“I wish it would rain already!” cried Elfswith, straightening up with the pitchfork in her hand to set her fist against her hip and frown at the sky.
“Why is that?” The flaxen-haired woman beside her chuckled affably as she ran a comb through the grooming brush that was used for the stable horses. Loose tufts of hair fluttered out into the street, caught on the sluggish, warm breeze.
“Feel how heavy the air is,” replied Elfswith, her time-worn face scrunching as she glared skyward once more and then returned her attention to the manure-scattered straw. “It gets so close you can hardly breathe. Nothing to do but wait for the storm to decide its ready to have mercy on us.”
Brynleigh glanced at the older woman, then turned and peered over her shoulder. The sky was a peculiar shade of whitish-grey above the ancient trees lining the street behind them. In the distance, a low rumble of thunder growled behind the mountains. As if the earth had heard Elfswith’s complaint, a bluster of wind skipped over the high stone wall and hissed through the trees, kicking up bits of dust along the lane. “I think you will get your wish, Elfswith.”
“Well, let’s finish these chores before we get drenched, then!”
The scrape of the pitchfork’s tines was heard, but Brynleigh continued to watch the sky. Something in the timbre of the wind’s mournful voice made her gut tense. She looked again to the trees overhead, as they tossed their green heads; a primal dance, beckoning for the rain to come closer and water them.
“Brynleigh! Get your head back down on the ground and help me, girl.” The silver-haired Elfswith cast a good-natured smile despite her sharp words, and never once did her sturdy arms stop scooping the manure into the waiting barrow.
“Forgive me, Elfswith,” murmured her young partner, hurriedly replacing the brush and comb on their respective hooks. She moved to grab the handles of the barrow. In the nearby stalls, the horses began to snort and stomp, swishing their tails. “I think this storm will be a bad one.”
The older woman paused now to look out from the barn with puckered eyes, assessing the scene beyond. Soot-colored clouds were gathering to the south. Another peal of thunder sounded, though it was deep and foreboding; felt more than heard, a primal shudder of the earth under their feet. “Aye,” she conceded in a quiet voice, before turning back to scoop the last of the soiled straw. “Get yourself home quick after we take these out.”
“I will!” Brynleigh waited until the woman gave a nod and set the pitchfork aside with a tired sigh. A second barrow sat beside the first, already filled, and the older woman led the way by taking it and wheeling it out into the street.
“Béma have mercy! Listen to that thunder!” Elfswith laughed tightly as they moved along the street in single-file. The sharp rumblings were coming more quickly now, one after another, spreading over the sky like an unseen veil. To keep the mood light, she swiftly turned to another topic. “So where is your admirer today? I’m surprised he isn’t standing by with a cloak to shield you from the rain.”
“Oh, really now, Elfswith!” Brynleigh snapped back, though her tone was soft. “He has better things to do. More important things.” As the city gate loomed ahead, the street grew quiet and empty. House doors were slammed shut, windows snapped closed, children called inside. She could smell it now. The rain. Her eyes flicked up to the lowering clouds overhead.
“Have you told him yet?” grunted Elfswith, as they passed through the gate and hastened towards the manure-pen.
“...not yet.” Brynleigh muttered, setting her own wheelbarrow down with a sigh. The back of her knuckles was brushed across her sweat-slicked brow, while she cast another baleful look at the sky. “I almost did, last night. It was stupid to say anything at all. Of course, he would have brooded on it all night, poor soul.” A shovel plunged into the lumpy, brown mountain, and the chunks were tossed into the pen. “I’ll find him today, and...we’ll talk.”
Elfswith was already clucking her tongue and shaking her head. “Young folk. So hard to say what should just be spit out already. I’d scold you for torturing him like that, but if you go and finish the business like you say you will…” She paused and turned a look on Brynleigh, and her pale blue eyes softened. The wind kicked past in a fresh gust, whipping the silver-blonde strands about her lined cheeks. “I know you wouldn’t intend to hurt him. So don’t.” These last two words were spoken firmly.
Already flushed from their labors, Brynleigh’s cheeks hid the heat of embarrassment that she felt beneath the woman’s chiding. She nodded mutely, steadily shoveling the manure, grunting under her breath with each scoop.
“What about your parents?” Elfswith asked, straightening her back and propping her shovel against the earth. Somehow, the older woman was already finished with her load, and Brynleigh could not help feeling a pang of admiration for the strength that she possessed in her age.
“What about them?” replied Brynleigh, avoiding Elfswith’s gaze, while a hammering of thunder broke overhead and nearly drowned out her voice.
A brief silence followed. The disapproval was palpable.
“You remember the story I told you, Brynleigh? About my father?” Elfswith set her shovel aside and took the empty barrow by its handles, ready to return to the stable.
“...aye.” Her young companion answered reluctantly as she tossed the last bit of refuse into the pen. No sooner had she done so than she felt a drop of something warm and wet upon the back of her hand.
“You see them before you go.” It was not a request, but a command. Spoken with love, but nonetheless unwavering in its firmness. “Come, it’s beginning to rain.” Elfswith did not wait for a reply, but was already hurrying back through the city gate.
Brynleigh stood still, immobilized by her own thoughts. She could see Elfswith moving away from her, growing smaller by the second. She heard the thunder crackling in the clouds that seemed far too close for comfort, as if she could extend a hand upwards and touch them. The two guards at the gate were staring at her, waiting for her to move, to flee the oncoming downpour.
Something at last disturbed the surface of her pensive pool, though even she would not have been able to name what it was. She blinked, sucked in a sharp breath, grabbed the last barrow, and hastened back into Snowbourn.
