Boots Chapter 7

The days of spring lengthened and warmed into those of summer. The villagers of Holding stretched the work hours in the field to fit the extra time the sun spent wheeling across the sky. It was common at this time of the year to see small shrines spring up along the roads and paths that passed through the fields as villagers – thankful for the longer days and fair weather – prayed for continued good fortune. Bits of found and made things decorated these shrines with offerings for all manner of beings, from the loftiest gods and goddesses to the humblest and most common of spirits.  

But on Boots’ walks to and from the field showed, there was a new element of prayer in these shrines, one that had less to do with thanks and more to do with mercy. Carved statues of various gods and spirits were fixed to fences and propped up in stone circles and engraved with runes and symbols. Flat rocks and stone bowls showed ashes of smudge that had been burned so that the smoke would drift across the fields. In rarer cases, Boots saw evidence of small animals being sacrificed; and although such blood sacrifices were a known practice it still turned his stomach. His mother tsked at those. 

“The only blood you should be willing to sacrifice is your own. Anything else is just killing.” 

Boots agreed with his mother about the sacrifices, but he also understood why some were led to try it. Swaths of the fields themselves were empty, showing dry ground, piles of rushes, or layers of ashes depending on how each farmer had tried to treat the blight they had found. Because the blight had found its way into Holding. 

Although the patches of brown among the green were distressing, Boots’ understanding was that Holding was faring better than many other villages. His own field and Balert’s had shown signs early on. After consulting with Balert and his mother, Boots dug up the plants, burned them and treated the soil with some herbs mixed with soot his mother gave him. That seemed to work, for he had not found any blight at all since then; but the same herb and soot concoction did not work as well for others. Some fields suffered more; some fields had none at all. There seemed to be no pattern, no rhyme or reason for what caused the disease or how it spread, or what plants it affected more. The uncertainty was a prickly discomfort at the back of everyone’s minds that set people on edge.  

Boots’ friends continued to help him when they could, but the truth was that all the families of village Holding were racing against the prospect of a lean winter. It would be foolish not to. And with the blight to deal with, it seemed even the longer days did not hold enough hours to prepare. 

It would have been easier to bear the work if the weather was more cooperative. There were a series of overcast days, seeming to promise rain but bringing only heat. Holding laboured under heavy skies strung with deep bellied clouds. Villagers donned hats to ward of the searing whiteness of the sun glaring through the clouds and humidity. 

Boots rose with the sun and went to work while the dew was still drying on the grass. If it wasn’t the fields that he tended to it was making minor improvements to the cottage. He expanded the storage shed, digging it deeper and wider after promising his mother not to disturb the mysterious aelph stone that peeked out from the ground. The old rock seemed to watch him curiously from its shaded corner as Boots sweated over shovelful after shovelful of dirt. He chopped wood, lengthened the animal shelter and dragged up buckets of clay from the creek to make daub for the new storage and to patch the cottage walls. He spent his days with one tool or another in his hand. And when the day ended, he was so tired he could barely manage to lift a spoon to eat. 

One morning he found his mother standing at the edge of the garden and frowning at her hives. “The bees are unhappy,” she’d said. “No telling what kind of ill that bodes.” 

Boots supposed that could be ominous, but these days it seemed everything was, from the heavy clouds to the impending blight. Most days he was too hot and too tired to think about it. 

He was working in the field, sopping with sweat, when he looked up to see something approaching though the haze of heat. The blur resolved itself into Siggu, his horses plodding along, the wagon rolling behind. Boots leaned against his shovel to watch the approach, the heat closing around his stillness like a heavy, steaming blanket. Colin was sitting next to Siggu, and an assortment of blond and dark heads belonging to brothers and cousins of one friend or the other occupied the back of the wagon and peeked over the sides. 

“We’re going to the millpond for a swim,” Colin called from his seat. “Thought you might want to come along. Siggu begged some ice off his dad and it’s chilling the water in the barrel.” 

Colin hopped out and helped Boots gather his things together while Siggu executed a wide, careful turn with the wagon. Boots climbed into the back with the assortment of brothers, cousins and, for some reason, an old log. The boys were wide eyed with excitement in spite of the sweat plastering their hair to their foreheads. 

“Where are your hats you silly turkeys?” Boots asked them, causing more grins. A few sheepishly took hats out from behind their backs and put them on, others crossed their arms and stubbornly complained about the itchiness of straw, or having more than enough hair to count as a hat. 

Boots turned the conversation to the log that was taking up room in the wagon. Apparently, it was to play chicken on. It was not really big enough, but the enthusiasm of the boys had evidently been too much for Siggu and Colin to turn down and the log had been loaded onto the cart. Knowing that a larger log would be easily found closer to the pond, Boots saw no reason to dissuade them. Instead, he spent the time helping them make elaborate plans to help knock Siggu and Colin into the drink. Sitting up front, Siggu and Colin smiled, pretending not to hear. 

Siggu brought the wagon along the road that led straight to the mill itself. The lower part of the mill was built of stone, carefully laid by predecessors of predecessor of Holding. The base of the mill was on an incline, so that the walls near the bank were about half the height of the walls that met the ground on the other side. The taller side was open, allowing for carts to pull in and load up while the mill was running. The mill’s wheel was still today, and Siggu drove the horses right under the opening to leave them in the shady space. 

Colin and Boots directed the boys to bring hay and to scoop some water to fill the trough. Boots looked up at the wide, dusty floorboards, and the tall shaft and gears where they all met above in a careful network of cogs. It fascinated him to see it in motion. He remembered Albo swatting him away and marching him out years ago, worried that Boots would get under foot and hurt himself or someone else. A few seasons back, Colin was allowed to help repair some of the gears with Tale. Boots had hoped that he would be able to help the next time. He flexed his right hand, conscious of how the last two fingers did not close the same as the rest, and imagined how he would properly grip the tools to do the work. 

“Boots, let’s go.” Colin called over his shoulder as he left the building. 

Happy to be distracted from his thoughts, Boots followed. 

In addition to the barrel of ice-cooling water, there was a large basket with some bread, meat, berries and cheese to share as well as what Boots had spared from the field. Boots hoped they might catch a fish to cook as well. They took turns carrying the basket and carefully rolling the barrel to the slight rise in the shade of a large tree that stretched its branches gracefully across the grassy area by the pond. A blanket had been found either in the cart or in the mill and it was rolled out for the basket and barrel. 

Once everything was settled there was a moment when he, Colin and Siggu looked at one another as if checking that everything was done. The younger boys waited in anticipation. Then, as if of one mind, all three oldest boys grinned and broke for the pond, yelling as they sped across the lawn. A chorus of younger voices joined in, charging along behind them. Boots savoured that moment of flailing through the air, that short moment of weightlessness, before plunging into the refreshing water below. 

There was a large log by the side of the pond, no doubt left by someone else who had played chicken, and they played countless rounds with an equally countless number of rules. Both Colin and Siggu pretended to be duped by the younger ones’ plans at least once; but served up a good number of dunkings as well. Boots was happy that he had not lost his impeccable balance and came out the victor in most rounds. He did not fare as well at swimming, where Siggu’s and Colin’s long reach and slimmer builds seemed to propel them forward through the water like arrows. 

While some swam races, Boots and a few brothers and cousins foraged along the riverbanks. They found nettles, mushrooms and redroot. Sticky red cheeks told him someone had found berries but had already eaten them. Boots started a fire, the nettles were rinsed and squeeze to remove the sting, the leaves were removed from the tops of the redroot, and a pot was brought from the mill. Boots had the boys chop everything very small using sharp stones, or knives if they had one, and put everything into the pot over a fire to make a sort of a stewed mixture. It was the kind of thing that his mother sometimes made when she had a miscellany of leftovers from her garden. He sweetened the flavour by squashing in the berries from the basket. 

They spread the concoction on thick slices of bread as part of their meal, or ate from large leaves. Boots used his sharp knife to shave off thin pieces of meat and cheese to share. He had a bite and appreciated not only the mix of flavours, but how refreshing the combination was in its stewed juices. Colin, who had come up from the pond, raised his eyebrows appreciatively after having a bite. 

“For a man who can barely make porridge, this is impressive.” 

Boots shrugged, “sometimes I surprise myself.” 

Siggu was still in the river with some of the other boys. There was a sudden commotion from the water, and voices shouting. Colin shot up, spilling food everywhere, and bolted for the water, bread still clutched in one hand. His reaction had Boots on his feet too, although a bit slower. Boots put his bread down before following; his thoughts raced as he ran. 

One of the boys? Did something happen in the water? Where are they all? One, two, three, over there another one…where are they all? They are all good swimmers. But Squirt is so little. Siggu is still by the pond, he would be watching. 

Motivated by worry, Colin ran even faster than he usually did. But Boots was relieved to see his friend slow to a stop at the pond’s edge and lean forward, hands on knees, catching his breath. It seemed there was no reason to go jumping into the water. 

Boots slowed his pace and jogged the rest of the way, ignoring a stitch in his side. Siggu was in the water, along with some other boys, and they all had wide grins on their faces. Widest of all grins was Shase’s, who was holding the source of the commotion. A wriggling fish was in his hands, splashing at the surface of the river as it tried to escape. 

“I caught him, Colin! With my bare hands!” he exclaimed, holding it up for his brother to see. Colin smiled at him, still catching his breath. 

“Can we eat it?” A few chorused. 

“No,” Shase said. “It’s mine!” 

“Well, what will you do with it?” 

“You can’t keep it.” 

“Let it go.” 

“No let’s fry it up and put it in Boots’ dinner!” 

At the suggestion, Shase’s smile went worried and he looked at Boots, as if expecting him to snatch the fish from his hands and skin it immediately. 

“What, that little thing?” Colin said, straightening up, “tiny little minnow wouldn’t even feed Squirt here.” 

Squirt, Siggu’s second youngest, but smallest, brother stuck out his tongue. Someone splashed him, and he splashed back. And in the next few seconds, Colin jumped into the ensuing battle of splashes, jostling everyone about and causing Shase to stumble and drop his prize. He yelped, and some let out forlorn ‘awwwwws’, as the fish slipped away into the water with a ripple. 

“He got away, sorry,” Colin said, ruffling his brother’s hair. “You lot should have stopped talking about putting him in the cooking pot!” 

Boots, a knowing smile on his face, caught Colin’s eye and a wink from his friend. Shase looked a little sad about losing his prize but was clearly relieved it wouldn’t be filleted for their dinner. Some of the other boys went splashing around in the direction the fish had swam, as if they might have a chance to catch it next. 

“The real question is, did you make a wish?” Siggu asked. 

 Squirt, who was being helped to climb up the bank, asked, “why would you wishth on a fishth?” his slight lisp causing Colin, Siggu and Boots to grin. 

“Don’t you know the story of the wishing fish,” a brother said as he clambered by. 

“I don’t know it,” a cousin piped up. 

The truth was, they most likely had all heard the story at one point, they just did not remember. 

“Will you tell it to uths?” Squirt asked Siggu. 

“I would, but Colin tells it better.” 

Colin looked over while shaking water out of his ear. “I do?” he asked. 

“You do. Because Boots and I should pull this log out of the water and I’ll need to get ready the horses ready,” Siggu said. 

Nodding, Colin whistled between his teeth and told everyone to head over to the tree for a story and to eat before the river wraiths got them. There were some yelps as they scared each other out of the water, pretending to be the fabled nikka that haunted streams and rivers. While Colin herded everyone over to the tree, Siggu pushed the floating log over to the bank. He and Boots hefted it out of the water and rolled it a few feet away so the next batch of swimmers could enjoy it. 

When they arrived at the tree Colin was still at the beginning of the story. His lack of progress likely had much to do with the audience. 

“What do you mean too much seaweed? We pull it up with pitchforks here in the pond.” A voice was saying. 

“But this is in the sea, seaweed is heavier in the sea. Because it’s salt water. Salt is heavy,” Colin explained. His tone indicated that he had reached a stage of saying anything to evade more questions and keep the story going. 

“Ewww, why would they salt their water. Isn’t that expensive,” one of Siggu’s brothers said. 

“My mom says salt is too expensive, and it’s all your dad’s fault,” one of Colin’s brothers shot back, in reference to Balert. 

Boots snorted a laugh through his nose at both the comment and Siggu’s surprised face. 

“No, stupid, the sea is all salt water. And the ocean too.” 

“I’m not stupid, you’re stupid!” 

“The sea is the ocean.” 

“I bet Mr. Albo could pull up all the seaweed, he’s strong.” 

This led to scrawny arms being flexed to show how close they were to being as strong as Albo one day. And pushing. And eventual tussling. 

“That’s fine you bunch of dummies, I’d rather eat anyway?” Colin said cramming a mouthful of food in and chewing grumpily. 

Boots and Siggu exchanged a look then waded into the melee of wrestling and sorted everyone out, settling them with something to eat and drink. Colin turned and saw the expectant faces and rolled his eyes. “Now you’re ready to listen?” There was a mute chorus of nodding. 

“Ok, where were we. Oh yes, the fisherman had thrown his nets over the edge of the boat and soon felt them pulling. They were so heavy it took him all morning to draw them up. But when he pulled them onboard, he was disappointed to find nothing but seaweed. So, he went home hungry and tired and he prayed to Ranna of the Sea for luck and to Wodan for mercy.” 

A cautious hand was raised and Colin nodded at the boy to ask his question. 

“Why did the fisherman need Wodan’s mercy?” he asked. 

Colin’s face showed instant exasperation, and Siggu stepped in with a helpful explanation. 

“The world is full of dangers, many, many dangers. You could drown, be hit by a felled tree, become so sick even Boots’ mother cannot make you better. But mercy means these things don’t happen. It means we are lucky enough to survive. So, we all need Wodan’s mercy. Every single day.” 

Boots saw varying degrees of understanding and thoughtfulness settle over the boys’ faces. Boots himself felt a little perplexed by the idea that every day he escaped death at the mercy of some unseen and unknown god. To some degree, it must be true, but it had not made a difference to his hand. Although, perhaps that had been his own fault, perhaps you did not receive mercy for your own deliberate blunders. Boots shied away from those thoughts and allowed himself to be carried along as Colin picked up the tale again. 

“Remember, this was the second day that the fisherman had drawn up nets heavy with seaweed. They were so tangled up this time that one rope snapped. With a broken net and an empty belly, he rowed back to shore. The fisherman had a collection of pretty shells that he gathered for offerings to Wodan. While mending his net he cut his finger. He held the cut over the shells and offered his blood to Wodan as well. 

“The next morning the fisherman went straight to his boat, for he had nothing to eat for breakfast. He rowed out and cast his newly mended nets into the water. And as the sun broke through the clouds, a ray of light fell on the water and his nets jumped. The fisherman pulled, and the nets pulled back, and the fisherman pulled, and the nets pulled back.” 

Colin rocked back and forth, miming the struggle with the net and some of the boys imitated the motion. 

“The sun rose higher, and the fisherman continued to struggle. Until finally the nets popped out of the water and the fattest, longest fish he’d ever seen landed plop, right in the boat. 

“Well, the fisherman was so excited, he was ready to take out his knife and skin the thing right then and there before it could hop right out of the boat. But then, something amazing happened. The fish spoke.” 

Colin placed his hands on his cheeks, squishing his lips together in a fish-face and speaking in a high-pitched voice. The listeners giggled and imitated the face. 

“Oh, please kind fisherman, the fish said, please do not eat me! If you throw me back into the water then I will grant you three wishes! 

“Now the fisherman was astounded. Here was a talking fish! A magical talking fish! What should he do? Row it back and bring it to the village to sell? Eat it? Or throw it back and hope for three wishes?” 

And here there were a handful of suggestions from the audience, all of which Colin pretended to consider before continuing with his tale. 

“The fisherman decided to take his chances on the three wishes. This fisherman, though, he was not very smart. And he was so excited he didn’t really think his wishes through. First, he said, I would like one hundred fish to be caught in my nets. Next, I wand a bigger boat to bring them to shore with, and finally, I want a bigger house to store them in.” 

Colin resumed his fish face, to appreciative giggles, and said, “your wishes will be granted. Return me to the seas.” 

“So, the fisherman threw the fish back in, and almost immediately his nets started to fill with fish, bulging out and spilling over the sides of the boat. He scrambled to gather the edges, realizing his nets were not big enough to hold so many fish. As he wrapped his hands around the edges of the net and pulled, the boat began to groan and creak, and soon it was growing larger and larger underfoot. He heaved the nets into the boat and lay on the bottom, soaked and stinking in his pile of fish. Many fish had escaped the nets and hopped overboard, but he still had more fish than he had ever seen in one place squirming and flapping about in the bottom of the boat. 

“He was happy. He clambered up to row back to shore, but he had forgotten to ask for larger oars to go with his larger boat. So, he had to paddle back by leaning over one side, then the other, and trying not to spin in endless circles.” 

Again, Colin mimed out the fisherman, awkwardly leaning far out one side, then the other, pretending to dig oars into the sea. Siggu eased himself to a standing position and indicated to Boots that he was going over to the mill. Boots nodded and continued to listen. 

“It took him until dark to get home that way, and he was tired. But he had to drag his catch back to his house lest it spoil or be stolen by animals overnight. He was so tired he had forgotten about his wish for a bigger house until he looked up and saw it before him. Much larger than before, with an upper story and four rooms inside. Alas, he had forgotten to ask for furniture to come with the house, so it had only one bed, one table and one stool in the middle of the house and empty rooms everywhere else. Nor did he have enough barrels to store his fish in. Exhausted, the fisherman fell asleep and forgot to make an offering of thanks to Wodan. 

“In the morning, the fisherman awoke to find that everything had not been a dream. He did, indeed, live in a large house. Outside his fish were gathered in piles all around. Some had been taken by animals in the night, but many were still laying in heaps. 

“This will never do, he thought to himself, I need barrels for these fish. I need bigger and better oars for my boat. I need furniture for my house! What am I going to do?” 

“Now,” and here Colin addressed the audience like an aside, “the fisherman very well could have gathered fish in the barrels he did have and bring some to sell – or trade – for more barrels, more furniture, better oars. He could have gone to the village, hired some hands, and got to work profiting from all those fish. But do you think he did that?” 

Colin waited for the chorus of “no”s, shaking heads and knowing grins before continuing. 

“Right you are, he did not. He decided all that was too much work. And instead, he got into his boat, awkwardly paddled out to sea, found about the same spot as last time, cast his nets over the side and waited. Eventually he felt the nets pull, and he pulled back, the nets pulled, he pulled back, and then the same giant fish as before popped over the side and into the boat. 

“Oh please sir if you let me go I will…” Colin dropped his hands from his cheeks and looked around to imitate the confused fish recognizing the old man, “…you again? I already granted your wishes. What are you doing back here? Oh, great wishing fish hear my plea! The man said. My fish are spoiling by the side of my house, I’ve no furniture, and I need bigger oars. And maybe a bigger net too. But haven’t you all those fish to sell and eat? The fish asked. Yes, the man said, but it will take me days to work through them. And here I can just wish for it all to work out. 

“Now,” Colin said, “The fish did not have to look any more surprised, because fish already look like this -” He swept his hair back to expose his forehead, sucked in his cheeks, made bubbling fish lips and widened his eyes to much laughter “- but the fish was, certainly surprised. 

“And if I don’t offer to grant you wishes what will you do? Then I will take you home and eat you, said the ungrateful fisherman. Fine, the fish responded, what are your three wishes this time. 

“Now, the fisherman had thought about this and believed he was getting cleverer. So, he asked for his wishes in this way: One, I want all my fish in barrels when I arrive home. Two, I would like oars and a way to steer that are for this boat. And three, one hundred pieces of gold. Done, now throw me back, the fish said. The fisherman threw the fish back, and no sooner had he settled himself back in the boat that the oars were long and balanced for the boat, and there was a tiller arm at the back. It was still too large for one person, but he would manage to bring it back to shore and hire a crew. So, he made his slow way back home. Again, he did not arrive until nightfall. When he got to his house there was nary a fish on the ground, but barrels dotted the yard. And in his house was a neat pile of gold. He did not count it, instead he put it in a sack and used it as a pillow while he slept the night away. And once more. He forgot to make an offering to Wodan.” 

 Boots, along with the children, sat in anticipation of the next part, knowing that the fisherman’s demise was upon him. He had thwarted a god, and a magical being. Colin had made a few adjustments to the story to keep it fresh and Boots was enjoying it. He noted Siggu had not returned, he was probably looking over the horses and turning the wagon around. Colin peered up at the sky, thinking, before continuing on. 

“The next morning, the fisherman woke up. And everything was still there. The pile of gold was still his pillow. The barrels of fish were still in the yard. And he guessed his boat was still below near the water. He had everything just how he wanted. Now all he needed to do was bring the fish to the village to sell. He would probably not get much coin, but he could certainly trade for many useful items and favours. He just had to get the fish to the market. He looked at his small cart that he pushed, he could fit two barrels in it at most. He thought about how much more he would make if he traveled to the town up the road with all his barrels. Maybe he would be hired on by a merchant. All the plans sprang into his mind with no way to complete them. He knew what he needed. He needed the fish. 

“But this time, he was going to be smarter. He emptied one of the barrels, spilling fish across the ground. They would start to rot, but he had need of the barrel. He rolled it down and stood it in his boat, filled it with saltwater, and set off for the open waters. 

“He found the spot, cast his nets in, and after some time they pulled. Greedily the fisherman brought them in and was delighted to see the large king-fish. Again! The fish exclaimed. Don’t you have enough? No, the fisherman said, and I have a great idea. I am going to bring you with me. I will take care of you, and you can grant me wishes whenever I ask. You will be safe, and I will have everything I want. It is a great plan! What makes you think I need help staying safe? The fish asked. But the fisherman wasn’t listening. He dropped the fish into the barrel of seawater and began rowing slowly home. 

“While the fisherman was out, the sky had darkened, and the waves had started to rise. But the fisherman didn’t notice, he was too busy dreaming and scheming for what he would wish for. When he got to shore, fat drops had started to spill out of the sky. The fisherman put the barrel in his cart and carefully wheeled it home, right into the house. Outside the rain pattered against the shutters. The fisherman pulled the fish out of the barrel. 

“I’m ready for the next three wishes, he said. Are you? The fish asked.” And now, Colin’s fish-voice had lost any sense of drollery. “Yes, the fisherman said. And then I will throw you back. Best get to it, said the fish. The fisherman thought carefully. First, I want a saltwater pond for you to live in just beside the house. It should have everything you need, I bet you will remember to stock it well for yourself! Next, I would like one hundred gold coins a day for the next one hundred days, and finally, a nice large wagon with horses to bring my barrel of fish to the market. And then, if everything works out, I promise I will return you to the sea for good. 

“This is what you want? The fish asked. Yes, absolutely, the man said. And then you will throw me back into the sea? Yes, yes, of course, the man promised. But to make the wish? You must also throw me back, the fish reminded him. That is what I plan to do, get on with it! The fisherman said. 

“Now, the rain had gotten harder. And in the distance the thunder had started to grumble and rumble. But the fisherman was too busy picturing his future riches to notice. Very well, the fish said, open the door and throw me back. But how will I do that? We are too far from the water, the fisherman said, realizing the mistake in his plan. Just open the door, quickly, the fish urged. 

 “The fisherman opened the door and his eyes widened. A massive wave was growing up from the shore like a mountain and rushing towards his house. Throw me back to the waters of my home! The fish commanded. In shock, the fisherman threw the fish through the door just as the wave crashed against the house and burst through the doors and windows as water rushed inside. Salty water filled his ears and mouth and stung at his eyes. He thought for certain that the fish’s revenge was to drown him for being greedy and in that moment, he begged for mercy from Wodan.” 

There were wide eyes all around the picnic. Boots glanced around to see if Siggu had returned in time to hear the ending but he must have still been over at the mill. Colin continued to build the tension in his story and Boots hoped he did not decide to drown the greedy fisherman. 

“The waters swirled and swirled and carried the fisherman right out of the house through the back windows. And then, quick as it had happened, the water was rushing away, back to the sea, and the fisherman found himself lying on his back in a muddy puddle. He picked himself up and looked around. All the barrels had been carried away in the wave, but a few smaller fish lay flopping in muddy banks. The house still stood, but what little furniture he’d had was carried out the front door with the waves. 

“Inside the house, ten gold coins had been left behind. He quietly offered one to Wodan, setting it aside to bury under an ash tree. For even though the man had lost, he realized how greedy he had been, and that he could have lost so much more. And that, little brothers, is what we call mercy.” 

Boots smiled and led a small round of applause for the story. He was surprised by the moral turn at the end considering how silly Colin had been in the middle bits. He said as much to Colin as they packed things up. 

Colin shrugged. “I was going to, but it just started falling into place after what Sig said about mercy and all that stuff. Where is he anyway.” 

They made their way back to the mill to see that Siggu had brought out the wagon and turned it around so they would be ready to leave. Some of the older boys carried the younger ones on their backs. As they approached the wagon Colin nudged Boots and indicated Boots should look in a particular direction with a sparkle in his eye. Boots followed Colin’s gaze and saw a tall, slender figure in oversized pants and a wide-brimmed hat hurrying across a field. 

“Is that Tafner?” Boots whispered. 

Colin nodded. They both looked closely at Siggu, trying to decipher if his retreating sweetheart had anything to do with his prolonged absence, but his demeanor betrayed nothing. 

“Just you and the horses here, huh?” Colin asked, letting a little mischief into his voice. 

“Of course,” Siggu said. “Who else would be here?” 

But there was something about the careful neutrality of his face, and the hitch of irritation in his voice, that hinted otherwise. 

Colin grinned broadly and waggled his eyebrows. Siggu shook his head, refusing to acknowledge anything, focusing instead on counting heads and making sure everything in the wagon was in order. Then he turned to face Colin’s teasing grin saying, “I think Boots gets to sit up front. It’s only fair.” 

“Hah!” Boots said, rushing over to pull himself into the front before Colin could make a try for it. 

“Fine,” Colin sighed. He heaved himself into the wagon, collapsing dramatically across several of its young occupants and sticking out elbows and legs to try and inconvenience as many of them as possible. “This is obviously more comfortable anyway.” 

There was some giggling, grumbling and groaning as Colin was pushed this way and that and everyone found a somewhat comfortable place to sit. Siggu settled himself in at the front seat beside Boots, whistled to the horses and snapped at the reigns. 

If they were alone, Siggu would let Boots drive, but they could not risk having someone tell Balert. And although Boots loved the opportunity to command the wagon, he quite enjoyed putting his feet up and dozing in the fading light of what had turned out to be a rather perfect ending to the day. 

The late afternoon at the millpond had been a refreshing change. But by the next day it was back to the sticky heat and tiring work. Crops had begun to wilt, the edges of the leaves curling and the tall stalks drooping. It made the work that much more galling, because it seemed that there was nothing gained from it. If someone’s field was not wilting with heat, it was brown with blight, and no one seemed to be faring better than anyone else. 

Meranin’s garden, to Boots’ relief, remained green and hale. Although the well was finally dry, she was able to bring up water from the creek and when she brought the geese for a swim, and even though the water was low there was still plenty. As for the blight, he did not think the blight would dare show a single scaly fleck on any leaf or stem of Meranin’s garden.

He wondered if it had something to do with the addition of bits of metal hammered and twisted into different shapes and hanging in various places all around the property. There had been a small anvil in the basket that he and Colin had carried, and Meranin presumably used it to shape metal bits for her different mobiles and ornaments. Boots assumed this is what it was for, being out of the house all day, he rarely saw her at work. He did notice she was using the large oven that bulged out the back of their cottage, and wondered if she was getting it hot enough to soften and liquify the metal. Whatever she was doing, it seemed to be helping her garden at least, and he did not interfere. 

His mother did seem troubled, however, about the bees. She could be found frowning at the hives and seeing patterns in their movements that meant nothing to Boots. It must have bothered her enough that she called Luthi the woodsman over to see. Boots came home and found the two of them, sitting on the garden wall in silence, tracing the patterns of the insects with their eyes and sometimes sketching something in the air with a finger, as if to make a point. 

Boots brought some food out to them, which they accepted with nods. When Boots climbed into his hammock that night, he could hear their voices outside by the crackling fire discussing something long into the night. He asked his mother about it in the morning. 

“Something isn’t quite right,” she’d said, with a shake of her head. 

“The blight? Are we going to have a draught?” Boots asked, alarmed. “Everyone says it’s going to rain, any day now.” 

He vaguely remembered being part of a bucket brigade when he was young. Passing buckets of water along to fill up barrels, Albo hefting them into carts to be brought to different fields. He remembered squatting with Colin in a field, hot and thirsty, the smell of dusty, dry earth clotting his nostrils. They had a bucket of water and were cupping their hands, dipping them in and slurping the water up as quickly as they could before anyone stopped them. He couldn’t remember what they were supposed to be doing with the water; he hoped they had done it after. 

She frowned and stared out the window, as if the answer was hiding in the woods beyond. “No, those things are not quite right either. But that’s not it. Something more. Something else is coming. We should be ready.” 

With that unhelpful warning, Boots set out into an equally ominous looking day. The sun was hard and hot, pressing heat down through every pore, making you feel heavy and tired the moment you stepped outside. Boots angled his hat to block the worst of the light and scanned the horizon for darker clouds but saw none. 

He was working in his field, fighting with the dry earth, when everything finally fell into shadow. He looked up at the sky and saw what villagers had been predicting for days finally coming to pass. Out across the fields a bank of heavy, dark clouds clotted the horizon. Smudges of purple boded more than the hoped-for amount of rain. Opposite the dark clouds the sky was still bright with sun. The shadow cast by the approaching clouds was a dark line along the landscape, moving fast to cover the village. 

Boots sniffed the air scenting for coming rain, but all he could smell was the dusty earth that he had been breathing in all day and his own prickly sweat. That was fine, he had a new weather warning. He flexed his right hand, working the stiffness and soreness from his fingers. It rarely hurt anymore, unless from overuse, or when the weather was heavy. He expected he would be complaining of aches and pains like an old woman come winter; he and old Yuggen would be sharing the same salves. 

He gave his right hand a final shake then stuffed some food in a sack and threw it in the cart to bring home. Then he set to work furrowing deeper troughs between the rows to help drainage. He was determined to preserve what was left of his field and get the most from the coming rain. 

It was hard work in the humid air, his arms working mechanically though they felt weak and watery. Sweat and the dampness of the air slicked his skin and hair and glued his shirt to his body. Beyond the smell of the dirt and his own sweat, he finally caught a whiff of the coming rain carried by a damp breeze. That was followed by a distant grumble of thunder. He did not need to look to see that the line of shadow cast by the storm clouds was getting closer. He was working as quickly as he could, and he was taken by surprise at a voice from behind him. 

“Are you not going to head back? I think it will rain.” 

Boots looked around, startled by the voice, and saw Bridda on the path astride her horse. 

“Oh, hello,” Boots said, pushing sweat and hair from his eyes, “I didn’t see you there. It is going to rain, but I want to trench out some drainage, so it doesn’t flood the field.” 

She seemed to think about this then nod. “I’ll help you.” She dismounted and whispered something to her horse and patted it on the nose. 

“Really, you needn’t,” Boots said even as she looked through the tools in the cart. “You should find shelter for yourself, and Shanksey.” 

“I’ll ride back to the village once we finish here. Shanksey and I don’t mind a bit of weather,” she said, with a nod at the horse. 

She held up a shovel with a questioning look. Boots hesitated a beat then corrected her. “Better use the hoe, it’s the flat one with the -” 

“Yes, this one. I’m no farmer, but I do know that.” She selected the correct tool. “What can I do?” 

Boots was grateful for the help, and in the urgency of the burgeoning sky he found he had no time to feel embarrassed directing the commander where to dig. They worked quickly, but not quick enough, and fat drops began to fall before they had gone very far. Soon the earth would be slick and muddy underfoot and the sky was as dark as twilight. Boots called to Bridda that she could go anytime but she waved him off; she seemed completely unbothered by the work and weather, she almost seemed to relish it. Boots suddenly wondered if she had been just a bit bored in Holding. 

The sky growled and the rain came faster. Boots resisted the urge to look up, he knew what that thunder heralded. It was going to be worse than he had expected. He finished the row he was on and felt the rain start to beat in sheets across his shoulders. The initial downpour had been a relief, but soon it would be as inconvenient as the heat that preceded it. He wiped rain from his eyes and had to shout for Bridda to hear him. She nodded and made her way to the cart to set her tool in. 

A large crack of thunder split the air, cleaving the sky and pouring more rain from the heavens. Boots rearranged his cart, turning things over so they would not fill with water. He left the oilcloth he brought rolled and tied to the side of the cart, everything was already wet, and at least the oilcloth might be fresh if he needed it later. They had to get going, the paths would soon be a sucking, muddy mess. 

“You can hook the cart up to my horse.” Bridda had to shout above the sound of the storm. Beside her the large horse kept shaking her head and flicking rain off her ears. The beast was being still, but Boots could see its flanks shivering. There was another thunderclap and a flash of lightning, followed by more grumbling and streaming rain. 

“As long as you’re sure you don’t mind,” Boots shouted back. 

“Not at all,” Bridda grinned back. 

They were trying to tie up the cart with slick, wet ropes when a sharp jab of lightning lit the air around them followed by a crack of thunder that ended in a heart thumping boom. Boots felt his heart jump at the sound and thud through him. Looking over at the sky he saw that it had turned a livid green. 

“We better forget the cart,” he told Bridda, “and just start finding shelter.” 

As if to underscore his point, there was more crackling in the air; lightning forked across the sky, like crackling in the ice. Boots felt the hair on his arms shiver in the charged air and try to lift from his arms despite being slicked to his skin by the downpour. Then there was one of those strange slivers of silence that was sometimes perceived before a great thundering eruption from the clouds. It was followed by a blast that rocked the ground beneath their feet. 

“It hit something.” Bridda yelled through the rain before Boots could even ask the question. “We should go investigate. Get on the horse.” 

Bridda’s face was covered in rivulets of water and her skin was especially pale in the strange light of the storm, she was smeared with patches of mud from digging, but she looked brighter and more energized than Boots had ever seen her look. He was wary about what the lightning had struck, but he was also pulled along by her excitement. 

He got up on the horse behind her and held onto her waist, too caught up in the chaos of the moment to be shy. In the distance there was a thin trail of smoke threading into the sky. 

Even this close to her ear he had to raise his voice to say, “my guess is it came from the river. I hope it wasn’t the mill.” 

She nodded and they set off at the quickest pace the sturdy horse could manage.