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Mama
was a small, slightly stooped woman with silver-streaked black hair. Her face was
weathered and hard, and her eyes bright but distant. Albert remembered that she was
much prettier before Albrecht was slain. “Mama,” he told her, “Norris has forbidden
me climbing the boulder any more.” He told her why, and her gray mouth frowned.
“What are you going to do about it?” she asked.
“Ignore him. Unless you think I shouldn’t.”
Mama’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think you can work the farm all by yourself?”
“‘Struth,” Albert said, nodding.
Mama snorted, and shook her head. She glanced away from him, wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“He never dared to say a word while your father was alive.” She locked her gaze on
him. “On your word? We won’t starve for this?”
“On my word, as I’m my father’s son.”
“On your word, then.” Then she sighed and was silent.
Albert waited a moment, then said, “Mama? You want me to go back?”
“You know I need that moss.”
“All right, Mama.” Mama used the moss that grew on top of the boulder for potions
and ointments and things like that. She said it gave them power.
So the day before the plowing was to begin, Albert climbed the boulder again, and
once again Norris spied him up there. True to his word, Norris decreed that Albert’s
family would be shunned until they came forth and repented their sins. So for the
first time in his life, Albert would plow alone.
On the first day of spring, he rose early, even before the sunrise. He was anxious
about starting the plowing, but he made himself eat a large breakfast of black bread,
soup, cheese, and milk; all good, heavy foods to nourish him throughout the morning.
After breakfast he went to the barn to get the oxen and the plow. The barn was low
and wide, wood planks resting on a clay bed, with a gently sloping roof and a wide
double gate. His mother and sisters were there, as he knew they would be. Anne and
Edith were milking the cows; his mother was feeding the squawking, warbling hens
in the coop in the back. Yesterday’s straw, spread on the floors of the cows and
oxen’s stalls, along with this morning’s manure, gave the air a warm, musty aroma.
“Good morning, Albert,” said Anne, the older sister, her long brown hair falling
in her eyes as she turned to greet him.
Albert grinned and tousled her hair as he went by.
He took the harness from a hook next to the oxen’s stall. The beasts were standing
patiently, staring at him with big wet eyes. He reached into the stall and stroked
their broad, firm shoulders, patted their solid flanks. So much strength there, more
than any man could hope to wield himself. Albert reached up and scratched them between
the ears, not speaking, just smiling. None of the other families had two oxen. Most
had one, some none, but it didn’t really matter since they all pitched in. Until
now. With two oxen Albert would be able to do the work alone. He was sure of it.
He had been foolish to think he had to work alone. He had help, and smarter help
than Norris could give. Even so, the ban meant that the good times that had led his
family to buy these oxen were gone. For the moment. Not forever. Albert would see
to that.
Albert led the oxen outside and hitched them to the plow. The morning sun was bright,
rising slowly in a clear sky. The air was brisk and invigorating, and Albert had
to stop himself from running straight out to the fields. He just kept a steady walk,
trying to show his faith in himself, his contempt for the difficulty of the task
he faced. He reached the east field, between the house and the village square. After
aligning the plow, he yelled and the oxen trudged forward. The plowshare bit into
the soil, sliced a dark furrow into it. The plowing had begun.
(continued on next page)
All contents of Skaldheim (C) 1997 by Jeffrey R. Krogh.