Day 10
He was a farmer who would, for now, farm alone in a little field on an island in a white nothing, and he had gone seven days now without harvesting anything.
Tiller eventually figured out that he could get three of his potato plants to ripen by day ten if he dedicated the pipkin to simply boost the same three every day. This was the course of action he chose. He couldn’t know if he was making the right decision, but he felt an immense drive to bring in some capital, to reinvest, plant, and get the soil working for him again.
By the time day ten arrived the intervening days had passed with little event. On the ninth day a small flock of crows had crossed the horizon. The pipkin had roused Tiller from his sleep with a chain of excited yips. Tiller had scared them off before they did damage. Their simple existence, though they were very much normal crows, troubled him. He would be leaving growing plants behind him when he went to Medley. He worried what might become of them in his absence.
In the earliest light of day ten, Tiller harvested his crops. The farming sigil on his band glowed each time his shovel lifted the roots of a potato plant or his hand grasped and pulled a bunch of carrots.
Tiller heaved as his hands, seeming stronger in this moment than in others, tugged on the carrot stalks. The earth seemed to exhale, fine networks of threadlike roots ripping like Velcro as the bunch of carrots came free.
This time, as had happened before, he came away with two bunches. Maeve had told him this would happen. She said it was random, but that he could expect to get double harvests on occasion because of his sigil. At this rate he expected to fill three bags between the carrots and onions instead of just two. He didn’t know if he was having a good day or if he could depend on this rate of bonus, but it left him wondering if there was a way to increase his odds… a luck sigil?
He brought them to the selection of empty sacks that Maeve had produced and dropped the bundle in.
“That’s another thing I’m going to need to get in Medley. There won’t be enough bags next time if I have a bigger harvest.”
There was a sudden flurry of movement from the remaining feathery leaves of the carrots. There was squeaking, there was yipping. Tiller rushed over, hands out, anxious for the safety of his crop.
In a burst of speed, a tiny brown bolt shot from the cover and ran between his feet.
“A fucking mouse!”
Nearly simultaneously, another bolt, larger this time, came airborne from the cover of the carrot patch.
The pipkin landed squarely on the fleeing mouse. Its front paws held the little creature down. Its teeth flashed, so savagely sharp and needlelike, and it attacked the form of the mouse with terrible frenzied glee. Blood splattered, and the mouse squeaked its last. The pipkin did not stop for quite a while more, making a tiny yet terrifying growling sound as it mutilated the mouse corpse. When the blood seemed to have cooled, the pipkin turned and looked up at Tiller with a clear expression of pride. It then wandered away from the shredded wreckage of the mouse.
“Not gonna eat that? No?”
The pipkin looked at him, its ears working with its brows to express disdain at the notion.
“So you just killed it for me?”
A tiny nod of a tiny head.
“Hey… that mouse doesn’t have a band. Come to think of it, the crows didn’t have bands either, as far as I could see. What kind of mental rule do you think governs who gets bands and who doesn’t? You know what, don’t answer that. I need to figure more of this shit out.”
The pipkin watched him babbling, its root tail swishing.
Tiller smiled at him. “Think you can keep an eye on the place while I’m gone?”
Another tiny nod, this one accompanied by a grim set of determination.
Tiller said, “If you’re going to be sticking around full time… maybe you should have a name?”
The little head cocked to one side, inspecting Tiller’s statement with some interest.
“Could call you Rex…”
A firm head shake.
“I don’t know, you like plants, Daisy? Petal? Are you a boy or a girl?”
More head shakes, and another tilted head at the last.
“How about… Bean.”
No head shake. The considered head cock. A thoughtful look at the sky. Then a bigger nod that shook the tufted ears.
“Okay. Bean it is. Well, come on Bean, work left to do and I want to get going as soon as I possibly can.”
When the last of the crops came free from the earth, his first harvest completed, Tiller saw a long groove on his bracer fill part way with a dull green light. About a tenth of the way.
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Under Pod’s instructions, Tiller bound the filled sacks together with rope. He had no sense of how much the bags weighed, but when he tried to lift them he could barely shift them.
“Uh… Pod, I don’t mean to question you doing your job and all… but this shit is really heavy.”
Pod plodded over to the tied bundle and heaved. Tiller’s jaw dropped as he watched the much smaller, older and less substantial humanoid easily lift the bundle to rest on his upper back. A sigil on his earthen band glowed.
“How the…”
Pod looked at him with a crooked grin, a hint of meanness to his eyes. “I’m stronger than I look. Think about that the next time you wanna pick a fight with me.”
Tiller continued to look on, dumbfounded.
Maeve’s voice reached them. “Don’t mind him, love. It’s his bearer sigil. He can lift more than that, but only for carrying. Ask the grouchy old bugger to break wood for the fire and he can barely snap a twig.”
Pod’s face collapsed into one of betrayed hurt.
Maeve said, “Oh stop that you. And be nice. We’ll have real dickering to do tomorrow and it will do nobody any good if you two have been arguing again.”
Tiller said, “You think we can make it back by tonight?”
Maeve said, “Don’t tarry too long in Medley and you should be here before dark. Even if you’re not, it’s much safer to cross the white since Old Ripper met his end.”
Tiller looked down to the pipkin. “Reporting for duty?”
Bean bobbled its head left and right for a moment and then its face split into something very much like a smile.
“Okay then. Let’s get a look at this Medley then.”
Tiller and Pod started walking.
Pod bore the entire weight of the merchandise on his back and walked with more ease than he usually did with nothing to carry. Tiller brought only his shovel and the last empty sack.
The journey started out with silence, not the comfortable kind. There had been continued tension between himself and Pod since the argument at the cook fire. In the days since, Tiller had watched Pod eying Bean with distaste and his hostility to the little creature had only increased.
Tiller resigned himself to walking with the atmosphere and kept his eyes mostly on the horizon. After fifteen minutes he began to feel exposed. They were far from the refuge of the island, and his memories of his flight from the raptor were still all too fresh. He started craning his neck left and right, watching the horizon in all directions, increasing nervousness creeping into his chest.
“The fuck are you rolling your head around like that for?”
Pod glanced at him, no lack of irritation in his voice.
Tiller said, “I’m looking for threats.”
“Threats? And what are you gonna do about threats? Slay more monsters with your shovel, eh? Don’t worry about threats. The only dangers we’ve had between here and Medley are Ripper and Bonk. Ripper’s dead and Bonk isn’t gonna kill us until next month.”
Tiller said, “You’re sure there’s no other dangers?”
Pod grunted, “I wouldn’t be walking out here carrying all of your shit if there was.”
Tiller said, “Thanks for that, by the way.”
Pod said, “What are you thanking me for? We’re in business together, apparently. Just doing my part of the job.” He said all of this with narrowed eyes and a tone laced with sarcasm.
After about half an hour of walking, Tiller realized he could see tiny objects breaking the horizon before them. “What are those?”
“Hmmm? That? That’ll be the watch towers and spires and all that shit.”
Tiller said, “That’s… that’s Medley? Shit, that looks far away.”
Pod said, “Told ya, four hours there, four hours back. Won’t make it come any faster bitching about it.”
Tiller said, “So, what can I expect there? Do we set up a stall? Is there a market?”
Pod said, “If you’re smart you’ll check with the food stores, all of ’em, ’cause you can bet some of the fuckers will make shitty offers. Go between ’em all, there were three there last time I was in town, and see who wants the vittles the most.”
Tiller said, “And are there other shops? I need to buy things. Starting with pen and paper so I can start writing out a good plan. But I also need more sacks, rope, seeds… I’d love to get a look at some other tools. And we need to see what we can do about hiring someone to get rid of Bonk.”
Pod shivered slightly at that last. “Don’t go courting trouble. Bonk will pull your head right off your neck if he thinks you’re gunning for him.”
“You said yourself, he’ll kill you at the end of the month.”
“What I said was he’d kill us. All of us. Me, Maeve, you and that little root-tailed rat you made friends with. But you’re gonna have money after you sell these vittles. And you’ll have more in another ten days or so.”
Tiller pursed his lips, his expression darkening. “Bonk is running a protection racket. When he sees we’ve got more resources he’ll charge more.”
“And you could just pay him and your heart’ll go on beating.”
Tiller shook his head, face set. “No. Every gold I give up to him is one less I have to reinvest. I need to get home. I haven’t seen them in ten days. God, is that how long it’s been… shit…”
Pod’s glowering face softened just a touch when he heard the emotion in Tiller’s voice. “Your lady and your sprats? Well, didn’t you say they’re not missing you? How long’s it been for them? Not near so long, that’s what you said.”
Tiller sighed, “About four hours.”
Pod nodded, “Well then, they mightn’t even know you’re gone yet. You can miss ’em away. I’m not sure about you, not one bit. But you’re determined, I’ll give you that much. You’ll survive some missing.”
Tiller shot him a sideways glance. “Thanks, Pod.”
Pod walked on a few steps, then said, “We’ve not done our dickering yet, but I’m assuming you’re not gonna try and keep this whole enterprise going on promises alone. There’ll be a cut of the gold as we go, won’t there?”
Tiller said, “Oh, yeah. I guess there’ll have to be.”
Pod said, “And if you’ll definitely be paying a portion, you wouldn’t be hurting you nor me if you squeezed a few coins my way after the sale, would ya?”
“I suppose that wouldn’t be unreasonable.”
Pod nodded, his pace gaining a fresh spring. “That’s just as well, I haven’t been to Spinners in too long. That’s where you’ll be looking for someone to knock off ol’ Bonk anyway.”
“Is that a tavern?”
“Aye it is. Not so nice as Dave’s, less to choose from, but the ale’s clear and cool and it all goes down the same.”
Tiller murmured, “Ale? God, I haven’t had a beer in so long now…”
Pod’s brows raised, “You like a beer? You ain’t come sniffing around any of my stash.”
Tiller said, “I’ve got a job to do. I can’t be wasting time or money on booze.”
Pod said, “Listen to ol’ fella for a second. You’ll be at this a long time. Tell you the truth, I don’t think you’ll ever make the kind of money you’re talking about, but let’s just say you do. Let’s just pretend for a minute that making ten mil isn’t a crazy notion. You’ll be at it a long time, you won’t survive on nothing but working and sleeping. You gotta take care of your, what’s it called, your mental health. A couple of beers here and there, maybe a tug or a roll with one of the tarts in Spinners, you’ll need a little bit of happiness here and there to keep you pointed in the right direction.”
Tiller was nonplussed about prostitutes; his focus on his wife had only deepened with her absence, and infidelity had never been his way.
But a beer. God, that was going to be hard to say no to.
