20 July

I was excused from journal writing—I refuse to call this a diary—yesterday as it was Attela's washing day. In other words, it was the day I trudged down to the lake and did Attela's massive load of laundry.

Attela came with me, of course. Oh no, never let it be said that she forces me to do anything! I do this all from the pure sweet goodness of my heart! And, of course, because it pays for my lessons.

I asked her yesterday why she did not simply use magic to clean. She is, after all, a witch. She replied by saying that magic must be saved up. I know what she means by this. She means that the less one uses magic, the more powerful the magic will be when one does use it. So if she magiciked all her clothes clean, she would not have enough magic left within her if she were suddenly called upon to save a life.

I understand all this, but it is still a terrible hassle.

I had to stand in knee-deep water, skirts pulled and tucked away to stay dry. I hate standing with my legs bare; it makes me feel so very exposed. Parts of my skirt still got damp, and later, they chafed against my skin. The rocks on the lake bottom there are extremely sharp, and I came away with several cuts and bruises. The basket stood perched on a large boulder beside me. It was my job to take out one item—a shirt, skirt, or blanket, maybe—and dunk it in the water. If there was a stain, I had to scrub it with sand until it came out. (And there are quite a number of stains on Attela's laundry, allow me to tell you!) While scrubbing, the cloth had to be kept damp, so I needed to stay bent over as I dipped it in again, rubbed it against the rocks, dipped again, and squeezed the water out. The clean laundry went in another basket, floating on the lake.

Attela sat on the shore and watched me.

When the laundry was clean, I straightened up, and oh! How my back hurt from that! Then I rushed to the trees bordering the lake and slapped the wet laundry across the low, strong branches to dry.

And then, at last, I could rest.

In fact, I partly enjoy the laundry days. As the laundry airs in the trees, I am permitted to float about in the lake at my leisure. I adore swimming, more than anything else. It allows me to forget about everything: the stresses of my mother and brother, the grueling "magic lessons," the torments of the village girls. All thoughts of those things simply vanish as I reach out in stroke after stroke after stroke after stroke... Soon, I am floating, small as a leaf, on the still, smooth surface.

Sometimes Attela wades with me. She claims it makes her feel young, but she never swims. Her old bones could never handle that, I'm afraid. So she stands in the shallows or reclines on the shore, black eyes twinkling.

Unfortunately, that never lasts long, as the laundry always dries far too fast and I must pack it away, stack the baskets, and trudge home. My back is unbelievably sore from yesterday's work. Attela lets me do relaxing things (she says) on after-laundry days. But is this journal-writing "relaxing?" I should think not!

No, I have not yet forgiven her for subjecting me to this daily half-hour of torture.