5 – 2

Yearning.

I have a name for it now. Finally and at last, a name. With barrow and bar I return to the demolition of what remains of the charred, sodden house that had so fully occupied my morning. With the last of the roof shingles broken and carried off, my attentions turn to what's left; pieces of the walls and frame, left somehow and somewhat intact by the flame and the flood. The reward for that tenacity is me, with a crowbar swishing thoughtfully through the air at my side. I'll start at the corners, where the pieces meet, and separate them. They'll be easier to bring down one at a time.

They don't mean to give up without a fight; creaking, groaning, and wobbling as I wrestle them apart. I welcome the exertion, the rough ache in my hands and the burn across the breadth of the muscles in my back. It's helpful for me, in sorting out what I think about how I feel.

Why hadn't Mother spoken to me of the yearning one can carry for another? Sixteen years I learned from her, drank in her every word and did all I could to make her proud, and she never spoke a word of it. There was nothing about how it takes rational thought and upends it, making the wildest of assumptions seem reasonable and the simplest of words near-impossible to speak. Not a word passed her lips of that sweet, heated ache that nestles in the heart when thoughts of Clarke cross my mind. Of the dreams that, on waking, leave behind nothing but a languid sprawl of loose limbs and lazy smiles, she said nothing. Why, of all the lessons she gave me, did this not number among them?

Was it me? Had I done something wrong, something to prove myself unworthy, and not known it? Wood splinters beneath the crowbar's narrow, prying edge and I stagger to the side as a thick chunk of arm's-length wood falls to the ground. I had done my best to be a good and dutiful daughter, to learn everything she had to teach, even sneaking away to practice the komo'ka when I wasn't supposed to. Maybe it hadn't been enough. Maybe all those arguments with Tals and Djan, all the times I argued with her or Father, had proven my unworthiness to her.

With a grunt of effort, I drive the prying edge into that thin seam where wall and frame join, plant my feet, set my jaw, and pull. No, that can't be it. Mother isn't the kind of woman to give her children unspoken tests of character and withold important things from them if they fail. Bronwyn Alderwood is that kind of woman, and her son has my sympathies, but Mother is not. There must be some other reason.

I should think she knows of the existence of yearning, given that I and my brothers exist, so it's impossible that she stayed quiet out of ignorance. Another chunk of wood comes free and falls. I set my heel against it and shove it aside, moving on. People pass by where I'm working, wheelbarrows with bellies emptied or filled rolling along in front of them. Some of them give greeting, whether a nod, a wave, or spoken word, and some don't, too tired or focused on the task at their hand. Evening will be here, sooner or later, and I should like to have this done and settled before then.

She could have said nothing because she saw nothing. After all, until I met Clarke, I'd never felt it before. Maybe she was waiting for me to show some sign to her that I was ready, so the lesson wouldn't fall on deafened ears. Cursed moonlight, I'm not even thinking about Clarke and it's still confusing!

I pry a third piece out and set to breaking them down, pinning them beneath my foot and shattering them with hard, striking jabs from the crowbar's narrow edge. The rattling impact jars up my arms as the metal bites deep into the wood. I wiggle the bar to-and-fro to widen the hole, before repeating the process. Three times I have to strike it, before a piece breaks off on the fourth. Into the barrow's empty, metal belly it goes, and I take a moment there to wipe the sweat from my brow and the back of my neck. My hair is coming loose from its tie, and I fix that too.

It's all Clarke's fault, really. She has no business being that appealing, with the open-sky blue of her eyes and the sheen of her ink-dark spill of hair in the autumn sun. Worse is her smile, the way her lips curve just so, and how she laughs. The sound of her voice, clear like a snowmelt-stream, is plain unfair. How am I supposed to not make a fool of myself when faced with that?

As if that weren't more than enough, she is also kind. What other word applies to accepting the outstretched hand of a dirty, bare-footed vagabond and joining them in a dance? The way her own joy surprised her, how it overtook her reluctant obliging, is a memory I hope to carry for a long, long time. The smile on my face is a silly one, a smitten one, as I go back to breaking wood. Another piece goes beneath my heel and the narrow edge of the crowbar, then its pieces into the barrow to join its kin.

There's her temper, as well. I move on to the frame itself, what gnarled, blackened pieces of it still standing upright. This will be easier, I think. One strike, and they'll fall apart. I take up the bar in both hands and prove myself right. The metal punches clean through the timber, which falls to the ground with a dull, damp, thud. I remember the frost that had curled on her tongue when she spoke to the Alderwood woman. My station is mine to dictate, my time mine to spend. The chill of it sends a shiver down my spine, even in memory. Wouldn't it be utterly horrid if she had to do it again?

Not too long now, and I'll be done here. Could be an hour or two, three at most, if no one comes by to help. Things are starting to line up and fall into place. By the time evening comes around, and dinner along with it, this should be well on its way to done and settled. Not quite in hand, I don't think, but in grasp, which should do for now.

Or, so I hope.

- - -

Agnes had put herself in charge of providing dinner the night before I was well enough to leave my bed. She really ought to have been resting, but it seems that no one had been brave or mad enough to tell her that. Edith didn't even try, I know that for certain. Clarke would have, if her hands weren't full of the most injured and ill of them all. She also had Harlan to deal with, and I know he didn't make that easy. She'd carry such concern and frustration into the dreams we three would share that I knew the source of it without her ever having to name him.

She looks better this evening. She's still wracked by the occasional fit of harsh, scouring coughs, and there's still an unpleasantly gray pallor to her skin, but at least the cane is gone. She leaned so heavily on it the first day I saw her, come to visit me as I lay near-insensate in bed. Her breathing had been short and shallow, sweat from the effort of climbing the stairs dotting her brow. Her voice hadn't been so strong then, but had a fragile waver to it that made me fear for her. It's a fear that's diminished, instead of gone away.

Now, she stands at a stew pot of great size. I'm fairly certain she or Edith could bathe in it, if they so chose. Wisps of steam rise from the bubbling surface of the soup, along with a slight scent of onion. On a table next to the pot are piles of wooden bowls, stacked without caution higher than they probably ought to be. Mugs filled with dozens of spoons make the shrubbery of that tilting, haphazard forest. On the pot's other side, allowed with what I'm certain is a great and begrudging reluctance, Mrs. Mallory Knott wields a long, serrated knife in her battle to provide the thickest, most perfectly angular cuts of bread that she can muster.

There's a grumble of stomachs and conversation as I wait in line. Most of the talk is about the day's work; what had been fully destroyed, what still needed hauling away, and where the reconstruction was ready to begin. It still strikes me as strange that, in order to begin rebuilding something, the destroying of it must first be complete. The line advances quickly under the keen, canny supervision of a woman with decades of experience handling people at their worst. How do hungry people compare, I wonder, to drunk ones?

“Here,” a man in front of me says, nudging a gentle elbow into his companion's side. He leans in, a kind glee in his eyes. “you heard they've got it all sussed out?”

“What's this?” the other man asks, in a doubtful, indulgent manner. Perhaps his friend is a gossip, happy to be first to divulge what's new under the sun.

“The start of it all,” The gossip answers. He waves his hands around him. “They've got it all laid out.”

The doubter rolls his eyes, then gauges the distance to the soup pot. “Go on, then.”

It's here that the gossip leans in and lowers his voice. That glee in his eyes is now in the stretch of his mouth, a wide smile shaping his quietened words. “A lamp!” The doubter leans back, brows rising. The gossip lifts his hands, delighting in his role. “Swear by sunlight, it's true.”

The doubter grunts. “How's it a lamp does,” He waves his hands around him, copying his companion's gesture. “all of this, then?”

With a shrug, the gossip feigns a lack of surety. “Fell of its little hook in the warehouse, they say. Got its oil spilt everywhere, lit wick did the rest.”

Let nothing be assumed. The words drift up from memory's depths. The line moves forward. The doubter's brow lowers as he deliberates, weighing his companion's words in silence. The gossip waits, certain he'll be believed. I see it in every line of his face. “Cursed moonlight,” the doubter says, shaking his head, “A little lamp?”

“A little lamp,” the gossip echoes in clear delight. His smile is morbid, the stewpot close. “How about that, hm?”

It's their turn at the pot. One after the other, they take their food and their conversation elsewhere, leaving me behind with the echo of words that were last heard in a dream. Words that I had forgotten, or allowed myself to forget, in the wake of what followed waking up. Let nothing be assumed, the elk had told, standing as a man when he did. Is it a warning? A command?

Am I meant to go off and see for myself? Agnes gives me my bowl with a touch to my arm and a brief, short smile. It's as much a kindness as she'll show in public. Mrs. Knott gives me bread and a reminder to call her Mallory. I smile and thank her, then go on my way. What I have are words from a dream and a doubt that so great a flame can be born from so small a spark. What, if anything at all, am I meant to do with that?