Young Writers Society

The barren, fading green plains of Surren Ides extended all around, rolling to the west and south. To the north lay The Foothills. To the east….

Freedom.

But I was far to young to understand the truth.

Our plow skipped across the hardened dirt, barely penetrating into the thick crust, bouncing along behind the Kuyja which was still attempting to escape the traces. My father swore loudly, snapping the rigid whip against the beast’s side.

‘Move on there you devil!’

It gave another jolting lunge in answer and he countered with a vicious kick, which did little more than escalate the situation. It was not that the beast was unwilling to submit, for that is where an animal becomes most comfortable. But fear was a thing which none could resist.

My father’s actions angered me, as he was stubborn and bull headed in the ways of taming such an animal. I could not blame him, though, for the land had been unkind to him for some time. First came the rain, which would not fall, and then the death of Stubs, so named for his missing horn. The poor fool. He had served us well for many years, plowing the fields, hauling the crops to market.

It had been his time anyways.

But without rain, there was no spring harvest, and without the harvest, there was no money to pay for a new beast of burden. Catching and training a wild Kuyja in the prime of its life was no easy task, and I was grateful that the difficult part was over.

My father did not seem to share my feelings, though.

Stepping to its side I took a hold of the halter and pulled down. The beast attempted to bolt, but the weight of the plow kept it from doing so and I was able to gain control of it, speaking softly and staring into its eyes. Father sighed, as it took some time, but I did not pay attention to him. If he would just be patient, all things would come, in time.

But the rain would not wait. That is, if we received any.

Jairus, a sage from the neighboring village, had seen a vision of a storm, one that would pour out its life giving bounty upon the land. Some clung to that hope like child to mother, but most spoke in whispers of his age. Rain would not come, unless it were a rain of fire and ash.

How could I know?

Intuition, perhaps. I was a farmer’s son, I could sense it in the soil.

But we prepared the fields nonetheless.

Usually is was not a very difficult task. Stubs, though old, was powerful and could work from dawn until dusk quite easily, dragging the heavy, pointed plow as it sliced through the earth. This time, though, there were far to many problems. My father being one of them.

‘If you do not hurry along, we will never get this field turned under.’ He remarked, stamping his foot.

‘I know. He is just frightened is all.’

‘Right. Well…frighten him a bit more into moving along. We do not have all spring.’ He turned and began to walk off towards our farm house, his gait a bit off as he limped. He stopped and turned back around to offer up one last bit of fatherly advice. ‘Get the field plowed before dark, or I will have both your hides for it.’

He was always so persuasive.

But to me, it was a blessing in disguise, and I believe he understood that as well. While he would never openly admit that I knew best when it came to the animals, this was his way of approving and allowing me to take over. Even if it was a bit harsh, but then, such was his way, and he was my father after all.

I sighed, though, staring out to the far east.

Many had taken the journey as of late, many of my friends. The drought did not exist in all places, and there was green land out there, beyond the Foothills. The mountains were just small rises in the distance, hardly visible through the hazing heat. It rose from the ground and descended from the skies, a constant reminder that we were not the owners of this place. Just borrowing, for a time.

I never understood why my father would not pack up and leave like the rest. It was his thick skull and ever present pride, I suppose, but even my mother had begun to worry. If we did not get rain soon, there would be no food.

My brother complained often of how little there was to eat already. He was seventeen then, and a better eater than I or my father, who always said that there was plenty, and we did not need to live like kings.

But I he could not hide the lines in his face and arms, growing ever sharper.