The Hunt

5. When the Carader Cautions You, Heed Their Warning

Red dawn crept over the horizon, coating the land in rays of pale violet and maroon, but Meridia was already up well before then. Her fingers were stained purple from collecting berries and her nails were caked with red clay from what she made the night prior. A chill foretelling an early autumn ruffled her clothes, bringing a coolness up her legs. She wished she had put on more layers before escaping down the poorly constructed stairs of her hut, but alas, she was to suffer in her coldness. At least she was the only one who was cold; the baby swaddled against her chest was bundled up nice and tight against the elements as he cooed and squirmed. She would much rather be freezing than allow any of the children to catch their death. Especially her newborn nephew.

"Alright, Elion," she narrated to the infant. "Time to crouch down and get the berries at the bottom. When you get older, I will show you which berries are best to pick and which ones are sour and unpleasant."

The infant gurgled as if replying, kicking his legs inside his blanket bindings. Meridia beamed softly and reached into the orange sling to pat the babe on his full head of unruly copper curls. He looked just like her older sister, Aila, with his more vibrant red hair and light brown eyes. He was darling as he cooed and stared up at Meridia.

He was so weary from a night of screaming his lungs out as he lay in the sling still hiccupping from his earlier sobs. Exhaustion grabbed hold of him so tightly that he was still awake. Meridia knew the feeling, as her eyes ached and bowed from a mere three hours rest.

Aila was under the assumption that infants slept through the night after about a week after birth. She was sorely mistaken. Meridia had to rise to attend to his needs when Aila came knocking on their ancestral hut door. She was inconsolable, upset that she still was not able to sleep. But after some milk and burping, he was fine. It felt strange that she had to give advice on child-rearing to her older sister, especially when she had no children of her own, but Meridia was glad that the little guy was content now. Exhausted, but content.

True to her word, she steadily crouched down beside the bush of blackberries, picking the ripe ones off and placing them into the weaved, cloth-lined basket. With summer coming to a close, she had to work on pickling most, if not all, of the berries she could find. The best way to get the berries was here in the early dawn hours before most people were up and before they could bother her.

Even with her friendship with an Amera, she wanted to do her chores. The people had been relying on her for so many years that it was astounding just how many were unsure how to go about raising their own children, cleaning the bonfire, and sculpting and firing up the pottery. Even something as simple as canning fruit or salting meat was met with pure uncertainty. It was quite infuriating. Even the children she nannied knew the basics of such chores, given that their caretaker was in charge of such duties. The villagers had not done much of their own things for over twelve autumns, most of them kids she grew up with. They had never had to do these tasks themselves, everything was delegated to the young amber-haired girl.

She was grateful — though she would never think to voice this aloud — that the village was not as large as it could be. Twelve huts housed whole generations unless a woman was to move into her spouse's family house, as her own sisters had. A new hut had not been erected in many a moon, usually only ever built when a family home was either too dilapidated or too many generations were stuffed inside and space was needed. But Anok made sure that the villagers only took what was necessary, and nothing more from the woods. Even trees, cut down and used for the bonfire, were monitored closely. There was a balance to be upheld, and Anok valued this above all else.

Regardless of her endless amounts of chores, she did not mind too much about babysitting and doing the village's dirty work. It was all she knew, and it had become a way for her to relax and release all thoughts from her head. She was the one who people threw all their responsibilities to — it was a lot to do, but what else was she supposed to do when it was all placed on her shoulders? It teetered precariously as she balanced her duties, threatening to make her fall apart at the seams at any moment. But it had become commonplace, and she learned to not complain for fear of ungratefulness. Lest her agreement from several autumns ago now with Seion become null and void.