You’re reading the final part of The Wounded Sun.
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"Old woman-" *thud* "when you're finished-" *thud* "bring me that pail-" *thud*.
Akerat sets the talon axe against the earthen wall of the house. He sucks cool air deep into his lungs. He steps back from the hole he's chiseled so far - only a forearm wide, and reinforced still with bars of wood - in the round house wall. He turns and looks across the field.
Szera stares at him. She sits at a stool beside an Elk. She can't see her son perfectly - not with her eyes. Only his outline against the wall, in the dark midday light. She cups a wrinkled hand to her ear. "What's that you're saying? I can hardly hear over that racket."
Akerat sets his own alabaster fingers against his laugh lines, forming a cup. "The milk, mother." *gasp* "Bring that pail here when you're finished.
"The milk? Unstrained? Don't throw your sense out in labor, my son. It would be warm and filmy."
"Oh… I suppose it would."
"You'd more than suppose if you ever milked these ladies. NOT that I'm bothered."
"Okay, okay, you're useful still. Pleased now?"
"I'm only trying to avoid being tossed out like some sere, moth-eaten tunic." The old woman rises. She rubs her eyes, then her hips. "I'll fetch you some from inside."
"I'm fine." Akerat waves her back as he sees his mother rising from her stool. "I can fetch my own drink. Tend to your elks."
"No no no. You're much too busy making holes in our house." Szera rubs the soft brown fur of Bell. She sighs. "The girl's hardly producing lately."
"Isn't it early in the season for her to dry up?"
"It's been a different sort of season."
"That it has, mother."
The two stand. Silent. Staring. They look across the crimson field surrounding their hearth. They look upon the dark mahogany woods, and the rugged red landscape, and the pink-topped mountains, poking into a velvet sky.
Akerat runs his hands through the swaying grass beside the home wall. "At least the breeze still blows the same."
Szera shivers. She clutches her tunic tighter around her shoulders. "It's too chilly for late summer."
"Set yourself and the gods a warm fire in the middenroom. We've wood to spare."
"How long do you think the sun will take to heal?" asks Szera. She lifts her milk pail over the fence, unwraps the leather tie around the wattle gate, and starts back to the house.
"Not much longer, probably." Akerat lifts his talon axe. He chips in regular strokes at the wall. The work warms his limbs. "Once the king and the army defeat the restless threat, the sun will surely be put back in good order. The king can't enjoy this constant darkness much either, can he?"
"It wears me out. Having the light so low all the time."
"Go inside and rest, mother. I'll stop chipping here soon."
"I might take a short lie in the hammock." The old woman catches her breath as she leans on a gnarled porch beam. "This weariness makes no sense. You'd think I'd be stocked up on sleep."
"I'd bet you a tenskein of golden rings that that's why the restless wounded the sun. They want to wear us Muira out. Then, they attack."
"Maybe." Szera sets the pail on the porch. She rubs her arms. She watches the wild grass around the house, and the tall rye of the crop field, sway. "Have you noticed the grass?"
Akerat cranes his neck around the home's curve to catch his mother's eye. "It's a bit brown."
"I mean how tall it's got. It tickles my neck in spots."
"There's no need to gripe, dear old woman. I'll take the scythe out first thing tomorrow."
"I don't mean that, my son. The paths are fine. It just seems taller in the pasture now. Taller than it ever was in other summers."
Akerat shrugs. He waits to catch his mother's eye, then puts on a strained smile. "Maybe it misses the sun too."
Szera shakes her head. "Don't chide. It's tall, and brown, and coming in early. But on the rye, there's not a flake of grain. Ill omens under an ill sun."
With a blow, Akerat plants the talon axe in the wall of earth. He walks through the grass that reaches his own chest. He steps onto the porch. He places a hand on his mother's shoulder; she squeezes it. Akerat says, "Cheer up, mother. It is only a seasoning."
"The king will set it right?" she asks, still looking at the scene with small and weary eyes.
"Those restless dropped like flies at the end of the last war. Any day now, the royal army will set us right as sunshine."
#
Winter.
The shape that is Akerat stumbles into the dark within the earthen home. The two elks beside the straw pile start toward the opening. Szera, standing beside it, stops them. She quickly pushes a barrier of wooden boards upholstered with fur across the opening. She shuts out the pinkly-glowing snowscape. The yellow multicandle light casts shadow clouds on the inside wall from the breath of the two elks.
Akerat's shape stumbles to the floor. The firewood bundle it carried spills across a polished earth floor - not so polished now, marred as it is by straw and hoofprints. A lead-lined blanket slips from the shape's shoulders, revealing Akerat beneath. He coughs. Flecks of bright blood scatter from his lips.
Szera sets a hand on her son's shoulder for support. She sinks to her knees with a wince. In her other hand she holds a cup of steaming purple liquid. At a pause in his coughing she holds it to his mouth, and orders him, "Drink. Melyna." Akerat burns his tongue on the tea. His face and balding head lose their chalky pallor almost at once; reverting to a healthy alabaster hue. His mother chides. "I warned you. Too much time in the snow, and thirty lead blankets won't keep the poison off your skin."
Akerat coughs once more. He takes another sip. He breathes deeply. "That's what melyna's for, dear old woman."
Szera presses her lips thin. "Your great grandmother died from snow poisoning. It's a risk best untaken."
"That's the last of the firewood. We needn't emerge again till the spring thaw."
"I hope not." Szera squeezes her son's shoulder. "Winter's reaping early this year."
Akerat rises to his knees, wiping his lips. "It's good I felled that old grandfather pine by the sled shed. Those restless won't find us frozen stiff and helpless if they try a winter siege."
"Earliest winter I've ever seen," Szera goes on. She twists at one of her strands of grey hair. She watches her son. "Summer's hardly over, and we've had nary a grain from our rye."
"Mother." Akerat reaches up and holds the hand she has upon his shoulder, "We have food enough for winter, and spring, and forty dry bales for Bell and Evelin. Sky's spots! We even have a few albuma eggs. And wine. The elks are here with us. It won't be just you and me glaring at each other over the middenroom flame all winter. We were warned ahead of time, and we readied our hearth for a siege. Let it be a siege of restless or a siege of snow."
"But-" his mother begins to interject.
"And if all that were not enough, you and I are blessed by birth to our household gods. We're Muira: sons and daughters of suffering. Our gods crossed a sea and made hearths from a monster-land. Our people know endurance." Akerat stands; a tired old man, still taller and straighter than his bent mother. "Cheer up, old mother. No wound bleeds forever. The sun will heal; the snow will melt; grain will rise again."
Szera releases breath through her nose. She sets her head against her son's shoulder. "I wonder if the whole cylinder's sick like this. Pining over the sun."
Akerat chuckles. "I can't think the sun's ceased shining on our tiny hearth alone."
"Your sons, my grandsons…"
"Those boys are probably entrenched in some border dugout at this very minute. They'll be getting fat on soldiers' stew."
"I wish we'd seen them before winter."
"We'll see them after. And now, dear old woman, skin and bones as you feel, we'll do as my sons do. It's time you yourself had a bit of meat and stew."
"I'm eating plenty," she protests as Akerat leads them from the elk room. "We must take care with our stores, and I'm no stag needing fattened."
"How brave. As your hearth elder I commend you. And also, order you to eat."
Outside, the pink snow falls.
#
"Mother?" Akerat's voice. A hollow knocking on the wall. A wool curtain slides aside. The middenroom fire outlines Akerat. His eyes shine alone in the dark pale of his face.
He calls again. "Mother?"
A cold room's silence.
An agonizing pause.
Akerat forces himself to step forward.
"I'm… here…" sounds weakly from the dark.
Breath fogs out from Akerat's face as he sighs. "It's morning mother. The fire's on."
"Yes… I thought I heard a crackle."
"You've slept a day and a night, dear old woman." Akerat steps forward. There is a thud and squeal as he bangs a hip on a round sewing-table. He says nothing. His shadow swoops beside the bedroll where he knows his mother lies. "Wouldn't you like to spend time with the elks today? Or chatter with the gods?"
"I would. I just couldn't stand up this morning, my son."
"That's- That's nothing, my dear old mother. You've been over-active with your knitting and rocking and worrying all winter. Never mind all that now. Let me lift your arm around my shoulder."
"Alright."
Akerat sets his mother’s skinny limb along his back. He lifts her. Old as he is, tired as he is, Szera is light in his arms. He lifts her and her blanket up, and carries her from the dark bedroom.
The son sets his mother gently in the wicker rocking chair, in the hearth middenroom. He arranges her blanket. The fire casts shadows from the sack cloth dolls arranged around their middenroom's stone pool. The light falls like wet parchment on the lined, gaunt skin of the two Muira; mother and son.
"You sit here with the gods." Akerat starts toward the mealroom. "A glass of hot sap water, and a bowl of hot rye stew - those will set you right."
"My son." Szera stops him with a raised, withered hand under her blanket. "Stay a while. Sit beside me and the household god."
"You need to eat. I'll be right-"
"Stay. Please. Hear what the voice inside me has to say."
Akerat hesitates. He returns to the rocker. He kneels beside his mother. "Is there pain in you?"
Szera gives her son a wry glance. "I've lived over a hundred winters, boy."
"Pain out of the ordinary then?"
"I'm merely weary. No, I wish to give you some good sense. Tell me - I've not prepared our food for many days - how much dry rye grain is left unground in the hanging sacks of our pantry?"
"Enough for a fine stew to fill your limbs with vigor, old woman."
"An elder speaks fairly with his hearthmates, my son. Lie not for the sake of smiles."
"A little more than a sack left of rye."
"And no jerky, or albuma, or wine to wash it with, I gather," The old mother nods to herself. "Tell me also - for I've put no logs in the stone basin for many days - how does the stack of firewood stand?"
"We have melyna enough for me to take the axe out and-"
"The truth."
Akerat stares into the low flame before them. "Our stack sits somewhat higher than my ankle."
"I did expect that as well. The snow is still thick upon the ground? The sun, still wounded?"
"Yes. Yes. Mother, why do you dwell on these things? I thought you wished to advise me?"
"So I do, my son. Here is what I have to say. Firstly, your firewood will not last the winter."
"The winter cannot go on forever. It can't."
"No," his mother muses in a weak, distant voice. "I don't think it can. We Muira did not survive the exodus to die out now. We're too hardy a folk." She catches a ragged breath. "Nevertheless, your firewood will not last, I don't feel. You must use it sparingly. When it is exhausted, don't hesitate to burn whatever shall burn. Suffer what chill you can, but don't let yourself freeze."
"That is obvious. Unlikely as it may be, if the winter outlasts our firewood, I'll burn old crates. Or beds. Or other furnishings of wood. I'll burn what we must to survive."
"I know it's obvious to you, my son. You're a good man, and a wise elder. Still, I must give voice to these words… About your food. But, tell me first, are Bell and Evelin alive? Their skin hung loose when I saw them last."
"Your elks are alive, old woman."
"I can't see the gated door. It's dark and indistinct. Are they listening?"
"No. They're resting in the straw. They miss the outside."
"Good. Then listen close to what I whisper. If you run out of food, and there is no other option, you must slit both their necks-" Akerat begins to interrupt. "Just listen, my boy. You must slit both their necks, butcher those two faithful cows, and survive off what little meat they give. I grant you my blessing in this."
"It will not come to that." her son answers firmly.
"It might. Give me your word, as elder, that you will eat those two faithful girls before you yourself starve. Give it, or I'll be an evil god about your shoulders when my spirit joins the wind. I won't have you sparing those animals for foolish sentiment."
Akerat kneels beside his mother's chair. She watches him - watches his shape - through her sunken, grey eyes. Finally, he says, "My word; as elder of hearth Erdo."
"You're the elder," she agrees in her quiet voice. "By you must the hearth survive. You must live; to pass the eldership to your sons on their return. You must live; to tend the household gods. Tell me what you know; which are the smallbones?"
"The fingers. The-" Akerat swallows, "toes. The spine. The jaw."
"Good. When I am gone-"
"Please…"
"When I am gone," Szera rasps on, "don't burn me at once. Save your wood. Wrap me in canvas, and set me out where winter will hold me in his safe, cold hands. In the meantime pick out and sew some good, white cloth for my sack. I won't stand to be an ugly god. Do you understand, my dear son?"
"I understand, dear old mother."
"Then I am at peace." Szera sinks into her rocker, beneath her blanket. The little animation leaves her form and face. The firelight twinkles in her eye. "You will have much to do when summer comes. And it will come, I'm sure of it. You must put our hearth in order."
"I will." Akerat squeezes her shoulder. He rises. "I'll make that stew now."
"No." The denial is quiet this time. "Don't waste… the time… "
Akerat sags back down. His hand tightens on his mother's shoulder. "Oh mother…"
"What good can come of grief… my son? Just stay. We'll spend time with our spirits."
Akerat swallows. "Anything you like."
"The household gods are present, you know. Keep the bones; keep the spirit. Always… at your side…"
"Blessed gods," Akerat agrees, "flesh, bone, spirit."
#
From the tangle of needles and branches, sparkling with dew in the bloody light of the wounded sun, two Muira emerge into the clearing. The taller of the two throws back the wetted hood of his cloak. His face is angular; his eyes, yellow and sharp. He smooths his black beard with a hand down his face. He sniffs the air. "The air of spring," he says in a man's voice. "Neither sight nor smell of smoke. It's the same air as the rest of the thawing woods."
The other man, shorter, pushes back his own cowl. His cheeks are clean, but with the same yellow eyes and strong jaw. He points ahead, "No signs of looters."
"The home looks undamaged." The taller one steps forward.
His companion stops him with a hand. "Careful brother. Snow there, hidden in the tall grass. Still swamped with radiation, no doubt."
His brother nods. He scans the clearing. "There. The woods come up close to the house. The terrain beneath will be clear."
The two circle the edge of the clearing; moving half under the shadow of the brown-needled branches, half under the shadow of the flushed sun. They step over a rundown wattle fence. They come to where the woods draw near the round earthen wall of the home.
The taller bearded brother nods at the wall. "A hole. The fence has been extended to it."
"It's covered by something on the inside," says the other. "Deliberate. Not damage from the elements."
By now they've reached the wall, and circled to the edge of the porch. The taller one says, "Many hearths have seen their line ended, brother. Even Bruna, provisioned as it was, saw its share of death. Three season of endless snow and-"
"Shhh." The younger brother glances at the heavy pine door. "I heard a noise. Hello?" he calls out in a louder tone. "Is there an elder of this hearth?"
The other says, "We are two sons. We called Hearth Erdo home in our youth."
The home is silent. The pines whisper in the breeze.
Then the door opens.
Thank you for reading The Wounded Sun.