The crops are ruined.
The marauders demolished all that grew above the surface, and now worms and insects continue their mission below.
Still every day he comes, grading the soil between leathery fingers, searching for something, anything to mark his labours.
Today it’s a potato – large and unsullied. There’ll be no butter. For a moment’s gratification the witless savages slaughtered the cow that would have provided milk, butter and cheese throughout the famine to come.
He tucks the potato carefully inside his jerkin.
Elfreda will be pleased; she may even smile.
But she’ll probably never speak again.
I saw autumn, and thought of harvest. We harvested the first of our early potatoes this week – small, perfectly formed and practically flavour-less. 😦 Our small, perfectly formed hostess (see what I did there?) Rochelle leads the Friday Fictioneers out on this first day of the month. Thank you, Rochelle.