Yenka was at the kitchen table kneading a ball of dough, carefully scraping off the least trace of cornmeal from her fingers, lest the precious yellow powder – sparingly pinched from the tiny sack Yodren had procured for them – go to waste. Since most of the increasingly meagre crops were seized by the Castle, flour was getting harder and harder to come by, so that a loaf of freshly-baked, wholesome cornbread was almost as valuable, and difficult to obtain, as the gold whose colour it resembled.
Blessed Yodren, their firstborn, Yenka’s pride and joy: the first Scribe in the history of the lowly Kobold clan. Even though being taken care of by his son pained Yern, he couldn’t help feeling grateful; food was far more dear than his foolish pride.
“One of the eggs wasn’t empty, thank the Spirits,” Yenka said without taking her eyes off the dough. “I boiled it and tried to make them share it, but Yofana wouldn’t hear of it; It’s for my little brother, she said, so that he’ll grow up big and strong.”
“She’s such a darling soul,” Yern said. “Not ten years old and already behaving like a grown woman – like a mother, even.”
“Well, she’s neither, and if she keeps this up I honestly don’t know if she’ll ever live to be one; she’s got thin as a stick, all skin and bones and eyes as big as lanterns in a face like an old woman’s. I have to beg her to have a bite of food, but unless Yonfi is fit to burst she won’t accept a single crumb – which means that she’s constantly starving herself.”
Yern sat on a stool, lit his pipe and feasted his eyes on the little boy, who sat on the floor of the bedroom they all shared, drawing intently with a piece of coal on a broken roof tile, his shoulder blades poking pitifully through his flimsy linen shirt. So much of their lives had come to revolve around food, and the lack of it, it was hard to believe that a mere six months ago their household was as happy as any hard-working Farmer’s. It was as if the Shy Death had taken away the air they breathed.
And it had to be a six-moon year, with no more than a couple of hours’ greyish dimness every night. At least darkness would make the children drowsy, so that they might sleep and forget their gnawing hunger for a while – whereas now, with days stretching in a seemingly endless succession of inescapable moonglow, Yofana and Yonfi couldn’t be coaxed into bed, staying up till all hours and working themselves into a frenzy of childish bustle and mischief that made their stomachs groan with pain.
At that very moment, Yofana burst through the door yelling, “Mama! Papa! Look what I found! Look!” and thrusting her grimy little palm at Yern, beaming with pride, she presented him with a handful of snails. “So Yonfi can have some meat with his supper, right? Oh, and there’s more! The lettuce patch is crawling with them!”
Having abandoned his drawing to see what the fuss was all about, Yonfi stood on his toes to inspect his sister’s great find – but he didn’t seem to share her excitement. After taking a single look at the sluggishly crawling snails, he frowned, pursed his lips, and declared, “I’m not eating these. They’re nasty!”
“No, silly!” Yofana said, ruffling her brother’s thick, straw-coloured hair. “They might look a bit slimy, but when they’re cooked they’re lovely! Right, Papa?” she said, turning to Yern and nodding urgently.
Yenka was right, Yern thought, forcing himself to smile and mutter approvingly. Their beautiful, fair-haired, green-eyed daughter looked like a skeleton come to life, a fact made even more heartrending by her unwavering cheerfulness and the way she so obviously adored her little brother.
“You eat ’em, then,” Yonfi said, and went back to his drawing.
But Yofana wasn’t disheartened a bit; carrying the snails to the kitchen, she dropped them in the pot that Yenta had already set on the stove, and dashed out the door, shouting that she had to get them all before they ate up all the lettuces.
“I don’t like lettuce either,” Yonfi said, his tongue sticking out in concenrtation.
Yern took a drag off his pipe and tried to shove the thought of the snails out of his mind; but, the Spirits forgive him, how he craved them!
The Runes of Norien Page 16
