Congratulations! Eilir signed, as eager hands unloaded. What a beautiful Queen Sheaf! Now we can get back to work on the palisade!
Bits of straw and grass and twigs flew in her direction; she giggled and held her buckler up in front of her face to protect herself from the mock attack before she turned the cart with a deft twitch of the reins and trotted off.
Juniper ambled over and raised the lid on the pottery container, full of Eternal Soup-but a considerably richer variety than spring's.
"Well, blessed be," she said. "Onions, carrots, peas, all still recognizable. Wild mushrooms. Turnips. Potatoes."
There were chunks of mutton, too, not yet boiled down to stock; she addressed them in a tone dripping with sympathy: "Blessed be-is that the G-L-L I see? Greetings, Goddamn Little Lamb! You've gone completely to pieces. I'm so sorry: actually, I'm sort of happy to see you like this!"
Everyone laughed at that; even Sam Aylward smiled, though it looked as if it hurt.
Goddamn Little Lamb was-had been, until day before yesterday-the stupidest of the ewes in the clan's painfully acquired little flock; which was saying something, since they'd discovered that the hardest part of raising sheep was keeping them from killing themselves. They might be near-as-no-matter brainless in every other respect, too stupid to walk through an open gate, but in self-immolation they showed boundless ingenuity.
GLL had come close to taking several inexperienced shepherds with her while she threw herself off high places, nearly hung herself on low-lying branch forks, tried to poison herself on unsuitable vegetation, and finally succeeded in drowning herself as she attempted to reach some floating weeds in the millpond, got bogged in the mud, and sank nearly out of sight. Eilir had gone in with a rope to pull the carcass out:
The good part in herding sheep was that you usually didn't have to slaughter them yourself; all you had to worry about was getting to the body before the coyotes did.
Besides the soup there were baskets of "Oh, smell that smell!" Chuck said, reaching in for the bread under the towel.
The loaves were round, mushroom-shaped as if they'd been raised and baked in flowerpots-mostly because Diana and Andy had found that clay flowerpots did make excellent containers for baking, and there were a lot of them available. The loaves had an eight-spoked pattern cut into their dark-brown tops; the sides and bottoms were honey-brown, with just the right hollow sound when flicked, and the coarse bread made from stone-ground flour was fresh enough that it steamed gently when torn open by eager fingers.
Every bit as good as they baked at MoonDance, Juniper thought happily. A bit crumbly -they were using soft white t winter wheat- but very, very tasty!
There was butter too, now that they'd gotten more milkers; creamy yellow butter in Tupperware containers, strong-tasting and rich-the mill turned a big barrel-churn as well as grindstones. The first cheeses were already curing in the damp chill of the springhouse beside it. Juniper anointed her chunk of loaf with a lavish hand, watching it melt into the coarse brown bread.
People settled down to concentrated munching; it seemed like a long time since this morning's oatmeal and fruit. Juniper felt an inner glow when she went back for a second bowl and realized that there was enough for everyone to eat until they were full, at an ordinary field supper rather than a special occasion.
That hadn't happened much until the last few weeks.
How many times did I get up from a meal with my stomach still clenching, and have to go right back to work? she thought. Far too many. Being that hungry hurts. Goddess Mother-of-All, Lord of the ripened grain, thank You for the gifts of Your bounty!
There was even a basket of fruit, Elberta peaches, their skins blushing red amid the deeper crimson of Bing cherries. She snaffled two of the peaches and a double handful of the cherries; most of the fruit crop was being dried and pressed into blocks or turned into jam or otherwise preserved, but they were so good fresh from the tree. The juice dripped from her chin onto her throat and breasts, but there was no point in being dainty; the bathhouse awaited anyway, and the harvesting crews got first turn.
Chuck looked over at her. "Got one of those deep-wisdom Celtic sayings to lay on us, your Ladyship?" he grinned.
She threw a peach pit back at him. "Indeed and I do. ' Nil aon tintean mar do thintean fein. "
"There's no hearth like your own hearth?" he said. "Hey, no fair, that's not relevant!"
"Close but no cigar," she said, waggling her eyebrows and leering. "This one sounds a lot like that, but it actually means: There's no sore ass like your own sore ass."
That got a universal, rueful chuckle. "Hey, what about a song?" Judy asked.
"Well, I'm not playing today," Juniper said, with a pang. "Not until my hands are in better shape." That brought groans of disappointment, and they sounded heartfelt.
It's different, in a world where all music has to be live, she thought. I'm good, but am I as good as everyone says, these days? Or is it just that there's no competition?
Although Chuck and a few others were gifted amateurs, come to that.
Surprisingly, Sam Aylward produced a wooden flute and began to pipe; Chuck grinned and started to tap a stone on the back of his scythe-blade for accompaniment; someone else beat a little tambourine-shaped hand drum they'd brought along this morning-songs were a lot more usual on the way to work than afterward.
She recognized the tune at once, cleared her throat and began, her strong alto ringing out in the slow, cadenced measure of the song's first verse:
"Let me tell the tale of my father's kin
For his blood runs through my veins No man's been born
Who could best John Barleycorn
For he's suffered many pains!"
Then a little faster:
"They've buried him well beneath the ground
And covered over his head
And these men from the West
Did solemnly attest
That John Barleycorn was dead!
John Barleycorn was dead!
But the warm spring rains
Came a'pouring down
And John Barleycorn arose-"
It was a very old tune, and popular:
"And upon that ground he stood without a sound
Until he began to grow!
And they've hired a man with a knife so sharp
For to cut him through the knees-"
More and more joined her, but then the voices jarred to a sudden halt.
A haunting huu-huu-huu from the west brought heads around; that was the alarm from the mounted sentries, blowing on horns donated by slaughtered cattle. Everyone felt uncomfortably exposed here; the valley floor was dead flat and the road net was still in good shape; with bicycles raiders could strike from anywhere. Horses were faster in a sprint, but men on bicycles could run horses to death over a day or two.
Aylward laid down his flute and rose as smoothly as if he hadn't spent the hours since dawn swinging a twenty-pound cradle scythe, usually with half a sheaf of wheat on it. He picked up his great yellow longbow and strung it the quick, dirty and dangerous medieval way-right foot between string and stave, the horn tip braced against the instep from behind the anklebone, hip against the riser, flex the body back and push the right arm forward and slide the cord up into the nock at the upper tip.
Juniper used the more conservative thigh-over-riser method for her lighter weapon, and then relaxed slightly at the next horn call.
All around her people paused as they reached for jacks and bucklers and spears and quivers.
Huu-huu-huu, huuuuu-huuuuu, repeated twice. Three short and two long meant friendly visitors, not attacking bandits, in the current code.
The sentry rode over the ditch and into the field from the western edge, raising Juniper's brows again; it was Cynthia Carson Mackenzie, with ends of blond hair leaking past the metal-and-leather cheekpieces of her bowl helmet. She was in jack and full fig-longbow and quiver across her back, buckler hooked over the scabbard of the shortsword at her belt, and spear in her right hand. That also held the reins of a second horse.