Fri 15 Apr 2011
The elders claim life is better now.
Since the ascension of the young dukes, the landholders no longer carry swords, and we are no longer obliged to kneel in their presence. Taxes have been lowered; we can keep more of our grain, our olives, our limes. Obligatory civic work days have been decreased to five per month. Smile, the elders say. Raise up your heads. The sun has emerged after long, long years of rain.
Raise up your heads. That is the way they speak, on warm nights when work is over, and dinner has been plentiful, and a wineskin is moving from hand to hand. They laugh, and boast, so proud of themselves for having survived to old age. But let a landholder walk through the square, or ride to the fields to inspect the crops, or make an appearance at a wedding or a festival, jovial and swordless, and the elders duck their heads and mumble, the same as the rest of us.
You see? the Younger Son-in-Law says. They themselves do not believe that all is well.
The Younger Son-in-Law knows I do not like him. He has a hairy face, and he has been the Middle Daughter’s husband for more than three years, and still there is no child. Plus I never did get along with his mother. But who else will offer him a bit of comfort when he wakes from a nightmare, sweating and shaking? Not the Middle Daughter, with her sharp tongue and sour heart. So some nights he and I sit together in the cookshed. I spin, and he tends the tiny fire, so we each have a reason not to look at the other, as he tells me his bad dreams.