1
Piper
The heat of the day is unforgiving, white-hot rays blistering on my exposed shoulders as I hunch over, pulling up the somana by their roots and tossing them into my basket. I continue down the neat rows, pulling at the long green shoots until their bulbous, fragrant root is exposed.
Sweat beads on my brow as I work my way down the never-ending row–bend, pull, examine, toss–bend, pull, examine, toss. Working the land is grueling, especially during the hottest part of the day, but nearly anything is better than weathering one of Oliver’s moods.
I cast a glance towards the cabin, worried that by thinking my uncle’s name I might somehow summon him. Once upon a time, I’m sure my mother’s brother wasn’t the wretch he is now. Perhaps he was even kind, or knew what it was like to laugh.
These days, he’s little more than a slave driver.
I chew the inside of my cheek as I gather our meager harvest, so lost in thought that I don’t realize I’m not alone until Cal is standing right in front of me. I put the somana into the basket, rising to my feet slowly as I take stock of the two village boys he’s brought with him.
Cal has always had a good standing in the village. His parents have some of the best livestock for miles, and we’d had good ties with his family until recently. I acknowledge him with a nod, hoping that’ll get him and the other village boys to leave, but when they don’t budge, I clear my throat.
“How’s your mother, Cal?” I ask, hoping that some friendly conversation will diffuse the mounting tension in the air.
Cal’s hands curl into fists at his side, his face going white with rage. “She’s dead,” he spits, taking a step toward me. “But you already knew that. You killed her.”
I flinch from the accusation like it’s a physical blow, fighting the burning in my eyes. It shouldn’t surprise me that he thinks her death is my fault, despite the fact that Cal’s mother has been sick for a long time, her death is exactly the kind of thing the rest of the village would blame me for.
Ever since I can remember, anything bad that’s happened in the village is my fault. It’s like our neighbors can smell that I’m different, that there’s somethingwrongwith me. All of the other women in the village that are my age are married, and some even have children- but not a single person in this village, man, woman, or child, will so much as speak to me unless they have to for fear of contracting my ‘curse’.
Cal takes another threatening step toward me, and the boys from the village follow close behind. My hands shake at my sides, but I stiffen my lip. If they want to kill me, I won’t make it easy for them.
“Hey!” A loud voice echoes from the direction of the cabin. My knees wobble as relief floods through me, my uncle Oliver hobbling into the field from the cabin. Cal and the boys freeze where they are, sizing him up as if deciding whether or not he’ll put a stop to their witch hunt. It’s an effort not to collapse at his feet or fling my arms around his neck as he stands next to me in the field, facing down the three boys.
“What do you boys think you’re doin’ in my field?” Oliver asks, scrutinizing each of them. They all shift on their feet nervously, the question hanging in the air before Cal opens his mouth to speak.
“She killed my mother,” Cal growls, pointing a finger at me, his eyes hateful and mouth twisted into an ugly scowl. I turn my gaze to Oliver, ready to defend myself if necessary, but my uncle speaks before I have the opportunity to.
“Bah, that girl’s been rotten since the day she was born! Ain’t news that there’s somethin’ wrong with her. What were you plannin’ to do, kill her?”
I stand there, my jaw slack in my face as if he’d struck me. The words echo in my head, drowning out the stunned silence of the village boys.
Rotten… somethin’ wrong with her… kill her.
“And what do you think’s gonna happen to a poor old farmer without his only helper, huh? I’ll starve, and so will your families if they can’t buy the crop she picks up. Who’s gonna file off my corns? Trim my toenails? Are you gonna do it, Cal?”
Humiliation races through my veins, and I look down at the dark earth between my feet, desperately trying to hide the tears welling in my eyes. Uncle Oliver is the only family I have left, but I’m nothing more than a nuisance to him. I’m only good for what I can produce, what I can do- he doesn’t care about me at all.
Cal grumbles in response, clearly not up to the task of caring for uncle Oliver or the farm. Oliver snorts, waving a hand in the boys’ direction as he turns back toward the cottage.
“That’s what I thought. Go on now,” he says over his shoulder. He doesn’t even look back to see if I’m following him. Cal and the village boys cast glares at me before slinking off into the growing shadows of the evening. I stand in the field, watching them go and debating if I should just lie down and die right here on this plot of earth.
It seems like it’d be easier for everyone.
The growling in my stomach and the pitiful ache in my back spur me back to the cabin before I can entertain the thought any longer. For all of my misery in this village, it could be worse. At least, that’s what I tell myself. I scoop up the basket of somanas, and trudge back to the cabin.
Oliver is already in his usual chair by the fireplace when I get inside, and I set about preparing dinner for the both of us, rinsing and chopping produce as I go. The cabin is silent aside from the crackling fire and the sound of my knife against the cutting board.
“Aren’t you gonna say thank you?” Oliver asks gruffly. My cheeks flame again, and I swallow my retort. Snapping at him changes nothing, and will only send me to bed hungry.
“Thank you,” I respond quietly, glad that my voice doesn’t betray the shame and sorrow I’m feeling. Oliver only snorts in response, not even looking at me as I set his dinner on the table beside him. I get myself a spoon, grateful to finally be sitting down to eat, when Oliver stops me.
“Go take the rubbish out to that refuse pile before you eat, girl. No use lettin’ it stink up the whole place,” he grumbles through a mouth full of food. I set down my spoon, no energy left to fight him on it, and do as he says.
The night air is thick and humid, muffling the sounds of the dragging bag behind me as I approach the edge of the property line. It’s a welcome break from the stifling heat of the constant fire Oliver keeps burning, and the sound of his chewing, despite the gnawing hunger deep in my belly. No sooner have I dumped the rubbish on the refuse burn pile does a twig snap behind me with a resounding crack.