Chapter 5: Rock Against Rock

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“Put on your shoes, now, Bessil. Keep me company as I work.”

So Vesh and I trudge uphill onto the terraced fields.

“Why is the land like there, here?” I ask. The soil steps up, each step kneehigh, piled with rocks.

“Why? The terraces? So they can grow crops,” he says. “It’s no good growing grains on the slope.”

“Did the peasants do this? It must have taken forever.”

“No, no, boy, the peasants aren’t smart enough for this. They're just animals, really. Lifetimes ago, the townspeople laid out the terraces and had the peasants dig them out. There’s a builder in each town and he comes down to check on them, supervise repairs after a storm. Here we are.”

The trail leads us to a longhouse made of mats of straw.

“Awake, awake!” he calls out. I’d seen no peasants since we came out, but I hear rustling.

The overseer slaps his scourge against the posts of the longhouse. A dozen peasant men shuffle out. They make obedience to the overseer and make jibber sounds at each other.

“There’s two fields that are ready to plant,” he tells them. He waves over his shoulder and says, “plant,” again. The peasant men pad off in that direction.

“We’ll check on them by and by,” he says. “Where are the rest of you?” he calls.

Peasant women and children shuffle out, each kneeling before the overseer then rising and looking at the ground.

“I’ll want flour milled by the end of the light, ground clean with no sand - understand?”

They made an “ai ai” sound a little like “Yeah”, so they must understand.

“Let’s go,” the overseer says. He waves his scourge at the women peasants. When I see it unfurled, it’s about half the height of a man in length with spikes woven into the end. It looks to tear the flesh right off a man.

“Git up, git,” he tells them, walking behind as they cross a lawn to an area with low walls.

I’ve never been so close to a peasant before, let alone a herd of them. They look like people and smell middling foul. Their faces are brown and worn, not as much as a goblin, but hard like leather. They all wear a blouse and a skirt of the same rough cloth. Over their heads, the women wear a kerchief, brown in color, knotted under their chins.

Their faces and arms are covered in little scars. Their feet are hard calloused and they wear no shoes.

The overseer pops the lid off a basket in the work area. It’s made of tough stuff, and its lid fits tight. I guess it’s expensive - but how could peasants have something valuable?

“All of this,” he says. “All of this ground and in bags. And you’ll keep your hands out of it,” he says.

The women make ai ai noises and settle themselves in circles of four. Some of them have babes in arms. Girl children follow around this woman or that, clutching at her skirts.

“Stand here, boy. Mind that the grain goes onto the millstone and into the bags.”

He turns without waiting for my reply, so I stand there, my thumbs in my belt. These are only women folk, but they seem hard and hard-worn. I don’t know what I’m to do if they disobey or mean to steal the grain. I’ve no whip or scourge.

Many of the women have dolls, like the peasant dolls the peddler traded with Vesh before. One, I think, is my mother’s work. The peasants cling to them, managing to hold tight even while minding the children and working at the grain.

One of the women starts to hum, then the rest join in as they take turns flipping the grain up in the air, fanning flat baskets to do so. I’ve no idea what it means, but they aren’t stealing any, so I stand silently by.

“Hey, boy,” the peddler says, walking down the slope toward me. The women look over at him, then back to their task. Some of them fall silent. “I’m back,” he says, walking up to me.

“Welcome, sir,” I say, not knowing what to say. “Did you go to the town to sell wares?”

“Do you see my basket? Of course not. My friend asked me to walk up to the lowest station, take a message. Has he got you overseeing this lot?”

He looks at them and makes a rude noise. They stop humming. A couple of women look away, turn their attention to the children. Others just look at their tasks.

The peddler strolls off up the paths to the terraces where the overseer is working.

I stand about, thumbs in belt as before, but it hurts my legs and back to stand around so long, so I take to pacing.

The women have tossed the grain around long enough, though I can’t say how they know what is long enough. I can’t see clear enough as all the women are crouched around something. I hear the scraping of stone on stone.

I move to get a better look, to make sure they aren’t stealing. They’re rubbing rock against rock. I don’t know that’s how you grind grain, but there it is. I stand, consumed by this new sight.

One of the women smiles at me and then they all turn and look at me. Embarrassed, I step back.

“What are you seeing, boy?” the overseer asks. He’d come back down the path, leaving the menfolk to whatever he assigned them.

“They’re grinding,” I say. “I’ve never seen that. That’s how you make flour?”

“Nah,” he says. “We don’t make flour. No way you could put your back into it like a peasant. They’re built for it. I’ve another job for you,” he says.

“Yes, sir,” I say.

He leads me a few paces up the path. “We’ve some men coming down from the town.”

“To pick up the flour?” I ask.

“That’s right. You’re a clever boy. I want you to go up that path, to the ridge, there, and wait for them. When they come, ask them to rest and come back down to tell me. Can you do that?” he asks.

We’re talking a little quiet and I don’t know why. Could peasants even understand real words?

“Yes, sir,” I say. “Is it far?”

“No,” he says. “Just up there, just out of sight from here. Don’t stand on the ridge though. It worries the peasants. Things look small when they are far, you see. Confuses them when you’re suddenly small when you were big. You’ve got your hood, ‘case it gets dark. Not sure how long it will be. Off with you!”

Submitted: April 01, 2023

Fantasy sprite goblins bones