The omegas only slept for a few hours. They were woken by the harsh sound of iron clanging against iron. This summons meant one of two things- attack from a gang of marauders, or heavy rain. Usually it was rain.
All but the youngest omegas struggled to their feet and out of the hut into the downpour, running to get in line. Everyone know their paces, even in the dark; water was as necessary to survival as the sheep were and the water drill was practised too often for anyone to forget.
As the headman shouted orders, eight vast oiled sheetes made of stitched together sheepskins were unrolled. Each one was stretched between four sturdy wooden stakes and tied securely. Then thirty-two footsoldiers seized a stake each, stood braced under the teeming sky.
Everyone watched as the sheet bulged and filled with precious rain water. The foot soldier holding the front stakes dipped their load as that water poured off the sheets into waiting skin buckets, each replaces so fast that barely a drop was spilt. The bucket were fed into a chain and passed from hand to hand until they reached the footsoldiers at the well, who emptied them into its stone depths and fed them back into the chain to the sheets again.
Arthur and France were at the top of the line that handled full buckets. They's been moved up from the empty line that summer. It was exhausting, seizing the wet handle of a heavy bucket with two hands, turning to pass it on, spinning back to get the next one. If you were too slow, and there's a buildup behind of you, the flow of emptied buckets would be stalled and the water wasted. But too hurry probably end up slip over and slide on the mud...
The winter before last, Antonio had slipped and sent himself and a full bucket boy next to him, a newly promoted footsoldier jump in and continued the chain replace him and continued with the footsoldier next in the chain, each of them stretching their arms long. When Antonio struggled to his feet, slimy and dripping, but the two jeering alpha hadn't let him back into the line. When the headman praised the young footsoldier afterwards, it been the absolute seal on Antonio's humiliation and the bullies target.
Arthur screwed up his face, peering thru the dark and the rain. The boy who'd grabbed that fallen bucket was there, close to her, holding one of the wooden stakes. He was called Alfred, and the headman had great hopes on him; he'd recently made him leader of the young footsoldiers. Alfred trained his fighting relentlessly, and longed to be tested in a fight.
Arthur realised with a start that Alfred was staring straight at him, raising his eyebrows like a question. She glared down again. Antonio was three beyond Francis; as he passed her full bucket on, Arthur willed all their hands strength.
The rain finally began to lessen; the storm was gathering its skirts and heading northwards. The sheets had been filled and emptied five times; a great haul. Exhausted everyone waited for the orders to stop.
As the sheet were emptied for the sixth time, the headman shouted, "End!" The words everyone longed for.
While the storm lasted, four older men excused from the rigour of the water chain had been busy piling brushwood and thick sticks into carriers made from yet more sheep pelts. At the headman's command, they hobbled their loads to the fire pits, pulled off its cover and tipped in the brushwood. One of the cooks ran from the kitchen with a flaring rag that she dropped into the pit; carefully, the men fed in the sticks as the fire took hold.
Arthur and Francis hurried past the sheep pens towards the fire pit. The pen were solid and roomy; better made than the omega's sleeping huts. The dry sheep looked out at the drenched girls, shifting comfortably on their hay.
Arthur smiled at the sight of flames which were just beginning to dance above the rim of the pit; smoke swirled, scattering sparks. Two cooks staggered out from the kitchen with a great cauldron of soul they's heated on the stove that is always alight. Two more followed with the little wooden troughs and a huge ladle. The dripping workers in their rough woollen tunics gathered round the fire, privileged footsoldiers at the front with alphas, everyone else clustered behind.
Arthur and Francis thanked Antonio as he helped them to get their share since alphas is privileged than omegas. They sat together and joked. It's a strange gathering. A fire at night, under the stars; the glow of success. of much water stored and saved. Hot soup, warmth and companionship. But apart from joshing among the footsoldiers and quiet laughter of the trio, there was no festivity. No singing, no chatting, no laughing. Everyone sat to dry and drank the soup to warm up and the only object was to survive. Cold and wet meant chills, meant illness and possible death. The fire was there for survival, nothing more.
But Arthur couldn't keep the smile off his face as he watched the flame flare. Unknown to him, a blue eyed alpha eyed him from the bunch of footsoldiers and leered at Antonio.
And then, too soon, much too soon, the headman said, "Put the fire out. Dawn is close. Set to work."