Page 5 of Of Shadows and Blood

“Come, Liv.”

The healer tugs on my hand again. I follow this time, slowly and carefully, feeling foreign in my own body. I look back at Sawyer one more time, who holds the same expression I saw on my fall back to the earth.

A face of unease, brows furrowed, lips pressed and hands in pockets.

Chapter 2

The Village

This realm is more than a place of punishment, of hard work, of trial. It serves as a reminder of deceit, of biding time.

“That’s just cruel,” I whisper.

“Should we…” Haldon trails off, unsure of my commitment to the wellbeing of the prostrated man.

“Help him?” I shrug, watching from my lofted bedroom. The crows peck at Trentin’s drunken body out in the pasture. He’s not dead, but they don’t mind. They’ll wait. The crows jump around, pulling at his already fraying shirt. Help is the last thing I want to offer.

Hal picks haphazardly at the worn straw mat we sit on as his father musters his energy to wave off the insistent birds. The image rings in so much emotion, and Hal probably doesn’t want to see his father become lunch. To be honest, Trentin regularly wakes up in the worst kind of places, but this seems a bit too macabre for me. They do have sharp beaks, after all. I imagine he has some scrapes now.

Would they be satisfied with a little blood?

“I should go out there,” Hal moans, sliding down and out of my little room.

When crows caw, we are reminded of the impending death everyone in my village faces each day. Their sounds and presence usually indicate something has perished. I’d argue they’re more vulture than crow these days. With depleting food stores, the river drying and foxes harassing our hens, many of us may not make it through the next season. It’s no secret that when you see their slick feathered bodies, a stark contrast to the surroundings out here, they’re feasting on carrion. Where the black birds land, death is waiting. They nearly taunt us some days. Out in the fields is where they find gourds and other crops for pickings while they wait for some living creature to finally drop dead.

We don’t live in a desert. But this land is just as dry, hot and unforgiving. In the books Ma has brought back from the weekly markets I’ve had the chance to read about the Silent Kingdom and their beastly sun. Some say the sun never leaves their lands, constantly reminding them of the wrath of the Gods. We don’t recognize any gods here, but I think the Silent Gods might be watching over us just as closely.

Yesterday morning we mended the last of our rope together, creating a sling for the well next to the old irrigation ditch. Sawyer himself was gone all day, as per usual, taking care of sales and other duties for his career. But I am no less thankful to have Hal and Sawyer here with me.

Together, we will get through these times.

It’s lasted so long. Repetitive work. The same familiarity that nearly drains my hope for more.

Since the river has dried, we have had to resort to well water, which is risky by nature. According to Ma, two years ago when the river had dried the first time, a young boy by the name of Jo fell into the well taking the dried rope with him. When his body was retrieved, they found his fingertips raw and bleeding, assumed to be the result of digging into the stone walls to avoid slipping below.

I always sicken at the thought of it.

I roll over on my mat, peeking to look outside the small window in my loft again. A window without glass, shaped by dried mud, but still a window. Hal is outside trying to drag his father onto a sort of tapestry, hoping to haul him back to the house. The crows, harbingers of death, continue to caw down at him, almost mocking his work.

The crunch of the hay under my shoulders is a familiar sound as I slowly roll back. My eyes once again find their place staring up at the small holes in the ceiling. Thin sunbeams pierce through like hidden stars waiting to be seen. I slowly reach my hand out for them, delicately admiring the way they kiss my skin as my fingers shift and move.

A ceiling of stars.

Water getting in isn’t an issue since we don’t get any. Everything is parched. Dry, desolate, hostile.

The dryness in my throat creeps up, causing a desperate cough. We need to get that well fixed.

Ma said she was leaving early this morning. That explains the silence in the house save for the caws of the crows from outside. Her travels take no longer than a day. She chooses to walk everywhere, always declining a ride from Trentin, though the wagon is broken right now. But I, too, wouldn’t risk riding with him alone.

Without warning, a deafening crack sounds through the house, echoing through the windows. I jolt up, immediately realizing where the sound is coming from. Dread washes over me and another crack fills the air.

I spring into action, fear flooding through me as I find my better pair of wool pants to throw on. I tighten them with a piece of rope – a trick Ma showed me. A few months ago, I grew too thin for them and a new pair was not an option. A dusty white blouse hanging on the beams above my head will do for my top. Throwing that on, I slip on my canvas shoes and half jump, half slide down the wooden ladder into the main living area. As I make my way through the kitchen, I run my hands through my tangled locks, attempting to brush them as I burst through the kitchen door and onto the dirt.

Yards away, Hal is a speck in the dried farmland, piling hay into the wagon with the broken wheel. Looks like he made quick work of delivering Trentin back to his house. Hal looks up warily as I exit the back door and head towards the space between our two houses.

The crack sounds again and I slide to a stop. There, cowering against the wall covered in dirt, sweat and fresh blood lashed across his back is Sawyer. He must have just gotten back from his latest trip.

In front of him is Trentin.