Widow's Welcome

by D. K. Fields

  Ghen turned to Wyne in triumph. ‘See! That woman doesn’t mind touching Sot. I might be allowed in the glass house.’

  Wyne stood very still, rigid almost.

  ‘That’s the Sower,’ he told Ghen. ‘People fear her almost as much as they fear us.’

  Wyne and Ghen lifted the box from the barrow and set it at the end of the Seed Bed. Sot took a few of the sacking twists out, so that the Tillers’ heads were visible.

  Ghen reached in to help, but Sot took him by the shoulders and marched him off a few paces.

  ‘What did I say? Just watch. Hands behind your back. Head up. Now, don’t move. They’re coming. Wyne – for Audience-sake, try to ease up on the misery. There’ll be more than enough from the Grieving. The boy was only sixteen.’

  Wyne cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders, and all the fidgety discomfort he’d shown since arriving at the farm lifted. It was as if he’d had a stern word with himself and the anxious part had listened. Just in time too, as a line of people was making its way towards them. They passed Ghen one by one, and one by one he took in their sadness. A man and a woman, his parents’ age: pale and glassy-eyed. Two boys, brothers, by the look of them, crying but trying to hide it. An old woman clutching the hand of a little girl who skipped at her side, as if this was an outing. Then men – too many to count. Heads bowed, hands behind their backs, just as Sot had told him he must stand. These were the Grieving then. They took up places next to the Seed Bed but all eyes were on the house.

  Now four more were coming – two men, two women. Between them they carried the body on a sling, each holding one end of two long poles. The body itself was wrapped in a finely worked cloth and, as it neared him, Ghen could see it was covered in coloured threads that formed twisting roots and stems and buds and leaves.

  The four carriers arrived at the Seed Bed and the Grieving stepped back. Then something happened and Ghen knew why his mother hadn’t even told him about Last Plantings, let alone taken him to one.

  The noise that broke free from the parents was the most terrible sound he’d heard in his young life. It was closer to a scream than a sob, and through it ran pain: pain, clear as a bell. A flock of birds rose as one from a tree nearby, startled by the sound. The man dropped to his knees and the woman sank next to him. They reached out to the body lying in the sling, as if they could somehow convince the boy to rise.

  Then something happened that took Ghen’s breath from his throat: Wyne climbed into the Seed Bed.

  The carriers lowered the body down to him, feet-first. Despite his horror, Ghen edged closer so he could see. Wyne was guiding the body to a standing position against the back of the trench, so that the body looked down the field and to the house beyond it. But as the body reached the earthen wall, the wrapping around its head slipped free. Gasps and new cries of anguish came from the Grieving, and Wyne hurried as best he could to tuck the cloth back in.

  But Ghen had seen the skin of the boy’s face.

  His cheeks were burned and blackened, the bone visible as a milky slash. Singed patches were all that remained of the boy’s hair. Wyne managed to cover the boy again but Ghen couldn’t forget what he’d seen.

  Wyne bowed his head and waited as the Sower moved among the Grieving saying softly the name of the boy, who was Cai, and asking the Audience to welcome him, for the tales to run long, for Cai’s own tale in the valley was now ended. The Grieving continued to cry as the Sower continued her walk. Even the little girl who had skipped her way to the Seed Bed was now in tears.

  The Sower came back to the head of the Seed Bed. ‘Widow’s welcome, Cai was a good custodian of the land. No field left idle.’

  ‘No field left idle,’ the Grieving said as one, Sot joining in softly.

  In the quiet that followed, Sot took a Tiller from the box and passed it down to Wyne. He positioned it carefully in front of the dead boy. He did the same for all twelve figures, arranging them in three rows of four, all looking the same way as the boy: down the wheat field. Wyne took his time, making sure the figures were the same distance from each other, that none fell on the uneven floor of the Seed Bed. He was as careful with the Tillers now as he had been when making them, and Ghen was full of admiration, because how awful it must be in the ground like that, with the burned boy, all his family sobbing above. It would be like being dead yourself, Ghen thought. And this was why Sot had taken him, the reason she had made him leave the fields. This was his task now. He would be Wyne, climbing into the earth.

  He was running. He didn’t care about seeing the glass house anymore. He didn’t care about anything besides getting far away from Sot.

  *

  The bridge and the Wayward woman’s tent were in sight when he heard the cart behind him. He was too tired to run by then, but he kept walking without turning around.

  ‘Ready for a lift?’ Sot said, drawing alongside him.

  He’d thought she would be angry with him; that she wasn’t left him somewhat confused, and his stride faltered.

  ‘Running away – you’re not just punishing yourself, Ghen.’

  ‘Then who else am I punishing?’ he said.

  Sot let the reins fall slack in her lap. Wyne was seated beside her: pale and slick with sweat, his eyes closed.

  ‘We’ve got work to do,’ Sot said. ‘The order list is full. I need you, and Wyne needs you. Please.’

  He looked once more at the Wayward’s tent. ‘Just for a few days. That’s all.’

  ‘It gets easier,’ she said.

  He climbed up next to Wyne. He touched his friend’s shoulder, and Wyne pressed against him like he was bone-cold and Ghen was a fire. It didn’t look to get any easier at all.

  *

  The next two days passed in a blur of wood and blades. They rose, they ate, and made Tillers. They ate, made Tillers, ate again. They made Tillers then they slept. Ghen had no idea of the time but he knew it was passing because the number of Tillers grew, and Sot crossed things off the order list.

  There were few breaks in the work besides meals and sleep, and Ghen found himself looking forward to going for wood with Wyne, and it was good when people called to make their part payments, or to place an order. Some people knew exactly what they wanted when Sot answered the door. Rennwood Tillers holding buckets. Affas with peaked hats. A scar on a cheek. Only one boot. Sot never questioned their choices or refused their demands, and she dealt with everyone the same way, regardless of how much money they had.

  At the end of the second day, a knock came late, just as they were going back to work after dinner. Ghen was so tired he didn’t turn around to see the caller and he didn’t listen to the conversation, either. All he wanted was to go to bed and wake up at home. But then he heard a word that made him spin round so fast he knocked the Tiller he was working to the floor. The name the buyer had said, Ghen knew it. Lart. That was Melle’s last name.

  Her grandfather was on the porch with Sot. Ghen rushed out to him, gabbling about Melle.

  ‘Melle’s fine,’ her grandfather said. ‘She’s upset about Hinny, of course.’ The old man pulled a sob back inside himself. ‘But she’s fine. She misses you, Ghen, I know that.’

  Ghen couldn’t bear the sad way Melle’s grandfather was looking at him. It’s because his wife has died, Ghen told himself as he slunk back to his bench and took up his rooters. At his side Wyne worked a piece of rennwood with swooping, sliding strokes; himself again, after the ordeal of the Last Planting. But Ghen hadn’t forgotten the way Wyne had sweated and been sickly pale. Ghen hadn’t forgotten the burned boy’s face.

  Melle’s grandmother had placed her order years earlier, the balance long paid off. Once Melle’s grandfather had informed Sot of the Last Planting’s particulars and taken his leave, all that was needed was for Sot to find the right payment form. She brought a pile of the sheets from her room.

  ‘Hinny Lart,’ Sot said. ‘Rennwoods. Each to hold a sinta. Ghen, you’ll do the fruits.’

  ‘But I’m not
good enough with the rennwood yet. The wood’s too hard.’

  ‘It gets softer the more you work it. And you know sintas like you’re grown from the same root. You’ll carve them, and Wyne will help if you need it. Two days until the Planting. We’ll start in the morning.’

  Ghen went to bed feeling torn again. He was anxious about the rennwood Tillers, wanting to do a good job for Melle’s family, but pulling him another way was a lurch of excitement at the thought of seeing Melle again, and it was that that made him get out of bed again.

  Sot was startled to find him already at his bench when she rose.

  ‘How long have you been working?’ she said, rubbing a hand across her eyes. She picked up a porridge pan that was lying on the floor, and a nearby spoon. ‘I see you’ve attempted to feed yourself.’

  ‘Couldn’t sleep,’ he said, without looking up.

  Sot stood by his bench where six rennwood Tillers stood in a neat line, all facing the same way, as if they were already positioned in a Seed Bed. She picked one up and examined it.

  ‘This is fine work, Ghen, but you need to sleep. I can’t have you keeling over in the Seed Bed.’

  Ghen dropped his rooters on the bench with a thud. ‘The Seed Bed?’

  Sot yawned and wrapped her shawl more tightly round her shoulders. ‘I want you in this time. Wyne takes them hard – I don’t like to make him do too many in a row. With you here we can fulfil more orders, and more orders mean more Last Plantings.’ She picked up one of the Tillers. ‘The definition on these sinta leaves could be sharper, I think, but otherwise, impressive work.’

  ‘The rennwood is good for working fruit.’

  Sot put her hand on his shoulder. ‘You see now, you don’t need to break your back in the fields to make something grow, Ghen.’

  Ghen shook her off. ‘I’m not like you,’ he said with tired resignation. ‘I’m going home, remember?’

  A sound made them both turn. Wyne was standing in the doorway to their room.

  ‘You must tell him, Sot,’ Wyne said.

  Ghen looked from one to the other. ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘That you’ll be in the Seed Bed,’ Sot said. ‘That’s my decision, and while this is my workshop, you will both respect my choices.’ She turned to Wyne. ‘Is that understood?’

  Wyne closed the door without answering her. Sot stormed out of the workshop and Ghen was left with the Tillers, the finished and the half-made. With a heavy heart he picked up his rooters and went back to work. So often since coming to Sot’s workshop, that felt like the only action left to him.

  *

  Melle’s grandmother’s Last Planting was to be in the early evening. That had been the old woman’s favourite time of day, the time she had chosen to walk her fields and check on her sheep. Ghen was still without a suit, despite Sot’s promise to buy him one, but at least he had Wyne’s clothes to borrow, which were better than his own. He wanted to look smart for old Mrs Lart’s Last Planting. For Melle.

  When they arrived at the house there was a lamp burning in every window. Fiddle music drifted from the open front door as they unloaded the Tiller box. In time with the sprightly jig Ghen heard many hands clapping, and whistles and bells.

  He nearly dropped his end of the box as he and Wyne guided it to the barrow. Sot happened to be close by and caught the weight just in time. When the box was safe in the barrow and Wyne was wheeling it towards the Seed Bed, Sot spoke kindly to Ghen.

  ‘This one will be different. It’s a celebration of a life well lived, not mourning one cut short. Hinny Lart was eighty-six and died in her own bed, in her sleep. She didn’t suffer at her end, and her family won’t suffer at her Planting. It won’t be like the boy.’

  Ghen nodded, trying to catch hold of Sot’s cheerfulness in the hope it would ease the worry that made his stomach churn, his head light.

  ‘And there’s Melle,’ he said. ‘I’ll see Melle tonight too.’

  Sot patted his shoulder. They followed Wyne along a path marked with lanterns. Garlands of flowers ran through the branches of the trees they passed, and the sheep in the adjoining field had ribbons tied to their tails. Sot was right, it was a celebration. And he decided to do his best in the Seed Bed. For Melle.

  It was a different Sower than the previous one. This was a stout man with no hair on his head to wind flowers in, but he wore a red tunic and talked with Sot while they waited for the Grieving to come, just as before.

  Wyne and Ghen set the Tiller box by the Seed Bed. Ghen caught sight of the ladder in the trench and felt his knees tremble.

  ‘Just remember to breathe,’ Wyne said, ‘and don’t rush. Better to do it slowly and get it right. None of the Grieving are in a rush.’

  Wyne was right – they really weren’t in a rush. The music continued to play in the house and the hands continued to clap along. The Sower pulled a pocket watch from his tunic and sighed. The shadows lengthened.

  Ghen wondered if Melle knew he’d be there, if she was excited to see him. Her grandfather had said she missed him, and that had to be a good sign. He took comfort from this thought, and from the music and the flowers in the trees. Melle was his friend. Melle would always be his friend.

  There was more light, suddenly, as the back door opened. Shadows made their way towards the Seed Bed. They brought the music with them, singing Hinny Lart to her Bed. The shadows came closer, walked past him, and became people at the side of the Seed Bed. Ghen searched for Melle’s face among them, and when he found it his heart leapt. She seemed to seek him too, and when she saw him her mouth opened, and if he had been closer he thought he would have heard a little sound fall from it. A sound of pleasure, he was sure.

  He stood straight as his Tillers while the Sower intoned his words and wound his way through the Grieving. There was no sobbing, no pain. When the Sower praised Hinny Lart’s care of the land, the Grieving called out that she did care, yes she did. They nodded and told the Audience she’d shared a great many tales with them.

  Ghen knew his moment was coming. He listened for the last of the No field to lie idle calls to be uttered. And then he climbed down the ladder.

  The Seed Bed felt much deeper than it had looked from the ground. Wyne was far, far above him; Ghen would never be able to reach to take a Tiller. He felt dizzy and put his hand out to steady himself, but his hand met only soft, wet earth.

  ‘Breathe, Ghen!’ Wyne whispered.

  Ghen took a few deeper breaths and felt steadier. He was aware of something above him. It was Hinny, wrapped in the sheet and being lowered feet-first into the Seed Bed. He caught hold of her feet and guided the body. But the bearers above let the weight go too soon, before he’d eased the body backwards against the Bed wall, and it fell against him, knocking him hard.

  His feet struggled to find purchase on the soil and he started to slip. He was going to fall in the mud with Melle’s dead grandmother on top of him. Frantically he shoved the body away from him and managed to get it in place, looking down the field. He gave a cry of triumph but immediately caught himself.

  He felt like he’d been in the Seed Bed a long time. As Wyne passed the first Tiller down, he murmured to Ghen that he was doing well.

  ‘But slowly, remember?’

  Ghen did his best to place the Tillers with care but he wanted to get out of the Seed Bed very much. Once, he was sure he saw Hinny’s hand twitch. He had only placed three Tillers, leaving nine to go. He made himself look at them rather than Hinny. At the fruit they held, that he had carved. Carved for Melle. He said that every time he took a Tiller from Wyne, every time he set it down in front of Hinny. Carved for Melle. The words helped him set a pace. Carved for Melle. She helped him, though she was far above him now.

  When all the Tillers were in place he said it one more time, so that he didn’t scramble out of the Seed Bed in a way that would be disrespectful, and then he climbed the ladder. Wyne helped him out of the Bed and then helped to keep him standing. He looked for Melle’s face again, but darkness
had come, and he could no longer make out who was who among the bodies of the Grieving. Then they began to tell stories of Hinny, and he found Melle through her voice. Her tale was one he already knew, about how her grandmother had taught her to tie her bootlaces when everyone else had given up hope that Melle would ever learn.

  ‘She made a story of the tying,’ Melle said. ‘Told me there was a tree, and a gresta making a nest in it. The gresta had to swoop round the tree, under the branches, to collect her twigs, and when she had enough she pulled them into the nest. When I told myself the story my laces were tied. I still tell it to myself now.’

  The Grieving laughed, and so did Sot and Wyne, and Ghen was more glad than he could say to share that laughter with people.

  When all the tales were told, the Sower stood at the end of the Seed Bed where Hinny’s head was and called her by name, asking her to watch over the land, to make sure its story was one of strong growth and high yields.

  The Grieving then made their way back to the house. There was no music now, or singing, just low voices sharing more stories. The four people who had carried Hinny’s body to the Seed Bed stayed to fill in the trench; the noise the earth made as it scattered onto Hinny’s head and shoulders, onto the Tillers, made Ghen shrink back.

  The Sower took his leave with mutterings about missing the last ferry home, and Sot, Wyne and Ghen walked to the cart.

  ‘I haven’t seen Melle,’ Ghen said. ‘Can I, just to say goodbye?’

  Sot looked reluctant, but after a moment she nodded. ‘You be quick, Ghen. No bothering anyone.’

  He was away to the house before she’d even finished speaking. The light still poured from the windows and the music had started again. He had to knock three times before the door opened. Melle’s mother took a step back when she saw who it was. The fiddle music slipped out of time, and stopped. He was aware of many sets of eyes on him, but no one spoke.