Diz
Overdosing on placebos
The harvest again was rather sad. What crops they did grow were only enough to feed the animals and keep seeds for planting the next year, though it would be a thankless effort. Corn and wheat simply didn't grow anymore. The seasons of late were far too damp, the water drowning all attempts to forge a livelihood in this now desolate landscape.
Father knew that they would come. He hadn't the surplus to pay the tax, and the lord would send his men. He always did. The lord himself was understanding and generous, but his collectors were not. They operated entirely outside of the local law, employing any methods to get what they wanted. And this time, the men wanted something that was impossible to produce: the surplus.
Maria was 6 months with child that season. She spent most of her time at the loom, weaving the now thin lamb's wool into fine clothing, blankets, and bags. Maybe the men would accept payment of that sort.
They drove up the muddy lane, past the barren fields. It was raining again, and they drove carefully to avoid sticking in the mud. Father wouldn't spend their money on the luxury that was a paved lane. The men weren't drunk yet. They must not have procured even enough tax to buy beer. This was good. They would be lenient, if exasperated.
Father and they talked for several minutes, him showing them the place where the plow wheel had gotten stuck in the muck. The axel was still attached to the wheel, as father couldn't detach it solely from the plow. Father hung his head as they carefully left our farm.
Maybe next year they would have enough harvest to pay their keep. It wasn't Father's fault, it was the land and the weather that made us appear ingrates.
Next year we would become bountiful again.
Next year we would not have to ration our bread.
Maria gave birth to my nephew in two month's time, the week before Christmas. Susanne remarked that he was the best gift one could have received this year, as Francis was the only gift given.
The new planting season dawned bright and sunny. It was a strong dry sun as well, perfect for growing our crops. It was sunny and we were happy. The land finally dried and we were able to plow and plant.
And the rain never came.
Again our crops didn't grow.
Maria was again with child. The week after the ultrasound told us it was a boy, the lord's men came for our tax. We pegged our last hope on their leniency.
They were drunk. Obviously someone could grow this season. They had bought beer with the extra they had stolen from the lord.
And we would pay.
They beat father and advanced on the house.
Mother hushed the smaller children and stashed them in the woods nearby. She tried to convince Maria to mind them, but I went instead.
I was crouched in the woods, surrounded by my siblings when we heard the shots. There were two, followed by a high wail. I knew I couldn't forsake the hiding place, or the enraged drunks would attack the rest of my family.
I heard their vehicles leave our property. We waited a few moments to be sure they were gone. We waited until the scent of smoke floated by on a light breeze.
They had set fire to our barn. The weather had dried out our entire land, and the barn was driest.
I had Susanne keep the younger ones far away from the blaze, as I rushed around to find the rest of our family. Father was unconscious at the end of our lane. There was nothing I could do for him. He was far enough away from the fire to be safe.
I continued around the house, and saw my worst fear. Mother had been shot. She lay in dark brown patch blood, the dry ground greedily stealing away the life of my Mother. I continued my search for Maria as the fire engines sounded in the distance.
Finally I found her, halfway between Mother and the relative protection of the field. At first, I thought she was dead, until she reached for me.
My sister had not been the target of the shot.
Her child was.
They had killed my sister's second child while he was still in the womb. While she was not killed instantly, the wound was mortal. With her last breaths, Maria spoke to me.
"His... name is… Davis,"
Father knew that they would come. He hadn't the surplus to pay the tax, and the lord would send his men. He always did. The lord himself was understanding and generous, but his collectors were not. They operated entirely outside of the local law, employing any methods to get what they wanted. And this time, the men wanted something that was impossible to produce: the surplus.
Maria was 6 months with child that season. She spent most of her time at the loom, weaving the now thin lamb's wool into fine clothing, blankets, and bags. Maybe the men would accept payment of that sort.
They drove up the muddy lane, past the barren fields. It was raining again, and they drove carefully to avoid sticking in the mud. Father wouldn't spend their money on the luxury that was a paved lane. The men weren't drunk yet. They must not have procured even enough tax to buy beer. This was good. They would be lenient, if exasperated.
Father and they talked for several minutes, him showing them the place where the plow wheel had gotten stuck in the muck. The axel was still attached to the wheel, as father couldn't detach it solely from the plow. Father hung his head as they carefully left our farm.
Maybe next year they would have enough harvest to pay their keep. It wasn't Father's fault, it was the land and the weather that made us appear ingrates.
Next year we would become bountiful again.
Next year we would not have to ration our bread.
Maria gave birth to my nephew in two month's time, the week before Christmas. Susanne remarked that he was the best gift one could have received this year, as Francis was the only gift given.
The new planting season dawned bright and sunny. It was a strong dry sun as well, perfect for growing our crops. It was sunny and we were happy. The land finally dried and we were able to plow and plant.
And the rain never came.
Again our crops didn't grow.
Maria was again with child. The week after the ultrasound told us it was a boy, the lord's men came for our tax. We pegged our last hope on their leniency.
They were drunk. Obviously someone could grow this season. They had bought beer with the extra they had stolen from the lord.
And we would pay.
They beat father and advanced on the house.
Mother hushed the smaller children and stashed them in the woods nearby. She tried to convince Maria to mind them, but I went instead.
I was crouched in the woods, surrounded by my siblings when we heard the shots. There were two, followed by a high wail. I knew I couldn't forsake the hiding place, or the enraged drunks would attack the rest of my family.
I heard their vehicles leave our property. We waited a few moments to be sure they were gone. We waited until the scent of smoke floated by on a light breeze.
They had set fire to our barn. The weather had dried out our entire land, and the barn was driest.
I had Susanne keep the younger ones far away from the blaze, as I rushed around to find the rest of our family. Father was unconscious at the end of our lane. There was nothing I could do for him. He was far enough away from the fire to be safe.
I continued around the house, and saw my worst fear. Mother had been shot. She lay in dark brown patch blood, the dry ground greedily stealing away the life of my Mother. I continued my search for Maria as the fire engines sounded in the distance.
Finally I found her, halfway between Mother and the relative protection of the field. At first, I thought she was dead, until she reached for me.
My sister had not been the target of the shot.
Her child was.
They had killed my sister's second child while he was still in the womb. While she was not killed instantly, the wound was mortal. With her last breaths, Maria spoke to me.
"His... name is… Davis,"