Rocalla's Saga: Arrival
4: The Citrona Fields

4: The Citrona Fields —

1054 Geipharalka 7

By the evening of the third day, the festival is winding down. The following day is dhunsyadhuida, a day that I meditate and pray while the rest of the city attends to their church services, visits their relatives, and rests from the labors of the week. Later that night, Dierdra and I sit in The Happy Pilgrim eating an evening meal of a thick and aromatic stew, prepared from a variety of beans and peas, occasional bits of meat, and a lot of potatoes. I had heard of potatoes, and sort of knew what they were. But I had never tasted them, as they are unknown in the Bhayanna Archipelago, except to those few who are wealthy enough to be able to import them. Here they are as common as fleas. I enjoy the potatoes immensely, which surprises Dierdra. The stew is delicious, even if it does contain some potent herbs that I am not used to.

“So, I don’t suppose you have found us any adventuring work yet,” Dierdra says.

“Um, no,” is all I can reply as I pull at the fabric of my dress where it lies covering my thighs.

Dierdra smiles kindly, “I really didn’t expect so, at least not yet. For now that’s okay, it’s grass season and it’s easy to earn some money. I suggest that you join me, as work will be much harder to replace once winter sets in.”

While in the back of my mind I know that I will have to replace some means of generating income within a month or two, I have not given it much serious thought since arriving. In response to my expressionless silence, Dierdra says, “That is, of course, if you don’t mind doing some manual labor.”

“No, of course I don’t mind,” I reply too quickly, fearful of offending Dierdra. Her wry little smile indicates that she is not convinced.

“Good, then meet me down here at dawn, and we’ll walk to the East Gate to join up with a field master. And bring a knife if you’ve got one, preferably a large one.”

She finishes up and retires to her room before I can ask any questions.

When I come down early the next morning, she is already waiting for me. If not for her face and hair, I may not have recognized her, as a brown skirt and matching hooded tunic extend down to her wrists and ankles. Dierdra’s smile greets me, framed by her shining earrings and the bits of bright red hair that escape from under her hood. Her only words are, “Let’s go.”

We travel west down the road from the inn, Dierdra’s skirt swishing around her feet. When we get to the city gate, there is already a crowd of a few dozen women and a third as many men gathered there. Three horse drawn wagons are approaching from the south.

“Did you bring a knife?” Dierdra asks.

I lift my dress enough to show her my gyaphla knife, which is strapped in a sheath along my right shin, handle downward, in the Teidhwar Zariinyeida fashion. She seems surprised to see that I carry a knife with a twenty-seven-centimeter blade.

“That will certainly do,” she says. Her tunic falls well below her hips; she pulls it aside to reveal the forty-centimeter blade of a machete hanging from her side in a leather sheath. Not only is her knife longer, it is also much heavier than mine. I would not be surprised if she could chop down a tree with the thing.

The first wagon arrives and the man riding next to the driver stands up and makes an announcement in Franhkallan. The crowd moves forward toward him, some raising their hands. He points to a dozen people, who go around and climb aboard. As the wagon departs, Dierdra says, “When the next cart pulls up and the field master makes his call for workers, take a step forward and raise your hand.”

Another wagon arrives, a similar sounding announcement is made, and we are chosen. Dierdra and I climb into the back with about nine others. We then begin a bumpy ride out of the city, in the gathering light of dawn.

Once we have safely traveled a dozen blocks or so, I quietly ask Dierdra for some more information. “Okay, Dierdra, what have I gotten myself into? What exactly is grass season?”

“The citrona grass is ready for harvest. We’ve been hired for the day to go out into the fields, cut bunches of citrona grass, and load them into the waiting wagons. The field master has offered one-and-a-half silver for a full day’s work, a fair wage.”

“And what is this grass used for?”

“An oil maker will distill the essential oil out of the grass.”

“What’s the oil used for?”

“It’s a critical ingredient in some potions and perfumes. Essential oils are one of North Plessia’s major exports.”

“Well, it seems like work that I can handle.”

“The grass is wiry and sharp, so be prepared,” Dierdra warns. “Just stick near me, so I can interpret any orders that the field master might give us.”

Close to an hour and a half later, we reach the fields. The wagon stops and after a few words from the field master, we get out and enter the field on the right. We are each given a large basket woven of reeds, with a long handle that allows us to carry it over our shoulder while keeping both hands free.

It is a cool early autumn morning, and the grass is still wet with dew. The area we are in is quite hilly, and the grass is a brilliant green in the morning sun. Growing to just above our knees, it waves gently in the morning breeze. We wade a few feet into the grass, then Dierdra pulls out her machete, I ready my gyaphla knife, and we set to work cutting grass.

As soon as we slice into the first bundle of citrona grass, a cloying lemony scent fills the air. After a few hours, my head is throbbing from the odor. We receive a call to get water (“Vaal!”) every hour or so. By the early afternoon, the air has stilled, and my back is sore from all of the bending.

“Nojchkal,” the field master cries out.

“That means it’s time for our lunch break,” Dierdra explains.

“Thanks be to the Creator,” I say.

“Rocalla, I brought us both some lunch from the inn; here’s yours.” She hands me a hunk of bread and a pasty mix of fruits and lentils, all wrapped in a large leaf. “It’s bread and dwartlun. Don’t eat the leaf.”

“Thanks for thinking of me. How much do I owe you?”

“Lunch is on me today. My contribution to your understanding of Mandelbroggen’s cuisine.”

The bread is rather dry, but the dwartlun is flavorful. I had not realized how hungry I am.

After lunch we continue our labor in the fields. The sun is high now, and the still air above the grass is hot and heavy. My head is swimming, and after a short time, my labor with the knife is automatic, disconnected from my thoughts.

“Rocalla. Rocalla, stop and get some water.”

I look up and blink a few times in the bright sun. Everyone else is gathering by the water carrier, all except for Dierdra, who is calling me.

“Sorry,” I murmur as I pass close by her. “The heat is affecting me, I think.”

“It’s getting late in the afternoon; it will start to cool off soon.”

I say nothing, but enjoy the cool drink of water as it passes my lips.

Dierdra is right, it starts to cool off shortly after that. We continue to work until near sundown. Then the field master calls, and we return our baskets and climb into the wagon for the ride back into the city.

By the time we get back to the East Gate, it is dark. We all reek of sweat and the lemony smell of the citrona grass. Every bump of the wagon wheels on the uneven streets reminds me of the intense soreness in my back and shoulders. When the wagon draws up to a halt, I can barely climb out of it.

The field master stands at the rear of the wagon and gives us our day’s wages as we depart. He addresses Dierdra and me as we accept our coins; Dierdra replies for both of us.

As we stumble back to The Happy Pilgrim, Dierdra tells me, “The field master said that we were good workers. He will look for us tomorrow; if we are at the East Gate, we’re hired.”

We enter the inn and eat a quick meal, then retire to our rooms. Despite a thorough washing of my hair and body, I cannot escape the odor of rancid lemons. My hands are covered with fine cuts from the sharp grass; they sting from the soap and water that I use to wash my hair.

Despite my soreness, I arise early the next morning before dawn. I quickly dress and go down to meet Dierdra. When I do not see her, I go over and get a mug of tea, some bread and cheese for breakfast, and two wrapped portions of bread and dwartlun for our lunches. Dierdra comes down from her room as it is being delivered.

“Do you want some breakfast?” I ask.

“Just a mug of tea and some hot cereal. We should eat and get going.”

I gulp down my breakfast and drink my tea. We are on our way within five minutes. Hurrying down the road to the East Gate, we arrive just as the wagon carrying our field master pulls up. As promised, we are chosen. I try to get some more rest on the trip out to the fields.

The weather today is cooler and overcast, as we set to work in the heavy, still air. Early in the day, the cooler weather is a pleasure to work in, and the morning passes before I realize it. After our lunch, however, it has warmed up enough that swarms of insects appear. Their incessant buzzing fills the air, and they gather in clouds around our heads. The humidity, insects, still air, and overcast skies combine to make the conditions in the fields unbearable. Working as well as we are able to, the hours creep by. By the end of the day, my clothes are soaked with sweat and my face and neck are covered with welts. It is a pleasure to return to the inn, rinse off my sore body, and sleep.

As I work in the fields day after day, I do notice one thing that makes me happy. No one spits or sneers at me because of my tattoo. Everyone is treated equally; the hate, loathing, and prejudice are less evident out here. Perhaps that is because we are all considered outcasts and this is our rightful place, suffering under the sun under tough conditions, cutting the wiry grass as it cuts us. I wonder why we are paid a decent wage. When I ask Dierdra, she says that it is done out of charity; many of our fellow workers are widows or abandoned wives. Most men will not labor amongst us, because of the stigma that is attached to this job. In fact, Dierdra says that “grass cutter” is a pejorative term used to describe a person of low worth.

I do not mind. The lack of visible loathing of my own person by those that I share the field with is welcome. Dierdra and I continue to labor cutting the citrona grass throughout the harvest season, which lasts five weeks. There is no time to do anything except work and sleep during the six days a week that we cut the aromatic grass. No one harvests on dhunsyadhuida, and I use my dhunsyadhuidar to wash my clothes, write in my journal, pray and meditate, and above all, rest. The first of those dhunsyadhuidar is the worst for me, as it is the anniversary of my birth and I feel profoundly lonely. After finishing my chores and reciting my prayers, I lie listlessly on my bed, not even wanting to go down to eat. As the sky grows dark, a knock comes on my door and Dierdra asks to see me. When she notices my depressed state, she does her best to comfort me.

“If I had known that it was going to be your birthday, I would have bought you a pastry from the bakeshop,” she says.

“Do you want to make me fat?” I ask.

“No, I want to make you happy,” she replies. “Come downstairs and get something to eat. We’ll at least have a bit of wine with our dinner.”

Dierdra manages to cheer me up and we end up going to bed late, after a long talk about our place in the world. Getting up the next morning to cut grass is a challenge.

The work continues through the following weeks. Occasionally, when I have the energy, I visit Mariyiybha. She shares the wealth of knowledge that she gained on her trip north to Mandelbroggen, especially while passing through the area of the Rhozzhani tribes to the south. We discuss the Duradhian culture, the geography of the high arid plateau the Rhozzhan inhabit, and the coastal mountain range that separates them from North Plessia. Mariyiybha talks about languages, food, and Mandelbroggen as well. Yet despite all of our conversations, she never elaborates on her cryptic advice from that first day that I met her.

It is during our third week in the fields that a new worker appears. While some people have come and gone throughout our time harvesting citrona grass, I am sure that I would have noticed this man before, if he had been there. Above average in height, he is taller than me anyway, although shorter than Dierdra. He has short black hair, brown eyes, and a deeply bronzed complexion. Most of all, his broad shoulders and massively muscular build set him apart from the others; he looks out of place amongst the common laborers in the field.

I keep to my work during that morning, although when I occasionally stand up to stretch and look around, I sometimes notice him hacking away at the grass as if it is a mortal enemy. The broad, sweeping strokes of his machete send blades of green flying. After clearing a small area in this manner, he carefully collects his harvest into a basket and carries it to a waiting wagon.

When the call to lunch comes, Dierdra and I sit together and eat our usual bread and dwartlun. Most of the others gather in groups of two or three, but the newcomer keeps far apart from the rest of us. I decide that it is time to overcome my shyness and fear and start exploring the people around me. As I finish my meal, I walk over to introduce myself, hoping that he can speak Gallish.

“It is a good day to cut grass,” I venture in Gallish, “not as warm or humid as it was last week.”

He looks up briefly from his bread and what looks like a chunk of dried meat. I wonder whether he understands me, as he continues to eat his lunch. Just before I turn to go, he stops chewing for a moment and says, “You’re not from around here; your Gallish is clearer, and your accent is different.”

“I’m a Teidhwa Zariinyeida, from the Bhayanna Archipelago,” I say.

“So why is a Teidhwa Zariinyeida standing here in a North Plessian grass field talking to me about the weather?”

I stand there frozen like a rabbit, unable to come up with an answer and wondering whether I should quickly excuse myself. Desperately, I pull at the fabric of my dress. But then I regain my composure, allow the redness to fade from my cheeks, and reply. “I was just hoping to introduce myself, and perhaps learn something about you. I’m new to the area, and I don’t know many people yet.”

“Around here, it’s not customary for women to introduce themselves.”

“Well, where I’m from, it is. I am pleased to come into your presence. My name is Rocalla Rastama.”

His chestnut brown eyes look straight into mine. “I’m Clavius Valerian.”

“You’re a Pyrusian then. A settler perhaps?”

He snorts a quick laugh. “I suppose I am now.”

“What were you before?”

“An imperial guard in the army.”

“So what is a former imperial guardsman doing cutting citrona grass?”

“I need some money. Which I imagine is the reason why you’re here as well.”

“It is,” I say. Lunch is over, and people are dispersing out into the fields again. “What will you do when the harvest is over?” I ask.

“Odd jobs, whatever I can replace,” Clavius says.

“And if I were to have a job, where would I replace you?”

He regards me with a quizzical look on his face, hesitating before answering. “For someone who hasn’t been here long, you certainly ask a lot of questions.” He gets up, brushes his hands off, and picks up his machete. “I’ve been staying at The Warrior’s Den,” he says, then moves off into the fields.

I set off in a different direction, toward where I had been working before. Dierdra works her way over close enough so that she can talk to me as she harvests grass. “So who is the new guy?” she asks.

“Clavius Valerian, a former imperial guard.”

“That explains why he keeps to himself. Pyrusians are not terribly popular with the locals. Even if they aren’t soldiers anymore.”

“I suppose that is true. But I’m not overly popular either it seems, and he looked like someone who might speak Gallish.”

Dierdra gives a short laugh. “I don’t suppose that you noticed his muscular body then.”

“He looks to be capable of handling himself in a rough situation. You never know when you might need someone like that.”

“It is not that you found him attractive or anything? Whatever you say, Rocalla.”

“So that is what you think? That he is handsome and desirable?” I ask.

“No, definitely not my type,” she replies as she tosses her hair, and concentrates on the grass once more.

During the rest of the week, I speak to Clavius several times. He never says much, and when he does speak, his answers seem guarded. Although he is difficult to decipher, it is nice to know at least one other person in Mandelbroggen by name.