Life in the village settled into its rhythm again after Cain’s group departed. The sound of hammers, the shapes of people crossing paths, and the unbroken pattern of daily movement returned as if nothing had changed. Fields were tended. Animals led out. Laundry hung and swayed on simple lines.

  I chose to follow the woman who had greeted the party at the gate, hoping to understand what ordinary life here looked like.

  She worked outside her house, mending clothes in the soft daylight. Her brown hair was tied neatly, her skin darkened by years under the sun. The lines at the corners of her eyes spoke of laughter as much as of age.

  Her hands were small but sure. The needle passed in and out of fabric with precise rhythm. Thread flashed briefly when it caught the light. When she finished one seam, she pulled it tight, inspected it, and nodded once in approval.

  She set the dress aside and examined a pair of trousers with a tear near the seam. The frown that crossed her brow was faint but familiar — the look of someone measuring whether a thing could be saved. From a nearby basket, she chose a scrap of fabric and trimmed it carefully before sewing it on the inside. Her movements were so smooth that I lost track of time watching them.

  When she finally knotted the thread and trimmed it with a knife, she held the trousers up to the light, turning them slightly. The patch was invisible from the outside. She seemed pleased with the work, though she said nothing.

  Gathering both garments, she walked down the lane toward another house. It was built like the others — white walls, thatched roof — yet something about it felt softer, more lived-in. A line of small flowers grew beside the step. She knocked twice.

  A young woman answered with a baby in her arms. Loose hair framed a tired but kind face. Two small children sat inside, tapping wooden horses on the floor.

  “Hi, Norma,” the older woman said. “I’ve mended your dress and Tom’s trousers. The trousers were worn thin. They might not last long.”

  “Thank you, Winnie,” Norma said, smiling faintly. “Tom will be happy to have them back. We’ll see about new ones next trip to town.”

  So her name is Winnie, I thought. Likely short for Winefred.

  “Would you like to stay for tea?” Norma asked.

  “I could. If you’re not too busy.”

  Winnie stepped inside, and I followed.

  The house was like the others but smaller, its order maintained through effort. A kettle hung over the fire, and steam rose as Norma filled it with water from a bucket. The steam curled upward, catching the light before fading from sight.

  “How are the little ones?” Winnie asked, settling at the table.

  “They’re good,” Norma said. “Tiring, but good. I’m expecting again in eight months.”

  “Already?” Winnie said with a half-smile. “You don’t waste time.”

  Norma laughed quietly. “Apparently not. But we’ll need the help when they’re older.”

  Winnie’s needle-pricked fingers rested on the table, still and calm. “Did you hear that Franchesca’s boy, Gareth, is leaving? Says he wants to be an adventurer.”

  Norma sighed. “Another one. We could use strong hands here, not swinging swords in some cave. Most don’t even make it to twenty-five.”

  I remembered running campaigns where characters died young, replaced by new sheets and dice. Those stories had never felt real. Seeing their living versions — families, hopes, small tragedies — was something else entirely.

  “I know,” Winnie said softly. “Brianna’s mother buried her last week.”

  Norma looked down. “She was just nineteen. I heard it was kobolds.”

  “It was. At least they brought her home.”

  A silence followed. Neither woman moved for a while. The only motion came from the children, still playing quietly on the floor.

  Evening fell quietly. I stayed near the window, watching the house settle into its usual routine. Norma fed the children, tidied the table, and set plates aside for her husband. When he finally arrived, the light had already begun to fade.

  Tom entered with uneven steps, his shirt untucked and his expression slack. He looked first at the table, then at her.

  “Where’s my dinner?” he asked. His voice was low, the words heavy.

  “Right here,” Norma said, keeping her tone steady. She placed the plate before him, her movements measured, precise.

  Tom stared at the food without touching it. Then he picked up his fork and jabbed it into the meat. “This it? You sit here all day and can’t even keep it warm?”

  “It’s been ready for an hour,” she said quietly. “You were late.”

  He ate a mouthful, chewing slowly. “Tastes dry.”

  “Have you been with Terry again?” she asked.

  His shoulders lifted slightly, as if shrugging off the question. “What’s it to you?” He set the fork down with a loud clatter. “You complain about the children, you complain about the chores, and now you complain about me having a drink?”

  Norma didn’t move. Her back was straight, hands at her sides.

  He laughed, short and harsh. “Maybe if you weren’t so dull, I’d come home sooner.”

  She turned away, folding a cloth that didn’t need folding. “I look after this house, Tom. I just want you sober when you walk through that door.”

  “You’re lucky you’ve got a husband,” he muttered. “No one else would put up with you.”

  The room was still except for the faint crackle of the fire.

  Norma looked at him, her face unreadable. “We’ll talk in the morning,” she said. “For now, you can sleep it off elsewhere.”

  The chair scraped as he stood. For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then he leaned close, voice low and deliberate. “You think you can take anything from me? You’d be nothing without me.”

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  She said nothing.

  Behind them, one of the children stopped moving. The wooden horse slipped from a small hand, landing with a hollow sound that echoed through the room.

  The next morning began with motion. A carriage stood near the edge of the village while an older couple loaded sacks into the back. The woman moved briskly despite her years, arranging baskets and checking ropes, while the man tightened the straps on the harness.

  A small group of villagers had gathered to see them off. One of the women called out, “Safe travels, Betty! Bring us back some good news from the market.”

  The older woman smiled, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “We’ll do our best,” she said. “Charles has promised not to fall asleep on the road this time.”

  Laughter followed. The man shook his head, grinning. “One time, and I never hear the end of it.”

  “Then keep both eyes open,” another villager teased.

  They climbed aboard the carriage, the wood creaking under their weight. Charles took the reins while Betty waved to the small crowd. “We’ll be back by the evening, if the horses behave.”

  The wheels began to turn, crushing the soft earth as the cart rolled toward the open fields. From the bags and baskets, I guessed they were carrying produce — mostly potatoes and carrots, perhaps a few onions too.

  The village itself stirred with purpose. Men carried sickles to the edge of the fields, checking blades for nicks. Women swept out storerooms and cleared space in one of the empty houses. Voices carried easily on the air, overlapping in bursts of talk and laughter.

  Ilza stood by the well with Norma, the two of them speaking in low tones. Norma’s expression was weary, her shoulders drawn inward.

  “So, what’s Tom done this time?” Ilza asked.

  Norma hesitated before answering. “He came home drunk again. Said things I’d rather not repeat. I’ve had enough of it. I told him he won’t have my company at night until he learns to behave himself.”

  Ilza gave a small, knowing smile. “Probably for the best, even if it’s not easy.”

  “It isn’t,” Norma said, shaking her head. “He’s my husband, and I care for him, but I’m tired of pleading for respect.”

  “Maybe distance will make him notice what he’s losing,” Ilza said gently.

  “That’s the hope,” Norma murmured. After a pause, her tone softened. “Still, it’s lonely.”

  They stood in silence for a time, watching a pair of boys chase each other past with wooden rakes.

  By late afternoon, the returning carriages creaked back through the village gates. Two wagons this time — the first driven by Betty and Charles, the second by strangers. I counted ten passengers in each, their clothes dusty from the road.

  The newcomers climbed down, stretching limbs and calling greetings. One of the older men broke away and approached Athelmod, who had come out to meet them.

  “Rasmus,” Athelmod said, smiling. “Good to see you again.”

  “And you, my friend,” the man replied. His beard was white and thick, his scalp bare and gleaming in the sun. He spoke with the easy confidence of someone who had spent many years being welcome here.

  “It’s been quiet since the goblin trouble,” Athelmod said. “But now I’m hearing whispers about bandits to the north.”

  Rasmus chuckled. “Solve one problem, find another. That’s how villages stay alive.”

  “We have one house empty if some of your people would prefer walls to tents,” Athelmod offered.

  “That’ll do nicely. I’ll send the older folk there, they’ve earned soft beds.”

  “I’ll have Ilza show you,” Athelmod said.

  Ilza appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. She nodded politely and led Rasmus down the lane toward the empty house.

  “I’m glad you could come again this year,” she said as they walked.

  “I’ve been coming since you were no bigger than a bundle of wheat,” Rasmus replied. “It’s a fine tradition.” He glanced at her kindly. “Tell me, have you found someone to share your days with yet?”

  Ilza smiled faintly. “Not yet. I think I’m meant for other things first.”

  Rasmus laughed. “Always an adventurer at heart.”

  Her smile faded a little. “Maybe. But for now, someone has to look after my parents. Since Bianca passed, they depend on me.”

  “I heard,” Rasmus said softly. “I’m sorry. She was a bright one.”

  “She was,” Ilza said, stopping at the house. “But she chose her path. And I’ve chosen mine.” She opened the door and stepped aside. “Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll bring water and bedding.”

  Rasmus nodded, his expression thoughtful. As he crossed the threshold, the sound of the harvesters outside swelled again — the steady rhythm of work, of blades and laughter, of life continuing.

  Once the camp was established, the village filled with songs, laughter, and the sound of mugs knocking together. Beer flowed freely, and even those who had worked the longest found energy to dance. Tom, however, sat apart from the others, his hands folded around a cup of water.

  I imagined myself joining them, a drink in hand, adding my voice to their songs.

  The next morning, the fields stirred with early light. Men and women spread out across the wheat, scythes flashing as they swung in even rhythm. Those who did not cut brought water or bread, or gathered sheaves into stacks. It was a sight of motion and cooperation, every body moving with purpose.

  As they worked, voices rose in song.

  The sun is gone down and the sky it looks red

  And down on my pillow where I lays my head

  I lift up my eyes for to see those stars shine

  And thoughts of my true love still runs in my mind.

  The sap is gone up and the trees they will flaw

  We’ll branch them all round, boys, and clap in the saw

  We’ll saw them asunder and tumble them down

  And there we will flow them all on the cold ground.

  Our scythes we will handle and boldly will swing

  Till the very next meeting that’s now coming on

  We’ll cut down our grass, boys, and carry it away

  We’ll first call it green grass and then call it hay.

  Now haying is over and harvest draws near

  We will send to the alehouse to brew some strong beer

  We’ll cut down the corn, boys, and roll it along

  We’ll take it to the barn, boys, to keep it from harm.

  Now harvest is over and winter’s come on

  We’ll jump in the barn, boys, and thresh out some corn

  Our flails we will handle and so boldly will swing

  Till the very next meeting that’s now coming on.

  There’s a boy to his whip and a man to his plough

  We will plough up the ground, boys, and throw in our corn

  Here’s a health to our master and ladies all round

  Here’s a health to the jolly ploughman that ploughs up the ground.

  Their voices rose and fell like waves. I pictured myself among them, swinging a scythe in time with their song, part of the living rhythm that bound them together.

  When darkness came, work ceased. Fires burned in the square, and the villagers were treated to a feast. Laughter carried into the fields, and mugs clinked again.

  Tom sat near the edge of the gathering, still quiet, still drinking water.

  At dawn, the people rose and began again. Their tools gleamed in the light, and soon a new song echoed across the stubble.

  My one man, my two men

  Shall mow my field together.

  My three men, my four men

  Shall carry it out of the meadow.

  My one, my two, my three, my four

  We won’t have more,

  We’ll mow my hay

  And flit it away,

  And carry it out of the meadow.

  My fifth man, my sixth man

  Shall mow my field together.

  My six men, my five men

  Shall carry it out of the meadow.

  My six, my five, my four, my three, my two, my one,

  We won’t have more,

  We’ll mow my hay

  And flit it away,

  And carry it out of the meadow.

  The counting song repeated until it reached twenty, then continued by tens until one hundred. When the final verse came, they sang it with renewed force, counting back down in a joyous shout.

  I imagined singing with them again, the rhythm of the numbers filling my thoughts. The work and song felt endless, but also complete — a pattern that left no space for silence.

  By sunset, the fields were bare and golden. The thresher’s flails struck in quick rhythm, separating the grain, while others loaded sacks onto carts. Some of the grain was set aside as payment for Rasmus and his crew.

  “Thanks again, Rasmus,” Athelmod said, shaking his hand. “We couldn’t have done this without your people. Make sure you enjoy the harvest feast tonight.”

  “You always treat us well,” Rasmus replied with a broad smile.

  That night, the celebration filled the village once more. They played a game where some dressed as sheep and others as wolves. The sheep tried to cross a marked field without being caught, but their laughter made them slow and clumsy. Most were caught before they reached the other side.

  Tom watched again from his seat, silent, his cup of water untouched.

  By morning, the fires were cold. The songs were replaced by the scrape of rakes and the low hum of chores. The festival was over, and life returned to its rhythm of work.

  Seven Songs of Harvest, by Bob Kenward