Weight

Dragan swept his hand through the winter's barley, smiling at the weight of the ears, silver-green as yet but heavy with grain. Harvest was nearly upon them already and his meadow would yield well. There was contentment here as summer crept onto the farm. For too many years he had been called away before the fruits of his winter labors could be seen.

Now the barley ears were full, the grape vines were lush with the winter's muck-heap slurries he'd run, and fruit was setting. His animals were fat and well. All across the pastures wildflowers and moths, bees and dragonflies lifted a haze of buzzing color. Everything felt as it should. Yes, he was content.

Yells or curses broken by distance rose on the air, and he searched for their source. Over the rill, where the pasture climbed up into the beech woods, Freya ran after scattering sheep. Her frustration was clear as the animals gathered and paused to watch her approach, then took to their heels again, separating, circling wide, and rushing off through the trees.

He laughed as he watched her. How she had managed to get them into that part of the pasture was anyone's guess. They had been fenced in by the house and her only chore with them today was to open the gate to the house-yard and give them access to the bier. They were due for shearing and he wanted them in close at hand. Yet, there they were; rushing through the beeches in a paddock two gates over from the one they should be in.

He chuckled as he started walking, heading with no great speed toward the footbridge over the rivulet that separated them.

Each morning now she had a set of tasks that freed her from the house, and from his mother's spite. She fed the hens, turned the sow and piglets out into the yard, milked the milker and turned her out on the pasture with her calf for the day. Then she could skim the milk and set aside the cream for churning. There was nothing difficult in anything he'd given her. He thought.

And there could be no doubt she had put her best into every effort she made. He had heard not one word of complaint since their arrival. The peace of the countryside was calming the restlessness in her spirit. It was just as he'd hoped it would be.

Only one concern weighed on his mind.

In all the years he'd known her, Freya had never been freely available to him as a lover. She had, in every sense, chosen times and places in accordance with her own eccentric bursts of passion. And, at any time in those years, she had been as likely to choose another man as him. He'd taken some time to accept it, but he had come to a sense of pride, knowing she would come to him without duress, without bind or obligation.

Always, the risk was worth it when she came with passion trembling in her flesh, with her skin and mouth burning and her eyes alight. She was elemental. It was everything he loved in her from the first; the hot blood and passion, the fearlessness and refusal to be cowed and bullied. In her he'd found a lover like no other he'd ever known.

But somewhere on their journey that light had gone out and taken all its scintillating heat with it. Since the night of their arrival she had lain in his bed like a puppet made of warm, soft flesh that lacked the rods to animate it. She returned his kiss and little more.

It was a great shame, even if it was an attitude better suited to a wife. He had loved her well enough as she was, and he missed that vital spark.

* * * * *

"What man works all day and then comes in to cook his own meal, Son? No man."

"No," he agreed, as he stirred the soup bones, lifting them to keep them from catching. It saved argument.

"We've too much butter. See it sits there turning rank. It's too far to take it fresh to market and we could have bartered it for good black cherries if we still had neighbors who would trade."

"Yes," he said, as he dropped onions and turnip into the pot. He no longer heard the words she used, only the noise of her speaking.

Freya sat with her forehead and elbows on the table and her hands laced behind her neck, trying to ignore the constant drone. Beside her was the whetstone and shears, their blades as keen as razors, glinting like a threat in the soft lamplight. If there had been something of interest to share with her, he might have tried to distract her from his mother's constant criticism, but the past had proven it only gave the old woman ammunition for her cruelty.

When Freya spoke, it was unexpected. She turned to where Goda lay and asked, "Did your husband fall from his tree, or did he leap?"

The temptation he felt to laugh at the bitter truth of that observation fled as his mother took the bait.

"My husband died because my son left him with too much work. He should have been here, helping with the winter chores as we expected. But he was too busy chasing after you."

It was an endless round and he stepped away from the fire and pot, took Freya's hand, and pulled her to her feet. "Come for a walk," he said quietly.

Out in the summer night, the moon was rising near to full and a breeze spread just a hint of chill on the air. It was a time, he knew, for comfort and affection, but they were not gestures that came easily to him. Instead he said, "I'm sorry. Short of throwing her out into the yard, there's nothing I can do to stop her and she knows it."

Freya gave him no more than a tired smile that might have meant she understood. In days gone by she would have had a mouthful of obscenity to offer his mother, and likely one for him too. She had made no real attempt to defend herself, not physically and not even verbally. Most days she let the insults and the bigotry slide off her skin as if she didn't hear it. She did. He knew she did and he knew the fierce anger that burned in her when she was insulted. But she showed nothing of it. He hoped it was the calming effect of farm life.

Once she would have laughed and suggested solutions that involved steel and blood. Instead she stood quietly in front of him, watching her feet and tugging at the bottom of her bodice.

"Perhaps I was wrong." As soon as he said it, he knew she had leapt to false conclusions. Her eyes shone with the sudden light of hope as she snatched at possibilities, but he took her hand and rushed to explain. "I sent Lenka away because I don't want her here, but that might have been a mistake. As long as she is here, my mother has someone to wait on her hand and foot and she thinks she is in command.

"While she is gone, you have to face her every day. Maybe if we bring Lenka back to care for her some of the bickering will stop."

As quickly as the light of hope had filled her face, the shadows of disappointment crept over her skin. A tiny frown ticked between her brows and she nodded, leaving her face turned down from the moonlight.

"Yes," she agreed softly. "At least I won't have to stay with her all day. That alone might be worth it." The tired smile touched her lips again as she added, "But she will never let you forget she won. Or me." She pulled her hand back, crossing her arms in tight across her belly, watching her toes as they twisted a divot in the dust at her feet.

"You wouldn't care if she was here?"

"No."

That hurt. He wanted her to care, or at least show some sort of concern, but she shrugged away any suggestion of jealousy or resentment.

"She was never a lover," he offered.

"No? Well, she seemed to think she was."

"She wants a husband; she thinks she should have been first in line."

"You're a limited resource." She nodded, smiling. "What else can I do? I am never going to manage the house. It isn't even a question of learning how to do things. I don't know what it is that is supposed to be done."

"That's one of Lenka's virtues, but if you took her onto a battle field she would never have done as well as you've done here. A wife is all she ever wanted to be. She'll do everything and be pleased for the chance to do it."

"Lucky girl."

"And you can come out into the field with me."

"Lucky me."

"It's hard work, but it's outside. There might be something in it that will make you happier." There was so much he should say. Beside his thighs his fists formed and fell open, but there was no way for him to reach across the silence filling the distance between them. He wished it was easier, that she stood closer or that she had not wrapped herslef so tightly in her own embrace. "I wish I could make you happier, Freya."

She looked harder at the ground and what was left of her smile fell away. "So do I."