always said that while the king ruled the country, he was king in his home, and her mother’s outburst ran against this tradition. He rose from his seat, his hand going to the worn leather belt around his waist.
“Then she can teach Lorisani that secret before she goes to wed the baker, Zoraya. It cannot be that difficult a thing to accomplish if even a girl can do it.”
Both Aya and her brother were on intimate terms with that leather strap and its horrid iron buckle. While the leather of that belt left red raised welts that would eventually heal cleanly, the buckle would sometimes cut into bare flesh, leaving permanent scars behind in its wake. She had never seen her father use it on her mother but knew that did not mean he had never used it outside of her presence.
“Aya, my daughter, go clean the platters. You don’t want the food to dry on them and make them harder to clean,” her mother said, keeping her voice steady as she stared back at her husband, defiance clear in her expression. As Aya slipped out the door, she heard her father’s voice raise in anger.
“How dare you say such a thing in front of the children, Zoraya? You are never again to undermine — “
Aya managed to get far enough away that she could not hear the rest of whatever it was her father said. She was not so far away, though, that she did not hear a loud crash come from inside their small home. Grabbing the pumping mechanism, Aya began to pump water from the well into the waiting bucket, the squealing sound it made helping to dull the other loud noises that came from the interior of the cottage.
Married? So soon? She had no desire to be married, yet her father was already making the arrangements! It was all she could do not to cry.
Once cool enough, fresh water was in the bucket, and Aya was scrubbing the cracked and worn platters clean, she began to wonder why her mother, who she had heard participating not reluctantly in marriage conversations with her father, was suddenly so against trying to marry her off. Gebi’s new wife would take her place on the chore front once he was married, so she had nothing to worry about on that score.
Aya tried to remember if the clerk’s oldest daughter seemed a biddable girl, the very few times she had laid eyes on her. All she could remember was that the girl was dark skinned, with dark, curly hair, and dark eyes, and did not speak many more words than was necessary for a conversation.
Of course, being quiet did not immediately translate to obedience. Lorisani could simply be biding time before escaping the family home. Aya had seen that before. Either way, it probably would not be long before her father broke the girl’s spirit. He did not want spunk; he wanted obedience.
She was startled out of her reverie when she heard her father call her name. His voice was still angry, and Aya was afraid of what that anger would mean for her. He could not see her from the doorway, so neither could she see him, but his voice still frightened her to her bones.
Would her father commit violence upon her with the Dragonguard overhead? Her eyes swept the sky, as she prayed for the sudden appearance of dragons, but saw none. Would it have mattered if they had been there? Would they have noticed or even cared? Were domestic issues beyond their realm of concern?
If only she were a Dragonguard, it would be one of hers.
“Aya! Daughter! Come here now!” Andagebi’s tone was still tight with anger.
Clutching the stack of wooden platters to her chest like an impromptu shield, Aya made her way around the corner, where he would be able to see her from the cottage, but would not be so close as to be able to grab her. He had grabbed her before, for unexpected beatings.
Aya saw what appeared to be blood on the front of his tunic, and stopped moving. Three long bloody scratches ran down one cheek, blood drooling down his neck and onto the fil
th-stained garment. Mother, it seemed, had not taken her beating meekly. Good for her.
“Aya, come here, now,” he told her, his voice at a deadly quiet level. His belt dangled from his hand, and Aya wondered if it did not now seem darker than it had been before he removed it earlier. She obediently began to walk toward him, but her pace was slow. At the last possible moment, he stepped away and pointed at the cottage behind him. “Your mother wants you.”
“Yes, father,” she replied, still not moving, and watched him as he walked away from the cottage in the general direction of the south field, away from her. She hoped he would be gone a long while, or at least long enough to lose his anger.
What had he done to her mother that required Aya’s assistance? What would she find when she entered the cottage? Dread filled her.
Only once he was far enough away that he did not pose a threat did she begin to walk toward the cottage. The small farm seemed oddly quiet, as though even the livestock waited to discover what lay inside the darkened building.
“Gebi! Where are you, boy?” her father shouted.
Andagebi had walked away without a backward glance, their old dog keeping close to his heels, making Aya wondered where her brother might have gone, and if he was far enough away that he could not hear his father calling his name.
5
Once she reached the cottage and went back inside, Aya gasped in horror. Her mother was on the floor, face down in a puddle of spoiled ale that had emptied from its shattered barrel. She was covered in blood and not moving, except for the slight rise and fall of her back as she breathed. Fragments of the now destroyed berry pie were splattered across her mother, the table, and the floor.