Stalemate

Chapter 2

Slumped against the worn wall of the storehouse, Doon watched the overseer suck on a pipe. In these times, he should've been careful parading it about. A Dordan might be aching for tobacco. The wind whipped the thin thicket of hair left on the old man's head, and he squinted out over the plateau toward the sea. Around his still figure, a cluster of sweaty, boiled boys lay about, still as the dead, all with their stewed caps pushed over their eyes. Absent-mindedly, Doon fiddled with the rough end of his worn hoe. The sun's gentle rays barely reached over the horizon, only just brushing the fresh rows of neatly sown earth. Tiny mites of dirt swished above their heads with obvious scorn at their attempts to mar the virgin soil.

All were wont to this time of rest. Doon knew these men, but they hardly spoke. All beaten down to sloppy, tired shells of themselves, there wasn't much interest in small talk. Their silent friendship lay almost entirely in understanding. All the day they'd hoe away at the unbothered earth, tossing rocks and bloodying palms, without a whistle or a hum or an old wives' tale. Not even a farmer's proverb or an inside joke. Doon would lean against the old, rickety storehouse he was always sure was but a gust from blowing away, and the others would lay about and let their sweat turn cold.

The overseer told the occasional story, but it was never exciting enough to spark interest. The old man would stand in the very same place, staring out at the blackened water like he'd lost something in it. And perhaps, a lifetime ago, he had. But it was far off now. His stories were about his field work mostly, but Doon could not find the same excitement in it that the man seemed to. He'd heard better wives' tales from the metal workers, and they stayed cooped up within the confines of their smithies.

One day, Doon thought. One more lousy day and that man would be watching his ship sail. One thing Doon liked about silent friendship was that he needn't say goodbye. He'd simply be gone and some other poor soul would turn up to take his place. Each time he shoved his hands in his pockets and his fingertips brushed the vellum, he couldn't help but become giddy. It all seemed to be too good to be true. Pa seldom wrote letters, least of all to his own son. But Doon had grown restless enough to spend that penny on postage. In his letter he'd asked a simple question and, his fingertips could feel, Pa had given an even simpler answer. Dock at dawn. Don't be late. The day was always understood. Pa never returned on a gibbous or a crescent. He was always partial to a wolf's moon, full as it could get.

Wordlessly, one by one, each boy stood from his flattened place on the prairie and either started a pile of work tools or took a long, well-deserved swig from a flask. Doon did not budge from his place like he usually did. Instead, he stared down at the D.M. that had been carved into the handle of his hoe two years ago. He would never dare admit it, but something deep within him was feeling sentimental. He brushed his thumb over the hasty engraving, remembering the set of hands that had done it. They belonged to a different boy, one filled to the brim with humor. The hastiness in his work had been eagerness. Excitement, even. In spite of the men who told him the fields promised a headstone, in spite of Tom's unwavering loyalty to the mill, and in spite of his own doubts, he requested the fields. It'd been a foolish optimism. Of course, he'd seen the field workers around. Like the miners or the fishermen, they always had at least one distinguishable quality. For the miners it was the cough, and one could smell a fisherman from miles away. But the field workers weren't like the others. At Doon's tender age, he couldn't understand why. But after the whirlwind of change and giddiness at the thought of owning his own tool wore off, it was clear to him. For them it was the calloused hands. After he noticed his own dry, cracked fingers begging for more than salty air, he adopted a special regard for the others.' He found that at this time of day, his eyes often trained from their empty eyes down to their bloodied fingers and creviced palms. They all seemed to hold them a certain way, like they were cradling a firefly between them. Anything to protect them from the salt.