by E L Stricker
“If you ask me, a choice between definitely starving and probably surviving is no choice at all,” Charlie called out.
Impiri stood beside Elias, looking as pale as the snow that still lingered on the ground. Her eyes were bright and wild.
“Remember that I warned you,” she said and pulled open the door to the house. She disappeared, dragging Sabelle inside after her before she slammed the door.
“Alright then, let's see if he can do it,” said a man.
“I told you. He saved us one time already, I knew there was something about him,” said another.
“Illya the Leader!” Conna said and the Patrollers took up the chant, and it spread through the crowd.
“Illya the Leader! Illya the Leader! Illya the Leader!”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
HE SWALLOWED. HE wasn't sure what was worse: the people who appeared downright surly or the ones that gazed up at him with wide eyes full of expectation. A sleepless night of thinking had not given him any kind of plan.
His mother’s raised eyebrows when she learned what had happened had not helped his confidence either. She had promised to support him, no matter what she thought of it all. Now, faced with the reality of what he was supposed to be doing, he was sure she had only said that because the alternative at this point was for them all to be thrown out. He didn’t want to be Leader at all, but everything had run away from him. All he had wanted was to make them listen and try planting. To be the head of this village would be like leading around a wild beast at the end of a leash, with nothing but a shield of bluffed confidence to keep it from devouring him.
What had Conna been thinking? Illya was seventeen, technically an adult but only barely, and Conna himself wasn’t much older. Elias had led the village for as long as Illya could remember. How could Conna think Illya could replace him?
They were all watching him, and the moment grew long. He needed to say something. He tried to remember why he was doing this, thinking about the seeds that he still carried and what they meant for everyone.
Deciding that it couldn't hurt, he reached into his pocket and drew out a handful, holding it up for the crowd to see. He cleared his throat.
“Today we are going to start something new,” he said. Consciously he stilled his shaking hand and calmed his breaths, pulling them in even and slow.
He had dreams. There was no lack of those in his mind, but it was one thing to sit alone and let his imagination run wild. It was another to stand in front of a crowd and make those ideas come out coherently.
“We are going to plant. It's a big change, but it's the best chance we have,” he said.
“If we are going to make this work we can't do it halfway. It's going to be hard work, but we all have to help if we are going to make it.” He sucked in a deep breath.
His mind churned feverishly, thinking of how to proceed. There wouldn't be any bicycle trips until the seeds got in the ground. He would assign the minimum number of people possible to gathering the new shoots to feed everyone. The rest would have to dig the soil and break it up to make it soft, the way it was in the picture.
“If we spend the summer growing these plants”—he held up his seeds again—“we will have a harvest in the fall, more than you would dream possible, right outside our doors.” He gestured toward the empty field between the village and the edge of the forest.
Charlie started clapping, alone in the crowd. The sound dropped into the silence like pebbles into water for a few moments before Conna joined him and then a few others. Illya's mouth felt wooly. He stopped himself from chewing on the edge of his lip. It was split and had started to bleed.
“The first thing we have to do is make a field. We have to break up the soil, like this.” He flipped open the book to the picture of the garden and held it out over the crowd for them to see.
There were many blank stares, punctuated by occasional nodding. He looked out over the crowd, wondering how long it would be before they were rioting against him too. His throat was tight, and he forced himself to take a slow breath. He glanced towards the woods, where the snow had mostly receded and the shoots were coming in with agonizing slowness.
“So,” he continued after a moment, “we just have to decide who will dig and who will get food for everyone.” He had no idea of how to start. How could he tell people who were old enough to be his parents what to do?
Conna jumped up on the stairs beside him.
“The book is full of mysteries, full of things that can lead us to a better life,” he yelled. “We are blessed to have a Leader who can read it.” This was met by scattered cheering.
“Those who dig the field will be the first to see the mysteries working. They will be the ones who build our future. Those who gather food will be making it possible to do this. All jobs are honorable. Each one of you is essential to our success.”
Illya raised his eyebrows, then blinked and schooled his expression. He still didn't know what to think of Conna's support, and he hadn't been sure it would continue.
Just as they had yesterday, Conna's words sparked something in the crowd that Illya had been unable to reach. Murmurs of speculation rippled through the people, swelling louder until Charlie yelled out over the din.
“I will dig the field!”
Those around them, not wanting to be shamed, began to volunteer as well. Soon, the crowd was a cacophony of yells.
“I will dig!”
“And I!”
In the end, Conna led everyone who had volunteered to the field to get started. Illya watched them go, rallying after Conna as if he was the Leader they had chosen after all. The sight of them, so thin, so painfully underfed, made Illya think of a pack of ghosts. He wondered if they had the strength for the digging or if they would fade away before the shoots had grown.
Maybe it was already too late.
No one was left standing in front of the stairs except for a surly-looking Jimmer with a small knot of friends around him. Impiri and Elias had not come to the gathering at all, and neither had Sabelle.
Jimmer crossed his arms. Illya opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Closing his mouth, he swallowed then tried again. He tasted blood and had a giddy feeling that it would somehow give strength to his words.
“So you have decided to be food gatherers, an important job,” he said, trying to parrot Conna. Somehow, it didn't seem to come out the same way.
“We'll be watching you, boy. You're going to mess up eventually, and we'll be here to take you down,” Jimmer said. Piers Malkin, who was standing beside Jimmer, spat in Illya's direction. It didn't reach him but arced through the air to splat on the stair below him. They turned away, leaving Illya standing over an empty square.
He could see the field from where he stood. Benja had not come this morning, nor had Samuel. His Aunt Ada and Uncle Leo were there, though, along with his mother and sister, digging with everyone else.
He kicked his toe into the edge of the stairs, and a piece of rotten wood came away. They didn't have any food gatherers at all now, and no one to cook either.
Conna was pointing people toward different areas of the field. He had always been good at telling people what to do. Pushy was one word for it, bully was another; one that Illya and Benja had used to describe him more than once. The people started to hack away at the thawing mud with a variety of implements. Some had real tools from the shed behind the stone house, others had sticks.
Illya made his way toward the field. Conna looked up when he neared and walked out to meet him, pulling him aside.
“You gotta do less talking, more telling,” Conna said. “They have to think you know what you're doing.” Illya frowned.
“Did fine, though, you’ll get it,” Conna said and gave him a grin.
“Um... Thanks,” he said, shoving his hand into his pocket and running his fingers through the seeds. He wondered where Benja was.
“We still need food gatherers,” he said. “Your pa and some people were there but the
y...”
Conna's expression darkened, and Illya stopped.
“Patrollers can do it,” Conna said. “They should keep going out.” Then he smiled, the anger receding from his face. “We’ll make it work. It has to work.”
Illya looked out over the field at all the people working. His mother was bending over, hacking at the soil. He still didn't know quite how all of this had happened. He thought of the venom on Impiri's face when she had stalked away and suppressed a shudder. Conna was right. It had to work. There was no going back now.
His mother looked up and met his eye. Her face was streaked with dirt, and she did not look happy. Illya started to walk toward her. Conna caught him by the arm before he got two paces.
“What are you doing?”
“I'm going to dig. I'm not just going stand here and watch,” Illya said. Conna shook his head.
“You can't. They have to see you as a Leader, someone who is above them, someone worth following. Go over there and start digging and they will never respect you.”
“I don't know about that—”
Conna tightened his grip on Illya's arm.
“I'm going to help you. This idea is one of the best chances we have. But you have to be willing to do whatever it takes,” he said.
Illya stared at him, wanting to say something, to find some way to tell him he was wrong, but his words caught in his throat. He looked at his feet. Conna relaxed his grip.
“Water,” Conna said. He called out to the people. “Digging is hard work, we will stop for water.”
He directed some of the Patrollers to fetch skins of water from the river and distribute them among the people and to go find whatever shoots they could. Illya felt foolish for not thinking of water first but tried not to show it. He shuffled over to talk to his ma while Conna directed the Patrollers.
“I'm sorry,” he said.
She wiped her hand across her mouth. Finally, she sighed and looked away.
“A little hard work never hurt anyone,” she said.
“No.”
“And this is what we have to do to make it work,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Then what are you sorry for?”
“I don't know,” he said.
She glanced over to where Conna was directing people back out to the field.
“I just hope you know what you are doing,” she said as she went back to her work.
“Me too,” he whispered, too low for her to hear. He wanted more than anything to pick up a shovel and dig alongside her, but Conna was striding towards him.
Illya turned away and closed his eyes. He wasn't cut out to be a Leader; he didn't know the first thing about it and he had never been one to sit by while other people worked. He was just going to have to tell Conna where things stood, that was all.
He had barely opened his mouth when he heard a commotion at the edge of the field.
Jimmer had returned, this time with Impiri and Elias beside him. He had taken a hoe from Charlie and was brandishing it in the air, yelling. It seemed he had gotten into his brew over the course of the morning. With the rest of the food gone, Jimmer appeared to be living on it.
“Waste of time and—”
Conna pushed him in the chest, cutting him off. Jimmer staggered backward, and Conna muttered to him, low-voiced. Illya caught a little of what he was saying as he neared them.
“—not going to let you ruin this like you ruin everything else,” Conna said.
“We should burn this too, along with all the rest of it.” Impiri snatched the hoe from Jimmer, who appeared ready to use it to hit Conna.
The people had left their digging to watch. Most kept their distance, but Charlie pushed his way back up to the front.
“We're not burning anything,” he said. “And I'll take that back.” He grabbed the hoe, trying to take it from her. They struggled over it. Impiri ripped the hoe free of Charlie’s grip and swung it. She hit Charlie, opening a gash across his forehead. He dropped to the ground. Blood poured from his head and soaked into the freshly-dug earth.
Impiri dropped the hoe with a clatter and covered her mouth with her hands. Illya fell to his knees beside Charlie, trying to remember what Samuel had taught him about bleeding. His mind had turned to mush, and the voices around him sounded like they were coming from far away.
The red slick of blood blurred in his vision.
Somewhere above him, Impiri started to babble.
“I never—“
“Shut up.” Conna snapped. “Haven’t you done enough already?”
“Pressure, direct pressure,” Illya said to himself. He pressed the heel of his hand against the gash. Charlie's blood was hot and sticky.
“I'm going to be sick,” someone said behind him.
“Charlie, can you hear me?” he asked. The man was alive; he could tell that by the way his chest still rose and fell with breaths. Near Charlie's temple, a pulse beat against Illya's wrist.
Charlie groaned but did not wake up.
Impiri spoke up again.
“I didn't mean to—“
“What if he never wakes up?” Piers said.
The bleeding had mostly stopped under the pressure, though Illya still had not moved his hand. It was slippery, and if he didn't hold it just right, more of it welled and escaped from around his fingers. Charlie's eyes fluttered then closed again.
Illya pressed harder against the gash. The cut would probably need to be stitched shut with the sharpened bone needles and strings of gut that Samuel kept on hand.
He swallowed. For a thing like this to happen on the first day was surely a terrible omen. Besides that, Charlie was his friend and had been one of the staunchest supporters of his idea so far. He thought of all the misgivings he'd had over reading the book in the first place and the fears he had brushed aside because he had been too curious to stop. Watching Charlie's closed eyes, he wondered if Impiri had been right after all.
Maybe they were cursed.
“A stretcher,” Conna was saying. Illya looked up, still not daring to move his hand from Charlie's sticky forehead. Conna was directing the Patrollers to tie together some branches from the woodpile into a travois. The rest of the people stood in a mute circle, watching.
Illya remembered then that he was supposed to be the Leader. He straightened up as much as he could while leaving his hand fixed to Charlie's forehead.
“Yes. He needs Samuel,” he said with as much authority as he could muster.
Once they had built the travois, they carefully lifted Charlie onto it. It was an awkward procession that made its way down from the field and through the village to Samuel's hut. Conna, thankfully, thought to direct everyone back to the digging before they set out. At least there was no gawking as they shuffled along.
Illya was bent over, walking sideways to keep his hand on Charlie's forehead, as two Patrollers dragged the travois. Conna walked alongside. Belatedly, it occurred to Illya that holding pressure like this was a job a real Leader would have delegated to someone else.
He pushed the thought out of his mind. Right now, it didn't matter. All that mattered was keeping the blood from spilling out. He would just have to worry about figuring out how to be a real Leader later.
Samuel answered the door at the first knock and surveyed them with mild surprise.
“So, the new Leader has come back to be my apprentice after all,” he said. Illya blushed and explained what had happened.
Samuel pried Charlie’s eyes open with his fingers and felt the shape of his skull and the pulse at his neck, lifting Illya's hand to look at the gash beneath.
“No danger there, as long as it's kept clean,” he said, indicating the cut. He regarded Illya appraisingly for a moment before shoving a cloth into his hand and indicating for him to continue holding pressure.
“Bind that on; then start cleaning around it,” he said. Illya followed his instructions while Samuel continued his examination.
“What if he doesn’t
wake?” Illya asked.
“He's just knocked out,” Samuel said. He reached up onto a shelf and began fumbling among the pots.
“Heartbeat is strong, no break in his skull,” he continued, opening one of them carefully and giving it a tentative sniff. He drew his face back abruptly, looking like he was going to sneeze. He rubbed his nose.
“Not quite what it's for, but this will do,” he said. He came closer and opened the pot under Charlie's nose.
Charlie snorted and thrashed, nearly knocking the pot out of Samuel's hand. The movement reopened the cut on his forehead, and blood seeped through the bandage.
“What…” he mumbled, his eyes fluttering open. Samuel stood back, closing the pot with a smile and stashing it back on the shelf. Illya dove forward to stop the bleeding again.
Conna stood in the doorway and studied Illya with his lips pressed together before turning to leave, taking the Patrollers with him.
“Lie still,” Samuel said to Charlie. “You're going to need rest before you are right again.” They finished cleaning and bandaging the cut. Samuel explained to him that he could not fall asleep for a few hours. “But you can have willow bark tea for the pain.”
Illya stayed in the hut with Samuel while the Healer finished cleaning and re-bandaging Charlie's head. After Samuel was satisfied, and he had sent Charlie home to rest, Illya lingered, not wanting to face everything outside yet. It felt strange not to be quizzed about the plants Samuel was crushing.
“Are you intending to remain the Leader of the village after you have succeeded in this plan?” Samuel asked him after a while.
“I don't know,” Illya said, hesitating. “I didn't mean for any of this to happen at all.”
“It is a rare thing to have the power to change things,” Samuel said.
They were quiet for a while as Samuel continued to work on grinding and mixing.
“I suppose there would be no purpose in asking you about the properties of willow bark,” he said. Illya looked down at the floor.
“Dried and brewed into tea, use it for pain or to bring down fever,” he mumbled.
Samuel looked up at him with something of a challenge in his eyes.
