Shorn: Chapter 5
Much of the hay was moldy from rain that had come in through the hole he’d seen in the roof, but it still made a good mattress. Most importantly, he had room to stretch out.
He lay down thinking that he would get up and leave early the next morning before anyone was up. That way Melda wouldn’t feel she had failed in her hospitality. He didn’t want her to feel bad, but he couldn’t stay and eat their food again. They had little enough as it was.
But he was still asleep in the morning when the barn door opened, and Melda came in with a basket to collect eggs from the sleepy chickens.
He sat upright quickly, at first not remembering where he was. The pre-dawn light was dim and gray.
“Sorry to bother you, Shorn. But I didn’t have any eggs left in the house for breakfast.”
“It is okay.” Shorn stood up. “I was planning to leave early anyway. I won’t have time to eat,” he added.
She waved this off. “There’s always time to eat. At the very least I can pack some food to take with you.”
“I don’t—”
She cut him off. “And I don’t want to hear it. It’s already settled.” She scooped up some eggs, ignoring the hens’ protests. At the door, she turned back. “Thank you for the wood you chopped. It helps a lot. The children are too small to be using the axe, and I can’t swing it because I fell off a roof when I was little, and my shoulder never healed right.”
“I will cut some more before I go.” He said the words without thinking. What else could he do after the kindness she had showed him?
She gave him a look. “I don’t want to delay you.”
“You are not.”
She smiled. “Then thank you.”
Shorn was already chopping wood when she called him in for breakfast. He winced when he saw how much food she’d given him. He looked at his plate, then looked pointedly at the children’s plates.
She shook her head. “I know what you’re thinking. But we’ll be fine. We’ll manage somehow. We always have.”
“It was easier when Papa was here,” Kit said.
“Let’s not talk about that now. It’s not the time.” When Kit tried to speak again, she shushed him.
Shorn finished his food quickly and headed back out to the chopping block. He was still at it when the door opened later, and the three older children came out. Lysa and Pol were carrying a sack of seeds and headed over to one of the fields. Kit approached him. “Mama said I should stack the wood.” He picked up a couple of pieces and stacked them beside the house.
After a few trips, Kit sat down on one of the extra logs to watch Shorn chopping. “Papa said he was going to teach me how to chop wood when I got big enough.”
Shorn didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t say anything. He was starting to get better at chopping, learning how to angle the blade to make the chips fly. If only he had a larger axe.
“It was snowing when he died.”
Shorn heard an unexpected sound then and turned his head to look at the small boy. Kit’s shoulders were shaking with sobs.
Shorn stared at him for a moment, unsure what to do. He looked so terribly small and fragile, tears streaming down his cheeks no matter how his hands tried to hold them back.
Shorn looked to the house, hoping Melda would come out and see. Slowly, he took a step closer. One huge hand reached out.
On Themor, children were punished for crying. In a heartbeat, he was back there, so many years ago…
They stood in the snow, he and the other children his age. They were all five years of age and brand new at the Khivoz Military Academy. All male children went to a military academy when they turned five—at least the children of the warrior class. They would live there year-round for the next twelve years, training, studying, fighting. Only brief visits home would be allowed.
The instructor stood before them, bent with age, his face marked with the ceremonial scars that Themorian warriors wore instead of medals or ribbons. Old he was, but his voice was still strong when he spoke.
“Cadet 435, step forward.”
It took Shorn a moment to realize the instructor was speaking to him. Hesitantly, he took a small step forward.
The instructor strode over and looked down on him, his face iron hard. Without a trace of inflection, as though he was reading off the menu for that day’s breakfast, he said, “Your grandfather died last night.”
The words hit Shorn hard. He loved his grandfather greatly. The old man had been a steady, supportive presence in his life. He bent over, a sob escaping him.
The instructor moved quickly. The rod he carried under his arm lashed out, cracking young Shorn on the shoulder, hard enough that it knocked him sideways.
“Stand up!” the instructor shouted.
Fighting back his tears, Shorn did so. The instructor glared down at him, then raised his eyes to the rest of the class.
“Crying leads to weakness, and weakness is how the enemy wins. Never forget that!” He punctuated his words with another crack on Shorn’s shoulder.
He put one hand on Shorn’s head and tilted it back, forcing Shorn to look at him.
“You will stand here all day. No matter how bad the storm gets. No matter how cold you are. You will stand here until the tears freeze inside you forever.”
Melda came out of the house then, her mother’s instincts warning her something was wrong. She took in the scene at a glance and hurried over.
Shorn stepped back, feeling somehow responsible.
Melda swept the boy into her arms.
“I miss Papa,” he wailed.
“We all do, child. We all do.”
She took the child inside, leaving Shorn alone once again. Something changed for him then. He knew he could not leave. These people needed him.
He looked at the hole in the barn roof. He looked at the fields, only a few rows planted. Lysa and Pol’s progress was painfully slow. He’d never farmed, never so much as watered a plant, but he knew that crops needed to be in the ground early. If they didn’t get more seeds in the ground soon, things would be rough next winter. The children might even starve.
He remembered Kit saying their horse had died too. No horse meant they couldn’t plow.
Shorn had an idea. He went into the barn, got the plow and came back outside. Lysa and Pol stared at him, their own planting forgotten. He set the plow down at the edge of the field and looked it over. It didn’t seem too complicated. He’d seen people use them before. He should be able to make it work.
The plow had two handles. He took hold of them and pushed. But that didn’t work at all. The blade bit deep into the ground, where it lodged on a rock. Further pushing only made it worse.
Next, he tried pulling the plow. Now the plow moved, but he couldn’t simultaneously pull it and push the blade down into the soil.
“I don’t think that’s gonna work.”
He looked up to see the girl, Lysa, watching him.
“You have to use the harness.”
He considered this. “It won’t fit me.”
“That’s what the buckles are for.” She trotted off toward the barn.
By the time she got back with the harness, Pol had gotten his mother. She came out of the house wearing a big hat, the little one, Ren, holding onto her skirts. Kit wasn’t far behind.
“You don’t have to do this, Shorn. I know you want to leave.”
“I will do this first.”
“It’s all right. We have a neighbor down the valley a bit. He said he’d come by with his mule once he finishes his fields.” She looked down the valley as if she might be able to see him right then.
Instead of answering, Shorn took the harness from Lysa and put his head through the collar.
“Are you really going to pull the plow, Shorn?” Kit’s face was still streaked from tears, but they were forgotten at this new thing he’d never seen before.
“I will try.”
Melda began hooking the traces to the plow. The kids swarmed around to help, talking excitedly.
After that it was time to adjust the harness itself. The buckles were stiff, too much for Melda or the children. Shorn had to help.
Then Melda stepped back and looked him over. “It doesn’t really fit, but I think that’s about all we can do.”
“You sure are the funniest looking horse I ever saw!” Kit crowed.
The other children joined him in laughter. For a moment, Shorn stiffened. He’d never liked being laughed at. More than one warrior had ended up with broken bones for doing so. But then he relaxed. This wasn’t the same at all. It was even pleasant. Much better than seeing the boy in tears.
“Neigh for us!” Lysa cried.
Shorn hesitated, then shrugged inwardly. Drawing in a breath, he gave his best horse impersonation.
The children shrieked with laughter. Kit fell down, he was laughing so hard.
“You sound more like a goat than a horse!” Pol yelled.
When they had calmed down, Melda picked up the bridle with its long reins attached. “I guess you don’t want to wear this part?” There was just the hint of a smile when she said it. The children burst into more laughter.
It was awkward at first, but gradually Shorn began to get the hang of it. Traction was the hardest part. He had to take small steps until the plow got going. Melda hung onto the handles and guided the plow, while the children followed behind, putting seeds in the ground.
By midday, they’d finished one field already. Melda called a halt, for which Shorn was grateful. Blisters were forming on his shoulders. He was feeling weary, too, more than he expected. Farming was harder work than he realized.
Melda put her hands on her hips and surveyed the field. “It’s a miracle. I had no idea what we were going to do.” She leaned close and in a low voice added, “I wasn’t holding much hope our neighbor would come. He barely manages to plant half his fields every year.” She smiled at him. “Thank you. You don’t know how much this means to us.”