"I feel dreadful," muttered Francis, as they scrambled to their feet. "We've hardly had any sleep."
"I know," Arthur mumbled back. "It's ages till dawn..."
If the rain summons came early enoughin the night, the headman would let them go back to the huts to sleep again afterwards. And then the soup didn't count as start-of-day meal, and they got fed once more when they woke up. But that was rare. Usually they had to stay on their feet and work right through until the midday meal.
Kita was on sheep work for that day. Quainy was spinning skeins of wool. The older women who drew up the rotas and read out the next day's tasks at the end-of-day meal rarely let them be together.
Arthur risked reaching out her hand and squeezing Francis'. "Tonight," he whispered, and Francis nodded. Lying side by side, whispering in the blackness - it was all they had to look forward to.
As Arthur collected her bucket and rake, he saw Antonio heading off in the direction of the latrine hole. It seem to be his permenant job, shovelling out the latrines. Which was cruel, which was sad, but it means he might see him later, when he emptied his bucket full of droppings on to the hige stinking dung heap outside the rear stockades. Nothing was wasted. Once rotted, the manure nurtured the coarse grain that grew on the slopes at the back of the fort.
Arthur go into the first sheep pen, where the matured ewes lived. Ma Baa trotted over, raised its blunt head and shoved at him, stamping its hard little feet.
"Sod off, you ol'bitch" Arthur groaned.
She's named Ma Baa, and he hated it. Queen of the sheep, it had birthed countless lambs and seemed to be aware how valuable this made it - far more valuable than the omegas who tended it. It would nip the carers or back into them and tread on their feet.
Arthur shoved his rake at it but it pranced closer. Then turned around and urinated copiously, splashing her barefeet.
"You wait" spat Arthur, "you evil bloody useless wool bag, you can't have many more lambs inside you, and once you're spent, we'll stew you up and throw your bones to the wolves..."
But Ma Baa was oblivious to the threat. It swaggered over to the troughs, which were being filled with grains by two little omega, one on the either side of the grain sack. Arthur sighed set her bucket down, and started raking up the dung and spent hay.
Arthur was in luck. As he straggered along the narrow, steep-sided passage between the inner and outer barricades, heading for the dung heap gate, Antonio was just coming back. They put down their buckets, Arthur's full, Antonio's empty, and leant back against the barricade planks, and grinned at each other.
"Well met, messy one," said Antonio. "How's life?"
"What's life?" Arthur answered.
"Complaining is futile," Antonio intoned. "Hope is futile."
"Abracadabra" Arthur chanted, giggling. They'd made it up in childhood - the game of Sheepmen's Song - and played it still.
"Stakes the witches. Nourish the sheep. The sheep are our saviours." Antonio singed while supressing his giggles.
"Baaa...baaa...baaaaaa..." Arthur rolled his eyes.
"Watch our for marauders. Those who would gut us."
"Survive, survive, survive!"
The dung passage was one of the very few private spaces where they couldn't be seen or overheard. Where they could indulge in the game of mocking life on the hill fort.
"You've been hit," said Arthur, and he reached out his hand stroked Antonio's forehead just above the bruise.
"Again."
"Alfred's mob... One tripped me up and the other kicked me. I made out I was dead so I got off lightly..."
"I hate them... God, I hate them"
"Hate is a waste of useful energy," Antonio intoned, tried to resurrect the song game, but Arthur had tears is his eyes and wouldn't join in.
"Hey..." Antonio said softly. "I heard they took Britannia out yesterday, I'm really sorry..."
Arthur gulped. Antonio tone was so gentle, so unlike the other alphas, he wanted to fling himself into his arms and cries... He wanted to tell him about the weirdness of the crows and the dogs running from Britannia's body.
But Antonio was tactfully changing the subject. "Any news on Francis' trade?" he asked.
Arthur stiffened. He hated to think of Francis going. "No," he said. "He's safe as long as the ash is still on his hair... If I could think of a way to make him bald..."
Antonio sweatdropped. "You'll get slit as a witch if you do that, Arthur. And think of it Arthur, he'll have a better life with the horsemen for sure. They're fierce and they're democratic - they vote for things! And he'll have more colour, pleasure and fun..."
Stories about the horsemen's lavish feast had been brought back to hill fort. Jumping with the drumbeat, strange berry juice that make you crazy and full of laughter... but Arthur don't want to think about it.
"Can't you tell the headman? About the way the footsoldiers that bullies you?" Arthur asked.
"Oh, he sees. And known Alfred won't let it go too far."
Arthur reached out and hugged him. He knew it would go too far, maybe it has already gone too far - Antonio's rare bright spirit crushed.
"Come on, mad one," he said, gently disengaging himself. "We'd better go before we're missed." Arthur sighed. He picked up her bucket and headed for the narrow gate at the outer barricades that lead to the dung heap. There always was a guard on it, but they'd keep their voices low so he wouldn't hear them talking.
The headman was not a cruel man, nor especially callous...but everything he do is about survival. A badly wounded footsoldier wasn't kept alive. A weak baby wasn't fed. The very old weren't cared for.
But no one challenged the headman, because they knew somewhere. He kept them safe from the terror. Terror of the past, that strange time of fevered plenty when people had given their souls to things and let screens and machines do their living for them, burning in the Great Havoc. Terror of the nature, how it engulfing the past, reclaiming the land, its trees hiding wolfs and shelters giant crows... or...
Terror of Witch Crag