When the Crane People Came — Part One
By E.B. Sommer
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Happy New Story Sunday, Daily Tomorrow readers! This week, the brilliant E.B. Sommer is swanning in with a swift new flight of fancy. We are also starting a new experiment in cover art, pairing each story with a public domain image from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. This week, it's a beautiful Qing Dynasty embroidery rank badge that is just perfect for the story. If you can't swallow that choice, feel free to crow about it! Don't be a chicken. —The Editor
When the Crane People Came
By E.B. Sommer
Each swing pulls at the muscles of my back. My two-handled scythe swishes low to the ground in the field, cutting a clean line. Sweat pools in the crooks of my elbows and under my arms, though the sun is low in the sky and the day is all but over. A pile of neatly cut wheat rests in the field behind me with berries thick at the tops of each stalk. Beyond that is another worker’s pile, and more still on either side. There is a certain pride I take in seeing them on the horizon; the result of a hard day’s work. I have contributed to this progress. This wheat will be harvested into grain, the grain ground and turned into bread, which will feed myself and my father. The bread will be the result of my hands and arms, of my relentless swinging back and forth. The tangible connection between the work I do now and what it will create in the coming months makes the day pass quickly.
My father stands with his back to me, though I have to squint to see him in the dying sunlight. Hilda, the pretty girl that lives close by and seems perfect from a distance, is off to my right. I avoid looking in her direction. I don’t stare or stop working for fear of falling behind. The less we cut, the less we’ll eat. There are people dotting the field with identical scythes to my own, swinging to their own rhythms. We are alone, which is strange but not entirely uncommon. The Crane People often monitor our work, but today they are absent.
My father loads a bundle of grain onto the low wooden cart pulled by our mule, and I help him tie it down with coarse ropes. He pats the animal roughly on the rump and the mule jolts forward, pulling the wheat bushels with a resigned glare. I look back at Hilda who is still working in the field, her arms coming up and down in one long graceful arc, and I think that she just might be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. There is a wisp of her hair that has come loose and she is coated in a light sheen of sweat.
My dog, a scruffy mutt named Samwise, waits faithfully for me at the edge of our field. I give her a quick scratch behind the ears as I pass her, and she pants in appreciation. She is a good dog; uncomplicated and true.
Father gives me a nod and we start for home–a small berm dwelling that we share. It is a half-mile walk down a gentle slope of a field. Samwise trots beside me, keeping to my pace. I love this time of day, though I find myself missing the Crane People fiercely. Something about them comforts me, like all will be well if they are nearby.
At home, Father works at unhitching the mule and guides her to the barn with a fresh bunch of hay. I bring the bushels of wheat into our shed by the armful, dumping them into a pile that grows larger with each day that passes. Later, we share a simple meal of cornbread and beans, one lone candle flickering between us. The food disappears quickly, and we both sop up what is left with the crumbs of our cornbread. My father lingers at the table after he’s done, tracing the wood grain.
“So,” he says, “another day.”
The edges of his voice are barbed. We have worked in companionable silence today and I want to avoid an argument. I sit silent, but poised.
“You like the work, do you?” he asks, when I don’t answer. I know better than to respond.
He pushes back his chair roughly and brings his chipped plate to the bucket set aside for dishes to be washed.
“Should I read to you?” I ask.
His eyesight has gotten worse from the candlelight. Samwise is curled up on a pile of quilts in front of our low bookcase, shelves bending under the weight of the medical journals and novels. There is work to be done, but it is a peace offering to try to calm his mood.
“More bullshit propaganda about saving the world, I suppose?”
It hasn’t been easy for him, giving up his comforts. I remind myself that I was young when the Crane People came, young enough that bitterness did not take root with the loss of the old world. He was a doctor, and administering medicine is one of the many forgotten arts. There are no more hospitals, no ambulances. We are left to crude methods in the face of illness.
Still, when we moved to these fields to work alongside so many others of our kind, I could recognize the gift of more time even though the cost was great. I was grateful to be alive, and I still am. I am grateful to see the glimmer of a future for this planet.
“Only stories, Papa.”
He sighs, and I can feel the weight of the world in his exhale. Then he moves to the door, ducking low as he pushes it outward. I add my plate and fork to the bucket and bring it outside to the water pump. With a hard brick of soap and freezing cold water, I wash the dishes. My fingers are red with cold when I finish.
Then I go to the shed. It is messy work to winnow the berries from the wheat stalks, and will need to be done over and over before the berries are ground. I must try to do a little each night to keep up with the harvest.
Papa does not return until late, long after I have blown out the candles and tucked myself carefully under my quilts.
E.B. Sommer has been writing her whole life, but as with many writers she has only recently been willing to submit her work. She’s an insurance agent by trade and a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer, having served for 27 months in Rwanda. Her work has been featured in The Stygian Zine, Manawaker Flash Fiction Podcast, and In Another Time Magazine. She resides in Minnesota, where she lives with her family and their dog, Sam. She can be found at www.ebsommer.com.
Copyright © E.B. Sommer