A Devious Exchange

The Lightening Before the Thunder

The bells of the wind chimes whispered in my ears as I plucked another smooth, pale bulb from the dirt in the garden out back. The metal tubes chattered with each other, the low and high pitches melting together in harmony to please my listening ears. The humming carried in the wind for miles, and I faintly reminisced the times where I counted how many steps it took before I could no longer hear their songs on the long trips to the market with Mom. It was true that their music stretched across the village if one were to listen closely. I loved it so, yet when the wind ceased for even a mere few seconds, as if the chimes were afraid someone would hear them when life quietened around them, they abruptly stopped their conversation.

I still listen to their tunes now, if my greedy thoughts would let me dip into that state of tranquility. My current conscious had deemed the dwarfed carrots and turnips more valuable conversation, my fingers brushing against the thick, rough stalks and pulling their heads to the surface. Some already peaked above their dirt homes, eager to let go of their younger roots in need to discover something new. Like being boiled in a pot would do them any better. I smiled lightly to myself at such childish thoughts, but I couldn't help it. My mind ran whichever way it wanted, and I could only sit back and let it pull me along for the ride.

The buzzing feeling in my toes had vanished a few minutes into the vegetable hunt, my knees demanding to be stretched the longer I knelt face first into the dirt. The position reminded me of the fight from a few days ago, with the odd encounter with Captain Schwartz. He hadn't been on my mind much since then, after all, it was unlikely I would see him again and thus didn't need to be reminisced about. Still, whenever his figure did enter my mind, I couldn't stop the involuntary want to remove his face quickly from my thoughts. It wasn't because I feared succumbing to a faint redness at his undeniably attractive nature, but rather the fact that I feared the power he held over me. The torturous echoing clack of the wood against the man's skull sent shivers down my spine and made my eyes squeeze shut tightly at the thought of being on the receiving end of such a blow. I knew I wouldn't have received that fate by all means since I was a woman, but each repeated crack emphasized the notion that he held undeniable authority over me and could have easily sent me to a cell, or grave, at the literal flick of his gloved wrist.

I breathed deeply to pull myself back to the dry dirt scattered in fresh weeds and youthful crops. The branched fern-like hair of the carrots sprouted in a lovely earthy green that nearly stood over a foot tall, calling to me to pluck them zealously but I knew better. They were too young since their time of being sowed and their heads hadn't even left the soil as mom taught me, and if I were to swipe my thumb around the pale orange root now, I'd find a mischievous baby root worth little than the cost of pulling.

They would be ready a few weeks from now, but I still had to remain actively monitoring their growth. Recently, a rodent had managed to chew through the wire surrounding the elevated wooden plateaus, probably some wild rabbit from the overgrown fields close by. If I didn't pluck them first, it surely would in a blink of an eye.

The beige woven basket settled next to my flexed knee wasn't half full, not that I'd expect it to be after an early harvest. I decided my joint's cries had lasted long enough and with a push from the rough wood, I was back on my feet. I waited a few seconds for the buzzing feeling to return, the blood pumping hurriedly to the forgotten limbs and setting aflame a pain equivalent to fire licking a stripe up my nerves in tantalizing pulses. I rolled to my heels to minimally alleviate some, hunching sideways to pick up the basket before I forgot it.

When the pain lessened, I strolled inside the quiet house. Mom and Delilah had left to visit the Izwald's a few hours prior, mom carrying her sewing bin with her to continue the Sunday skirt she said I'd look beautiful in. The fabric was a solid pine green that glided across the hand in a chilling smoothness and would contrast beautifully with a clean white petticoat. She was near done, just finishing the fine detail of a laced hem I begged her not to do, knowing the pain she'd experience later. She dismissed my worries sternly, saying how all the skirts I had now made me look like a beggar. I rolled my eyes at that, we were only a step up from that but I guess even the small things like a new piece of clothing kept our spirits high. Mom was good at it too, the sheets we sleep on to the cloth we ate on were all gifts made by her talent. My favorite quilt she's made was one a few winters back, a cool log cabin block design made from the blue scraps laying around. Sometimes, mom took requests from other families who couldn't or didn't have the time to sew, making some side earnings under the table the greedy nobles couldn't take. They'd always come for my earnings to tax as they please, as I worked for a public establishment closely monitored for income.