A Wind in the Door [Part 4 ; (1/2)]
anonymous
January 18 2010, 19:23:02 UTC
[ R U S S I A ] Circa 1603 ; during the Time of Troubles
The bodies were piled high in the big grave outside the village, too many too count. The young men began to cover the blank, wasted faces and forms of their loved ones over with dirt, their faces set into hard lines and their eyes cold. Their task took less time than one might have expected, given that two thirds of the able-bodied men, those usually in charge of these burials, were themselves lying in the grave.
Eventually, the faces were covered behind layers of dirt, and the boys set down their shovels. Some’s shoulders shook with repressed sobs, and others looked ready to faint from hunger. Eventually, they turned to one another and nodded, finally starting for home.
Misha entered his small home with a heavy sigh. Last year, when he came home from days working out in the fields, his four little sisters ran to meet him in the doorway. Anya would cling to his leg, and Zoya would dance around him in a small circle. Tasha would hold up her doll and gaze up at him adoringly, while Lena would ask a million different questions about his day. Eventually, their small tangle would make its way into the main room, where Misha’s mother would great him with a smile and a kiss. But no more.
Five of the bodies in that grave belonged to Misha’s family. His mother had gone first, her aging body unable to live without the food she had willingly given up to feed her children. Anya, always sickly, went next. Lena took ill and lingered for weeks, but she eventually died on the same day as Tasha. Zoya was the last to go, but even she couldn’t live for more than a few weeks once the bread was gone. And that left only Misha.
He threw himself down on the bed of straw and coarse blankets that had served as bedding for his family for years. Instead of falling asleep, he buried his head in his hands and sobbed, hunger and grief wracking his body. His gray eyes were clenched shut, but he could still see them, holding out their hands and begging for food. But he, the man of the house, had been unable to provide it for them, and yet by some strange twist of fate, he was still there. Last week, the first new grain of the season had sprouted, and what was left of the village had rejoiced. But it was too late. Empty and waster, Misha fell into a restless sleep.
The next morning, Misha got up and made his way to the grain stores. Until the new crop came in-and they couldn’t be sure that it would-what little they had had to be guarded with the greatest scrutiny. Today was Misha’s shift, so he stood in front of the small hut, his arms crossed over his chest, leaning back on the balls of his feet so he wouldn’t collapse.
Times were desperate, but not nearly as bad as they had been only a little while ago, so Misha wasn’t quite expecting it when a small, dark shape darted past him into the hut. Still, despite his hunger, his instincts were still good, so he reached out and grabbed the intruder by the scuff of his tunic.
“The punishment for stealing grain is death!” He said, trying to sound authoritative though his voice squeaked. His captive, a young boy not eight or nine years old, squirmed in Misha’s grasp.
A Wind in the Door [Part 4 ; (2/2)]
anonymous
January 18 2010, 19:25:05 UTC
“Let go of me, or you’ll be sorry!” he said, his voice striking a high note with the last word. Pale, matted hair fell over his improbably violet eyes, and a pudgy, rose-bud mouth was hidden beneath his bulbous nose. “I mean it!”
“You can’t steal our grain!” Misha said, his voice spiking. How many times had he thought of stealing grain, to feed to his mother and sisters? How many times had he resisted that urge, knowing that one ounce of stolen grain could have spelled someone’s death? And now this child would dare commit the act without a second thought?
“But-I’m-hungry!” The boy cried out, kicking out at Misha. The elder boy dodged, still holding him by his shirt.
“No one cares! Everyone’s hungry! But if you steal that grain, people will die. And I won’t let you do that!” As though to underscore the point, Misha’s stomach let out an immense growl.
The boy stopped squirming for a moment, his brow furrowing as though he was thinking something over. “You’re…hungry, too?” he asked, his voice small. Misha nodded blandly. The boy sighed and threw his hands to the sky.
“Everyone is hungry,” he moaned, “and I don’t know how to help, anymore.” Large tears began pouring out of his icy purple eyes, and Misha suddenly felt a surge of sympathy for him.
“Hey, hey, it’s alright. Petya and Klava’s father said the worst is over-in a few weeks, it’ll be spring, and it looks like the grain will grow in right, this time.”
The boy wiped his eyes and glanced up at Misha. “Really?” He looked hopeful for a moment, then dubious. “You can’t be sure.”
“No, I can’t,” Misha agreed good-naturedly. “But if I don’t believe that, what have I got left to live for?”
The boy sighed and pulled at his cheeks in a nervous gesture. Misha let him go, and he immediately fell to his knees. He wore a well-used scarf around his neck, and he proceeded to use it to wipe the remaining tears off of his face.
“You’re not from this village, are you?” Misha asked. “I’d know you, if you were. Where’d you come from?”
The boy sniffled. “Moscow,” he mumbled. “But I’m not going back! My sisters are out here, somewhere, and they’re hungry. I have to take them some food.”
“Your…sisters?”
“Yes. What, you thought I would steal for myself?”
The was exactly what Misha had thought. He face turned pink with embarrassment. But something in the back of his mind told him that he couldn’t turn the boy away empty-handed. He went to the grain stores and measured out a cup-Misha’s family’s share for the week. He tied it into a worn burlap sack and returned to the boy, handing it over.
“What’s this?”
“Food,” Misha said, “for your sisters.”
“But, if I take this, someone will be hungry, like you said.”
“No, they won’t. There’s no one left to eat that, anymore.”
“Are you sure?”
Misha smiled and tousled the boy’s hair. “Of course I’m sure. Now get out of here before I yell ‘thief!’”
The boy grinned, and then raced off. Misha sat back down in the doorway, ignored the growling of his stomach, and smiled.
--- -- Russian famine of 1601-1603 was Russia's worst famine, killing perhaps a third of Russians during the Time of Troubles.
Circa 1603 ; during the Time of Troubles
The bodies were piled high in the big grave outside the village, too many too count. The young men began to cover the blank, wasted faces and forms of their loved ones over with dirt, their faces set into hard lines and their eyes cold. Their task took less time than one might have expected, given that two thirds of the able-bodied men, those usually in charge of these burials, were themselves lying in the grave.
Eventually, the faces were covered behind layers of dirt, and the boys set down their shovels. Some’s shoulders shook with repressed sobs, and others looked ready to faint from hunger. Eventually, they turned to one another and nodded, finally starting for home.
Misha entered his small home with a heavy sigh. Last year, when he came home from days working out in the fields, his four little sisters ran to meet him in the doorway. Anya would cling to his leg, and Zoya would dance around him in a small circle. Tasha would hold up her doll and gaze up at him adoringly, while Lena would ask a million different questions about his day. Eventually, their small tangle would make its way into the main room, where Misha’s mother would great him with a smile and a kiss. But no more.
Five of the bodies in that grave belonged to Misha’s family. His mother had gone first, her aging body unable to live without the food she had willingly given up to feed her children. Anya, always sickly, went next. Lena took ill and lingered for weeks, but she eventually died on the same day as Tasha. Zoya was the last to go, but even she couldn’t live for more than a few weeks once the bread was gone. And that left only Misha.
He threw himself down on the bed of straw and coarse blankets that had served as bedding for his family for years. Instead of falling asleep, he buried his head in his hands and sobbed, hunger and grief wracking his body. His gray eyes were clenched shut, but he could still see them, holding out their hands and begging for food. But he, the man of the house, had been unable to provide it for them, and yet by some strange twist of fate, he was still there. Last week, the first new grain of the season had sprouted, and what was left of the village had rejoiced. But it was too late. Empty and waster, Misha fell into a restless sleep.
The next morning, Misha got up and made his way to the grain stores. Until the new crop came in-and they couldn’t be sure that it would-what little they had had to be guarded with the greatest scrutiny. Today was Misha’s shift, so he stood in front of the small hut, his arms crossed over his chest, leaning back on the balls of his feet so he wouldn’t collapse.
Times were desperate, but not nearly as bad as they had been only a little while ago, so Misha wasn’t quite expecting it when a small, dark shape darted past him into the hut. Still, despite his hunger, his instincts were still good, so he reached out and grabbed the intruder by the scuff of his tunic.
“The punishment for stealing grain is death!” He said, trying to sound authoritative though his voice squeaked. His captive, a young boy not eight or nine years old, squirmed in Misha’s grasp.
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“You can’t steal our grain!” Misha said, his voice spiking. How many times had he thought of stealing grain, to feed to his mother and sisters? How many times had he resisted that urge, knowing that one ounce of stolen grain could have spelled someone’s death? And now this child would dare commit the act without a second thought?
“But-I’m-hungry!” The boy cried out, kicking out at Misha. The elder boy dodged, still holding him by his shirt.
“No one cares! Everyone’s hungry! But if you steal that grain, people will die. And I won’t let you do that!” As though to underscore the point, Misha’s stomach let out an immense growl.
The boy stopped squirming for a moment, his brow furrowing as though he was thinking something over. “You’re…hungry, too?” he asked, his voice small. Misha nodded blandly. The boy sighed and threw his hands to the sky.
“Everyone is hungry,” he moaned, “and I don’t know how to help, anymore.” Large tears began pouring out of his icy purple eyes, and Misha suddenly felt a surge of sympathy for him.
“Hey, hey, it’s alright. Petya and Klava’s father said the worst is over-in a few weeks, it’ll be spring, and it looks like the grain will grow in right, this time.”
The boy wiped his eyes and glanced up at Misha. “Really?” He looked hopeful for a moment, then dubious. “You can’t be sure.”
“No, I can’t,” Misha agreed good-naturedly. “But if I don’t believe that, what have I got left to live for?”
The boy sighed and pulled at his cheeks in a nervous gesture. Misha let him go, and he immediately fell to his knees. He wore a well-used scarf around his neck, and he proceeded to use it to wipe the remaining tears off of his face.
“You’re not from this village, are you?” Misha asked. “I’d know you, if you were. Where’d you come from?”
The boy sniffled. “Moscow,” he mumbled. “But I’m not going back! My sisters are out here, somewhere, and they’re hungry. I have to take them some food.”
“Your…sisters?”
“Yes. What, you thought I would steal for myself?”
The was exactly what Misha had thought. He face turned pink with embarrassment. But something in the back of his mind told him that he couldn’t turn the boy away empty-handed. He went to the grain stores and measured out a cup-Misha’s family’s share for the week. He tied it into a worn burlap sack and returned to the boy, handing it over.
“What’s this?”
“Food,” Misha said, “for your sisters.”
“But, if I take this, someone will be hungry, like you said.”
“No, they won’t. There’s no one left to eat that, anymore.”
“Are you sure?”
Misha smiled and tousled the boy’s hair. “Of course I’m sure. Now get out of here before I yell ‘thief!’”
The boy grinned, and then raced off. Misha sat back down in the doorway, ignored the growling of his stomach, and smiled.
---
-- Russian famine of 1601-1603 was Russia's worst famine, killing perhaps a third of Russians during the Time of Troubles.
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Oh Misha, oh Russia.
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