The Gleaning

Mary strode along the hard-packed cart trail that cut between the fields like a blade. The bulk of the harvest was already finished, the fields stripped of the green and gold quilts that had covered them all summer. Two late-blooming plots were yet untouched, but all the rest were bare.

Not empty, though. A handful of men, women, and children dressed in ragged clothes picked through the muddy fields, gleaning them with the village’s blessing. Most of the farmers from the village, with their granaries full and cellars packed to bursting, left more in the fields than they would have in leaner years. What remained wasn’t enough to build a life on, but it prevented starvation through the cold winter months when the wind howled off the mountains to the west, cutting through thick cloaks as if they were sheer silk.

Though she needed the food, her worn boots wouldn’t sink in the mud of the fields today. She opened her third eye as she neared the outer homes of the village, picking up Peter’s trail like a hunting dog on a scent. He always came on the sixth day of the week, traveling from house to house or setting up in the square to help any who approached. It was easier when he went from house to house, as he’d done earlier today. The entire village glowed with the evidence of his presence. Her takings today would be good. Maybe even enough, though she didn’t dare hope. Not after so long.

The first house Peter’s path crossed had been the site of a minor healing, a warm glow tinged yellow in her third eye’s sight. The vast majority of Peter’s mana had gone into the healing, but threads of pure mana lingered in the air, too few and too weak for Peter to spare a thought about, but more valuable to Mary than gold. Other fragments lingered, the mana from the man Peter healed and his family, too. Nothing but wisps, but she caught them all the same. She would waste nothing.

She extended her spirit as though she were already a mage preparing a spell. Only there’d be no more spells today. The mana soaked into her spirit, falling into her domain. She pulled it close and locked it into a spiritual construct she’d purchased from Peter almost a year ago. The construct burned like a bonfire, the energies within clamoring for release, but she closed the construct and allowed the reach of her spirit to recede. Her legs trembled, and she placed her hand against the wall to steady herself. Her breath grew ragged, and by the time she was done tonight, she’d be lucky if the strength remained to return to her hut across the river.

“Gleaning again?” a kindly voice asked.

Mary smiled at the sound of the elder’s voice. David’s best years were long behind him. If one believed the stories surrounding him (and Mary did) he’d been a soldier, a master architect, and advisor to the king. Mary knew him only as the old man who leaned on a cane that concealed a thin sword. He was the elder the village turned to whenever they sought wisdom, and he was the only man in town who greeted Mary with a smile instead of a scowl.

His question needed no answer, for every soul in town knew her purpose, no matter how she kept to the shadows between the homes. Mary, the woman devoted to magic but born with a weak spirit, so they said, barely able to produce enough mana to live, much less heal the sick and fertilize the crops. Mary, who refused to see reason no matter how many times the village tried to argue with her.

“I think it’s almost complete,” she said, whispering to him the way she’d once whispered to her sister under the covers. In the days before, when her spirit burned bright, in harmony with her family.

“And you’re still set on your plan?” The doubt in his voice was the only sign he didn’t believe, but that doubt cut like an axe. Even David, patient David, had no faith in her dream, and he’d known her since she was a child.

Not without reason. To cast any spell, one had to learn how to gather their mana, how to focus their life energies to work their will upon the world. By some accident of birth, or some cruel manipulation of fate (depending on her mood for the day), Mary lacked the ability. She’d begged Peter for an explanation and a cure, but he’d only shrugged and said that he did not know, that her problem was rare but not unheard of, and that no mage had yet uncovered a cure.

Only a year ago had she stumbled upon this chance discovery, which led to her desperate plan. Peter had agreed to craft the container, though his expression had been that of a healer afraid to deliver a terrible diagnosis. Word of her personal gleaning had spread, as all word does in a village, and they were kind enough to allow her what they viewed as her delusion, scampering about after Peter’s workings like a hungry dog hopeful for scraps. They’d stopped telling her to give up on her dream long ago, saying to one another loudly enough for Mary to hear, that there was no sense teaching a stone to reason.

Soon it would all be worth it. Every silent judgment, every shake of the head, and every muttered oath, every doubt would be dispelled when she stood before the mage’s council and performed the single spell that would gain her admittance into the hallowed halls of the academy. Then, her own dream complete, she would travel with Peter, healing villagers and blessing the fields, thanks for letting her collect mana among them for so long.

David looked up at the darkening sky. “Best you not be out too late today. Those clouds promise rain, and a considerable amount, I’d wager. I don’t want you getting caught in the storm.”

Mary thanked him for the concern and reassured him she’d be careful. David could smell a storm a day away, and she’d be a fool to ignore him. Peter had only visited a few more homes, though, and so she was certain she’d finish before the rains hit, and a good thing, too, with the late-season waters being as high as they were.

David went his way and she went hers, to glean whatever scraps of mana lingered after Peter’s castings. Each scrap was little more than a drop, but when it was done, the container Peter had fashioned for her was filled to the very brim, unable to accept another drop. Her heart pounded in her chest, and her fingers tingled at the thought of her dream becoming real. Enough mana to complete one major casting and thereby change her fortunes forever. No more cold gruel and stale bread. No more waking in the middle of the night as water found another hole in her decrepit roof. Her steps home that afternoon were light, as though her feet traversed the polished marble floors of the academy instead of the deeply rutted path that led her to her hut.

•

She woke to a clap of thunder that shook her bones. Still-weary eyes opened to a play of light and shadow cast upon her eastern wall. Lightning rolled across the bottom of low-hanging clouds, racing across the sky like a prisoner desperately seeking escape. Cold water streamed from the biggest hole in Mary’s roof, filling a dented pail. Mary squeezed her eyes shut and rolled over, pulling her covers over her head. Only they were too thin a protection to protect her from the distant shouts.

The notes of panic pulled Mary from the last vestiges of her slumber. She wrapped a tattered robe over her shoulders and peered through a hole in her shutters. Lightning turned night into day; the thunder a constant rumble that made it feel as though the ground was shaking. Rain poured straight down, landing heavy like arrows on the already-soaked ground. Puddles threatened to become streams and lakes, the farmland a new swamp in its birthing pains.

The shouts came from the direction of the fields, where pooling water reflected the lightning-filled sky above. That wasn’t right. Mary dug through memories hazy with sleep. The fields had been muddy today, but not underwater. More shouts pulled her gaze toward the dike. Men, women, and children were indistinguishable, reduced to muddy silhouettes as they labored. Some carried spades, others trowels, and still others rakes. Some used their bare hands, but all were throwing mud at the dike.

That was why the field was flooding, why they worked like slaves with their masters’ whips lashing their backs. The dike was failing. Her throat closed tightly. The river was close to the top of the embankment already. If the dike broke, field and village both would be swept away as the river reclaimed its ancient pathways.

At least she was safe on the other side of the river. Even if the worst came to pass, the dike would only break on that side, relieving any pressure on hers. Not to mention the danger in helping. If the dike broke, the farmers and villagers fighting hardest to save everyone would be the first to die. Better to stay here.

Another flash of lightning cracked the sky in two, and Mary swore. She was out her door and halfway to the bridge before she realized she’d left her cloak behind. Not that it mattered. The rain penetrated everything, and after she slipped the first time, she rose as muddy as the figures on the dike.

The bridge trembled with fear as she crossed, vibrating like a lute string plucked too hard. She slipped again as she climbed to the top of the embankment, the slick mud denying her ragged boots a toehold. On hands and knees she crawled to the top, then stood and hurried to the others. Her left ankle complained with every step, and she feared that come morning it would be swollen and nearly useless.

The trouble proved worse than she’d imagined from the safety of her hut. Leaks had sprung from near the base of the dike, and every attempt to plug them only shifted the enormous pressure of the river somewhere else. One glance was enough to know it wasn’t a matter of if the dike would fail, it was when.

The knowledge was in the farmers’ gazes, too, but still they fought. The village had little enough as it was, but come morning, they’d have nothing at all. If they remained here, they wouldn’t even have their lives.

“Run!” she shouted.

They didn’t hear her, and so she stumbled closer, the pain in her ankle burning brighter with every haphazard step.

She shouted again, and this time they looked at her, this beggar who had only ever taken from their village. As one, they turned back to their labors, annoyed at her interruption.

“Run or you’ll die! This dike can’t hold, no matter what you do.”

Some truths were obvious no matter who the messenger was; they only needed to be spoken to be heeded. Once she gave their fears voice, their labors slowly stopped. They didn’t run, unwilling to let go of the last of their hope.

“Hurry!” she gestured like a wild woman, and it was the last of the encouragement they needed. One turned and ran for the village, and the others followed shortly after.

Time to follow her own advice. Her ankle screamed with every step, but she shuffled away, the rain pounding her head, her back, and her shoulders like tiny fists shot from the sky. The bridge was close now.

Screams came from the village as farmers spread the news. The arguments would be sharp and violent. They’d just brought in the harvest, but they didn’t have time to save it. Tonight would wipe away everything, and they’d all become like her, begging simply to survive, hoping that somewhere they’d find another village that allowed the poor to glean from the fields. That fate would somehow be kind enough to reward them for their past generosity.

Unfortunately, the fates obeyed no master. They did as they wanted, and tonight the village would become the victim of their aimless rage.

They deserved better.

Mary stopped and studied the dike. Built before her family’s migration had carried her here as the smallest of children, it shaped the character of the village. The rich soil that provided the overflowing harvests came from the ancient riverbed, and though the fields were too small to bring enormous wealth to the village, they provided more than enough for those who called this area home.

It had never just been the soil, though. It was the blood and sweat, the years of effort and maintenance. The dike itself required constant upkeep, all of which the village had provided.

There was no reason she couldn’t heal what was breaking. Healing at this scale was a major weaving. Not complex, for healing and rejuvenation were as natural as death and decay. The weaving was little more than a nudge, an encouragement for nature to reverse the decay. All it required was a straightforward technique and a powerful amount of mana.

Like an archer training by drawing his bow back without an arrow, she’d practiced the technique without mana countless times. Her spirit could form the weaves even if she couldn’t power them. She pulled from the container Peter had gifted her, pouring the precious mana into the technique. Held in unnatural stasis for so long, it leaped at the opportunity.

The dike groaned as its weaknesses healed. There was nothing she could do about the water that had already rushed through, but no more would.

Mary held the weave, pouring more mana until she was certain the levee would stand. She grinned in the rain, sensing through her third eye the effect of her efforts. The cracks and holes closed and packed tight, and the embankment once again stood as solid as the day the village had finished building it. She barely noticed when the darkness rushed in from the edges of her vision and consumed her.

•

She awoke to sunlight and birdsong, and warmth spreading up from her leg. Peter’s friendly face smiled down at her. “Don’t move yet. Your ankle is still a mess.”

She lay back and stared at the ceiling, still dripping from last night’s rain. The events of the previous night came rushing back to her. “The dike?”

“It held, thanks to you, though no one in the village seems quite able to believe it.”

She closed her eyes as the warmth spread through her body. “I’m glad.” Her eyes shot open. “How did you know it was me?”

“You know better than anyone that weavings leave residues of mana. I sensed it as soon as I came close to the village.” His smile stretched. “Usually mana has something of a subtle signature. Trained mages can recognize the work of another if they’re familiar with it. You know what yours feels like?”

“What?”

“Like this entire village mixed together.”

His healing finished, and he removed his hand from her ankle, but the warmth lingered. “I’ll write to the academy to let them know what happened.” He shook his head before her hopes rose too high. “It won’t matter, not now. The council must witness the major spell personally, but I hope that when you go before them, the letter will reassure whatever doubts they might have.”

He stood up to leave. “Your ankle is fine now, though you could use a good meal. I’m sorry I can’t stay longer, but there are others who need my help.”

She stood, too, and tested her weight. Her ankle felt as good as ever. His eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?”

She shrugged. “It took me almost a year to fill it the last time. I should get started again.”