Mud/Toes Continuation

“Nobody respects a galaflarge.” Runstable laments.

I look across at him. Once again work halts as he leans on his faddystick and gazes off into the distance. Following the line of his yellow eyes I catch him watching the line of soldiers march along the road past the estate.

“You know exactly which end of the faddystick people get if I find them lacking the proper respect.” I threaten.

The war in the south is none of our concern, we just watch the columns as they pass by and feed the wounded as they trickle back northwards. If our rulers issue edicts from the city then they rarely make it this far, something in this rural expanse swallows them like a turrifenge with an unlucky scurrige.

“You're different, Grandfather,” he retorts. “Everyone knows what you did for the revolution.”

My gaze rests upon the purple-grassed hill. Most no longer remember the gallows that we burned, the waste of good timber a recompense for the waste of good lives. Now a small but expanding copse of strange trees tops the mound.

“I only made sure the farm ran smoothly and people got fed,” I tell him. “That's what a galaflarge does.”

I reposition my feet and the red mud oozes between my remaining toes. A lifetime of working the land and fending off turrifenges has ravaged my feet. In a couple of weeks the wayward appendages

will begin ache again, despite their long absence, heralding the return of the rainy season.

“I'm just no good at this,” he complains. “My sisters are much better.”

The piping voices of serrits call to each other across the fields, telling each other of insects found and devoured, living out their uncomplicated lives in joy. Verrita used to say the serrits were the souls of the unborn, not yet weighed down by the burdens of life.

“That's true,” I agree. “But they don't have your way with a scurrige. I was dreadful at the craft when I was first apprenticed under your namesake. You'll just have to practice the things that do not come easy to you.”

The sound of a sterry's six hooves on the track heralds the return of our overseer, Lintly, from the rebuilt Seven Summits estate. His post is bureaucratic, managing supplies, keeping the outside world from interfering and staying out of the actual work of the land; that suits the former revolutionary captain quite well. He smiles and waves, a far cry from his predecessor.

“What has changed the most since you were an apprentice, Grandfather?” He asks.

The sun bakes away at the land and those working upon it. I look forwards to breaking for food, and then I shall climb the purple-grassed hill and rest in the shade of Verrita's tree. I feel a smile creep onto my lips as I consider discussing the day with her.

“Me,” I answer. “The rains still come on time, the serrits still sing in the evening, the crops still ripen and get carted off to the town, but I have grown older and slower and less patient with my apprentices.”

I can only guide my grandson, he must face his own challenges and heartaches by himself, the same as I had to. As soon as he stops dreaming about leaving the farm for adventure elsewhere and concentrates on living in his true place in the world everything will come easier, that is the real secret of the galaflarge's craft.

“Fine, I get the hint,” he responds. “Come on, little scurrige, its time for you to earn your dinner.”

Flag/Earth Confrontation

“Who is in charge here?” The captain demands.

The breeze flits clouds across the azure sky, insuring none block the sun for long, yet this is the wind that will shortly bring the rains. It also holds their flag proud of its pole, the symbol means nothing to me, but it is not the palm print that has governed our lives for so long. There is little doubt the stocky man on the skittish sterry represents the wish for a new set of masters.

“We are in charge here,” I reply. “The overseer and supervisors fled months ago, there are no supporters of the High Council here.”

His troop is a mixed bunch of men and women, armed with a variety of weapons and dressed with little thought of uniformity. A handful hold vaguely menacing postures, but most just stand there, glad to have ceased marching for at least a little while. I hold my faddystick loosely, lest it be mistaken for a symbol of aggression.

“We require use of your farm as a barracks.” He tells me.

We have left many of these lower fields by the road fallow this last couple of years, to make the farm seem poor and ill kempt. Disguise seemed prudent after the burning of Seven Summits Estate. Bare patches in the wild grass show that a turrifenge has moved in, I anticipate the struggle of persuading it to leave.

“You can stay one night and then head north to the town to wait out the rainy season.” I tell him. “We will resupply you with food.”

Behind me on the track someone coughs loudly. I swallow my fear, knowing people are relying on me to resolve this, my on family is at stake. With a reduced workforce this is an unscheduled interruption in the planting we can do without.

“There are strong men here,” he states. “Tell me, do you not wish to fight for what you believe in?”

Over the wind I can hear the piping of the wild serrits. They have been fattening themselves up on grubs and insects, but soon they will replace their interest in food with interest in each other.

“We believe that people need to be fed, whether there is fighting or not,” I respond. “Any who wished to take up arms for either side has long since done so and left here.”

Occasionally we receive news that one place or another has changed hands in the struggle. The names mean little to me, Frayed Rope farm lives according to nature's seasons, not the politics of man.

“It strikes me that is little here to stop an armed force from doing what they so wish,” he threatens.

There is a parity between the captain's troop and my own; we both command mixed groups cobbled together as a way of surviving a difficult time, only our methods differ. They look for enemies, we look for friends.

“You are a city man, let me advise you and your rebellion not to mess with the old ways of the countryside,” I warn him. “Take what hospitality is offered and no more, and avoid crossing a galaflarge.”

I slam the butt of my faddystick into the earth of the road, pushing at the ground with the skills of my craft and more; there is a pause and then the ground trembles. The turrifenge erupts from the soil of the field spraying mud and clashing it terrible jaws. It is much larger than I thought, it is going to take a serious effort to move it beyond our borders before the rains come.

“My apologies,” he stammers. “You have the thanks of the rebellion for your generosity and support.”

Mud/Words Interference

“Greetings, Overseer.” I call.

I do not need to turn around, I have been watching the expression on my apprentice's face, the way boredom has transformed to fear. My sandals lie discarded some distance away so I can feel the mud between my toes. The energy of the land runs tingling from the soles of my feet to my eyeballs.

“Why are you still on the lower fields?” She snaps. “The orchards have been untouched.”

I plant my faddystick back into the soil carefully so that it stands up neatly on its own. The scurrige that has nestled so peacefully with its tail held between my elbow and ribs and its head in my hand begins to wriggle wildly as soon as I hand it to the cowering girl. If she is to learn the craft then he will have to overcome her distaste of the beasts.

“The lower fields must be planted, sprouted and wormed before the rainy season, Overseer,” I point out. “The orchards are fine and can wait.”

Figuring that I have spun out my rudeness as far as the overseer's temper will stretch, I reposition myself so that I am facing her. Her feathered headdress and multihued garb are as ridiculous and out of place as ever, but there appear to be more lines on her face this year and a weariness in her eyes that was not there before. The sterry she rides shuffles its six feet, not enjoying the sticky, red mud, it cranes its long neck forwards and sticks out its tongue at me, remembering past acts of kindness.

“Have you seen this year's quotas?” She blusters.

Behind her the birds flit in and out of the hedge, making their own preparations for the coming rains. Workers pass carrying the timber for the new barn. I can hear the shouts of the supervisor making sure that the planting team work at his preferred rate.

“No, I leave such things to the storemaster.” I tell her. “I rely on the overseer's excellent choice of staff to deliver the demands of the high council.”

On the road sterry-carts transport our crop of spring gourds to the town. Piled high with the green and orange striped fruit and pulled by the six-legged beasts they make slow progress. They will return lighter, carrying tools and the latest influx of displaced workers from the north.

“May I remind you of the fate of your predecessors?” she warns. “Perhaps you spend too much time scurrying off to Seven Summits Estate and not enough concentrating on your own duties.”

There are many things that drag me beyond the boundary of the farm. The thought of a hidden glade where two strange trees now grow side by side and the image of Verrita, leaning on her faddystick to support the weight of her rapidly growing belly leap into my mind. If I have been neglecting my work here then it has been with good reason.

“Maintaining a viable scurrige breeding stock is one of my duties,” I respond. “Co-operation between farms benefits us all, am I to understand that you were not appreciative of the sterry-cart of excess feed I brought back last week?”

She is city-born and has never fully understood the freely trading relations between farming estates. Soon the sun will have climbed high enough to make the air uncomfortable and she will retreat back within the estate's compound, then we will work without fear of interruption.

“Be very careful,” she growls. “It would not be much of a stretch for the high council to declare the craft of the galaflarge outlawed.”

My eyes flick involuntarily towards the purple-grassed hill and the gallows that have become a permanent feature there. A sign of the present, I tell myself, just another pressure to endure. The overseer turns her sterry around and spurs it back towards the compound leaving me and my apprentice alone in the mud.

“Don't just stand there, hand me that scurrige, girl,” I order. “Can't you see we have work to do?”

Rain/Leaves Interface

“Borrowing my shelter, boy?” The tree asks.

I start, having thought myself alone. The voice is slow and drawn out, a creaking, cracking monotone, the sound of age and the boredom of a long walk home through the rain. The day has been long and hard and I had not noticed the difference between this tree and its fellows along the avenue.

“You appeared to be offering it freely, do you charge for its use?” I reply with a confidence I do not feel.

The rain falls in sheets on the flooded fields around me; the road is raised to save it from the same fate, but puddles form in the sterry-cart tracks. The red mud of the day's work has mostly been washed from my bare legs. I note with irritation that my sandals will soon need replacing.

“Is conversation a price? So few stop to talk to an old tree these days.” It moans.

The galaflarge of Seven Summits Estate had been injured by a turrifenge, a professional hazard during the rainy season. Runstable had sent me in his stead, pleading that his wooden leg ruled him out of the long walk and it would be a learning opportunity for me. The chance to get out of the reach of his increasingly morose moods and to work alongside Verrita was all the impetus I needed.

“To do so is to risk punishment.” I inform it. “Topiary of the soul was forbidden by the high council, most of your kind were burned after the revolution.”

I lean on my faddystick and inspect the scurriges in my shoulder bag. Swathed in gassa leaves and put into a torpor by the smoke of the same plant they squirm sleepily at my touch, one of them grabs weakly at my finger with its mouth-tentacles. Runstable will chide me for selecting those whose markings I find attractive, but it is prudent to exchange stock between galaflarges to prevent inbreeding.

“And yet you talk to me.” It observes. “Tell me, boy, are you a rebel or just fearless?”

Back at the compound I will wake the scurriges and then put them in the pen with the others. There is much debate about how to tell the sex of the beasts, but if you put unfamiliar ones together you will get eggs by morning. My mouth twitches into a brief smile at the thought of a new batch of wriggling hatchlings.

“We are a long way from suspicious ears.” I tell it. “And I was brought up in the old ways.”

There is a nearby splashing as wild serrits use the newly created lakes to perform their mating displays, jumping high in the air and clashing their long spines together. Soon the workers will gather the spawn to use in the festival of years past. The joy of the serrits during this season of downpours runs contrary to the moods of the humans.

“Would you consider becoming a friend of this poor, lonely tree?” It asks. “Traffic is scarce and these willows are no company to me.”

My stomach gives a growl, I am only half way home and there is still much ground to cover. By the time I arrive it will be dark and I will have to beg the cook for left-overs. Still, it seems preferable to having to endure Runstable's hollow silence over dinner.

“No one would bury the heart of a loved one so far from their home,” I reason. “It strikes me that such placement might be meant as punishment for crimes in life.”

My thoughts turn to the unreliability of my mentor. In the three years since Breta's hanging Runstable has been spending much of his free time wandering alone. I begin to wonder how far a one-legged man might stray and what secret place he might visit.

“Then I withdraw my shelter,” it tells me. “Begone, boy.”   

Mud/Toes Conjunction

“Nobody respects a galaflarge.” Runstable laments.

I look across at him. Once again work halts as he leans on his faddystick and gazes off into the distance. Following the line of his yellow eyes I catch him watching the erection of the gallows on the purple grassed summit of the hill.

“Nobody respects a fallen galaflarge,” I amend. “Certainly no-one respects a galaflarge's apprentice.”

He fails to get the hint. I know of his youthful affair with Breta and their subsequent estrangement, but this is the first time he has shown any hint of pity for the plight of his long-running rival. He shuffles his wooden leg around so that he can face me.

“We trained together, back in the day,” he reminisces. “Whatever went wrong with me and Breta?”

The scurrige squirms in my hand, I try offering to across to him, but he pays no attention. I glance across to where I left my own faddystick, stuck upright in the cloying red mud, wondering if I will have to finish the job by myself.

“Probably you,” I tell him. “She grew tired of your laziness.”

He adjusts his old straw hat, less straw and less hat than it used to be, but still blessed protection against the burning sphere. Distant hoofbeats suggest the approach of a rider, probably the estate manager, all done up in her finery giving her the appearance of a surprised bird. The tall hedges do not allow a glimpse.

“How does one go from being the shining light to being put to death so cruelly?” He bemoans.

The top of a tall plume peeks above the trained branches, I gird myself for the attention of a vicious, barbed tongue. Runstable looks down at his remaining toes.

“By paying no attention to the job in hand.” I snap.

He fails to react to the urgency in my voice and lets loose a mighty sigh. The sound of six hooves on the cobbled road grows louder, my knees begin to tremble slightly and the scurrige makes a last desperate struggle for freedom.

“Stop messing with that scurrige and pass it here, boy, do you not realise we have work to do?” He shakes his head. “Nobody respects a galaflarge.”