He'd woken to the same roof hundreds of times before, only ever changing housing for the winter, but Saril felt a hint of unfamiliarity this morning. He opened his eyes, remembered his life, and sat up, throwing the cloth off the pit. He took only a moment to regain his senses as the dull morning light, lampshaded by its angle with the atmosphere invaded his face. He stood up, taking a quick look around. Seeing no one he folded the cloth and threw it on top of his few sacks of flour, which sat in a corner of the pit looking much emptier than he preferred them - some empty entirely. After a while he sunk his hands into the earth near the lid of the pit and sent a mound cascading down over the cloth and the sacks, burying them from sight. He patted it flush so that it resembled the other edges of the pit, then drew himself up over the edge, patting his hands clean on the grass. He took pause to widen his pit, since today was the day of the harvest, and he would need more storage area. He scooped mounds of dirt away from the pit with his hands and widened the pit by a factor of about three. It made it much more visible, but he considered it a necessary precaution. He didn't like leaving his stolen flour out in the open, since animals or less creative thieves than him might happen upon them during a stroll. After he'd finished this task, he got up, prepared to play out the day.
He arrived at the lake soon after, and set about undressing. He removed his clothes and set them by the lake, then stood back, appraising the location. A crowd of trees stood on the far end of the lake, densely interweaved with bushes and vines. Its reflection stretched across a muddy expanse of water replete with signs of invisible life. Now and then the blemishless surface of the lake was warped by a fish breaching for air, or the undulating call of some far away toad would find its way to Saril's ears. Finally he crept in, allowing himself to become comfortable with the temperature. It was cold but not unbearable and he enjoyed it. It had a numbing effect on his body. The cold crept through his limbs and diffused into his midsection. His mind ran on syrup and soon the planning portion of his mind didn't care about the harvest, or the theft thereafter, and accepted that they would probably go fine. He rest his back against the bank and inflated his chest with the humid air, sending his torso and legs floating up like a piece of driftwood. He laid like this for a long time, watching winged insects zip over his head and enjoying the feeling of unity with his surroundings.
He began to think about his life, and wondered whether or not it would improve. He'd seen other orphans come or go, and wasn't sure where they went - the town was utterly without work, and orphans were without capital. Maybe they traded everything in and headed north on foot to Kintere with oats to trade. Maybe they died. He let the water banish the thoughts from his mind, and thought again about his own life. He didn't want to be stealing wheat forever. He didn't have a trade he was working on, either, like other boys in the town. He had no one to teach him a trade. Davam, maybe, but he'd want money. He thought about it longer and realized that he didn't have a promising future, and that not much could be done about it. He likened his current situation to when he was without bread, back before he'd discovered theft - the difference was that he would starve over the course of years instead of weeks, and instead of his body, his desire to live would vanish. There were no old orphans in his town.
Unlike his earlier predicament, too, theft wouldn't rescue him from this. It would, but he didn't want to do it. Thieves who appeased their hunger and nothing else took the crust from others' bread, but thieves who stole their way out of thievery took people's livelihoods. He didn't want to trade his misfortune onto others. He'd considered it, but thought of the people who had done him kindnesses over the years. Davam, of course. Concerned commoners who threw him bread when he'd have died without it. Sometimes he would see a wagon stabled with goods at the inn, the owner probably inside getting himself giddy on wine, and remind himself that it could belong to any of those people. Even if it belonged to a bad person, a murderer or a drunkard or a slave driver or something else on chance, would it be right then? He knew from talk that society viewed "bad" people as vermin, and regarded them with no sympathy or understanding, but he didn't share their mistake. He was a thief, and he understood that bad actions did not originate with their perpetrator. He exhaled, and his torso sunk deeper into the water. Maybe the drunks needed their wine like he needed his lake.
He again let the water clear his mind, and laid thoughtless for a while, then pulled himself onto the bank and sat letting himself be dried by the sun and wind. He clothed himself automatically, wrapping his feet in the sturdy cloth he improvised as shoes and pulling on the rest of his wear. At last he drew himself up and departed from the lake, wishing to stay longer but needing to do other things. He still had time before the harvest, so he returned to his stash and took what wheat he had left then went with it to the bakery, intending to get some bread and money. The baker, a serious-looking old woman named Demeus, returned soon after and dropped a couple silvers in his hand along with a freshly-baked loaf of bread. He dropped the coins in one of the now-empty wheat sacks, took the loaf under his arm, and couldn't help but smile. It was the first money he'd had in a long time, and he felt better about the day as he waved to the baker headed for the inn.
Saril stepped into the larger door of the building, which withheld a staircase leading up to the rooms and a hallway which lead to the stables around the back of the building. He headed for the stables and left the wheat sacks in a corner there, bringing the two coins with him, scraping them together as he walked toward the tavern. He walked in as silently as he could and left his bread at an empty table, then walked up to the bar, smiling stupidly. He placed one coin down on the counter, and Davam walked over, eyeing him suspiciously.
"Did you steal it?"
"Nope. Sold some flour."
Davam knotted his brow, but didn't seem concerned. "Okay. What do you want?"
Saril had intended to buy something sweet to sip with the bread, but he didn't know of many drinks' names. He thought wine was too standard for the occasion, and many of the others he knew were too intoxicating or strong-smelling. He remembered his time at the inn yesterday, and that Davam had given him a taste of something fruity. He'd smelled the drink before, and remembered its name.
"Cider. In a skin or something. I won't be drinking it all here."
Davam took the silver, laid down a handful of copper coins on the bar which Saril took into his hand, and drew a wooden lidded container out from behind the bar. He took a cask and funneled it carefully into the device. It looked cloudy, and Saril recognized the sweet smell of the drink.
"I won't make you buy the canteen. Bring it back whenever you've got time."
"Okay."
He waved, then turned from the bar and de-capped the container, bringing it up to his nose. Its fragrance drowned out the other smells of the tavern. Saril placed the cap and the copper coins down on his table, then took a piece of the loaf and ate it mechanically. Finally he lifted the canteen to his mouth and took a sip of the cider. The sweet brew washed over his tongue, and he enjoyed its taste and wanted to drink it all, but he knew it was alcoholic and that he wouldn't have more for a long time, so he kept himself at a moderate ratio of bread to drink. Still, it was the first flavorful thing he'd had in ages, and it made it better that he'd bought it with his own money. He had barely affected the canteen's fullness when he was done eating, so he re-fashioned the cap and, carrying the change Davam had given him, headed for the stable. He retrieved his wheat sacks, tossed his money and canteen into one, then after roughly appraising the time set off for the wheat field.
He arrived and made his way to the barn, guessing tools were being handed out. He tilted open one of the great doors, slipped inside, and found that he'd guessed correctly. The owner of the farm, a young and optimistic man named Jed, stood on the far end of the barn as a crowd of workers clambered around for implements. Saril spotted a few other boys larger than him, some adult commoners, along with a few overseers armed with wooden clubs talking with each other. They were there to ensure that everyone was working properly, as well as to prevent people from slipping crops during the harvesting. Saril didn't worry about them, since they didn't guard the building where the flour was stored.
He waved at the farmer and he waved back, displaying a warm smile. Saril knew from past harvests that Jed was a kind man, but didn't feel bad about his plans. He had to eat. He did feel bad about the news that there would not be a replanting, at least not for a while. It meant that Jed would possibly suffer financial trouble, or in a more severe case have to sell his farm to cope with the lack of income. It also meant he would have to steal more than usual. He abandoned the thoughts, waited until the crowd had thinned out a bit, then moved toward the perimeter of the barn and took the smallest scythe he could find. It was still heavy, but not as heavy as when he was younger. He again waved to the farmer and exited the barn following the rest of the hired workers and overseers. The wheat fields were as expansive as he remembered them. Row after row of crops stretched out before him and he remembered why so many harvesters were hired. The workers fanned out into the field, eager to finish the work and collect their pay, and began to reap the wheat - Saril had done it before, so he picked a row and began slowly, gripping the scythe as best he could and dragging it along close to the ground, sending waves of wheat tumbling down, their connection to the earth cut.
He fell into a rhythm and began to play mental games with the wheat to occupy himself. He looked out over the field as he dragged the scythe, imagining the rows between crops being arranged into the symbols he'd seen on shops and in books. When he was tired of this he thought up a new one. Now a giant ghostly scythe descended from the sky and cut the stalks to a uniform height the whole way through, lopping off the seed-bearing tops of the wheat. Next a growth spurt afflicted the field, and the wheat stalks grew to unusual proportions, dwarfing the workers and himself by several feet. He encountered another worker or an overseer every now and then, where their reaping or patrolling paths intersected, but didn't say anything, since there was nothing to talk about and it would mean the harvest would be over later. He continued on this way throughout the day, occupying himself with feats of imagination growing wilder as he ran out of ideas, until he was the last worker standing. He drew his scythe slowly through the last remaining row of wheat, savoring the finality of the act, and after a moment sent the last stalk toppling to the ground. He bent down and gathered strength for a moment, then picked it up gingerly and tucked it into his waistband.
The light of dusk, dyed crimson by its long trek through the atmosphere, stretched across the field. Most of the workers had already returned to the barn to collect their pay, and he followed them. He collected his wheat sacks, then returned outside. He threw the one containing the canteen and his money over his shoulder, and wedged the empty ones under his arm. A line had formed leading up to the door of the barn, where Jed was handing out money. It was rare, and probably accounted for the large number of workers this harvest. It didn't improve Saril's situation any, since the volume of the tribute wasn't any greater than usual, only in cash instead of wheat. Jed laid a handful of coppers into each worker's hand as they reached the end of the queue and stepped inside, offering a compliment and a pat on the shoulder which was audible outside. After some waiting it was Saril's time, and he stepped into the barn, walked up to the farmer and put out his hands. The farmer placed some coins into Saril's palms, smiled at him, and offered up a "good job." He felt a pang of guilt that he was going to steal from him, however insignificant the sum would be compared to the overall harvest, and he stepped out of the barn for the next worker to receive their pay.
The first time Saril stole flour, he'd nearly missed his opportunity. He had piled fallen crops on himself, intending to hide until late at night, but he fell asleep and only woke in the early hours of the morning. He had scrambled over to the storage building, managed to fill his sacks then leave before the farmer awoke. This was a significant fear for him ever since. During the day, the farmer and his family would easily notice anyone stalking around the farm with sacks of product, and he would be unable to steal any, or if caught, may be prosecuted. To avoid the possibility of mistakes like that one, he thought up a system for following harvests. He followed it this time.
After he exited the barn, Saril grabbed a crop bag he knew would be propped up against the side of the building. He took it and ran into the field, then gathered up a few armfuls of wheat and stuffed them in, as would be usual for someone being paid on crops. The bag was still mostly empty, but the seedy heads of the wheat stalks stuck up over the bag, making it look like it was at least partially filled with unrefined crops. He threw his smaller flour sacks in and made a bee-line for the storage building. It was dark now and he was unlikely to be noticed, but he was careful anyway, weaving around buildings and pausing often to look around. He finally arrived at the decrepit old construction and tilted open the door carefully, listening for a reaction, but none came. He walked in and groped around quickly in the dark, trying to locate the refined flour he knew would be there from last year's harvest. Finally his hand brushed over the rough burlap exterior of a storage sack and he snatched it up, throwing it into the large crop bag. He counted out sack after sack, and wondered how many he should take; there was a huge number, extending along one wall of the building, and he ended up taking twice as many as he usually did, since there wouldn't be a replanting and he might not have another opportunity to get food for a while. The crop sack bulged a bit, but still disguised his crime passably, and he was beginning to feel happy as he pushed open the door with his shoulder, dragging the sack behind him, as it was now quite heavy with the dense flour.
Once he was in the field, Saril headed for the exit path to the farm, dragging the large sack behind him and feigning exhaustion; the farmer had gone inside after the last worker had been paid, so to the workers who were making their way off the property it appeared that he was paid with wheat instead of money - orphans were often paid unequally this way - and having a hard time carrying his tribute, which would indeed be common for some of the smaller workers during harvests where the pay was in the form of raw crop. He received a few sympathetic glances as he walked past other workers, breathing hard and dragging the crop bag with both hands, but no one said anything. By the time he'd found his way off the farm and onto the path to the town, it was completely dark excepting the light cast by the moon, which lie full and luminous in the night sky. The chirps of night insects lit up the atmosphere as he walked.
Saril reached his stash at what he judged to be midnight, tossed the sack to the ground, fell to his knees, looked up at the sky and laughed. Tears streamed down each side of his face. He wiped his eyes with his forearm and ran his fingers through his hair. He did it. Everything was going to be okay now. He had enough flour for a long time. He could eat. He even had money. He didn't have to hurt anyone to do it. He let himself fall on his back and pealed into another fit of laughter, drunk on his fortune. After a while he took a deep breath of the cold night air, then let it escape from his lungs. He took the sack of flour and crops and laid it at the base of the tree next to his pit, too exhausted to bother with arranging the goods in the pit. He kept one of the sacks of flour with him. He crawled down into the pit, took the cloth and wrapped himself in it, then laid his head down on the sack. A smile remained on his face as he closed his eyes. After a short while he felt his mind numb with drowsiness.
Something moving.
Saril threw his head up. His lymphatic system screamed. A chemical fire of fear ran across his skin. His heart pumped antifreeze. His head whirled around the pit in a blur of adrenaline and drowsiness, his perception sharpened by the cocktail of epinephrine racing through his veins and blurred by the sleep he'd been enjoying seconds before. They were here. They were in the pit. They found him. He was going to die.
He stopped; his eyes locked on the other person occupying the pit. His head reeled. He shook it and his vision cleared.
Pale moonlight reflected off pale skin. She had laid down across from him, completely naked. He judged her to be a few years older than him. Hip-length chestnut hair led up to a pair of canine ears which lent her face a feral quality. Her chest undulated evenly, sending air steaming out of her nostrils in the distance between them as she held something up, silhouetted against the sky.
She was drinking his fucking cider.