“The land is not fit for sowing,” said Tarin, his hands on his hips as he looked over the field with an expression of distaste. “I have not harrowed it in years. Hundreds of rocks in the soil, I’m sure. So. Strap the harrow on your back, since we do not have a proper ox, and you, as we already know, are my ass. Collect all the rocks and pile them up on the left side of the field.”
Voran laughed. Tarin’s face frosted over, turning white as his eyes grew larger. He drew his sword.
Voran stopped laughing.
“Raven Son,” said Tarin calmly. “It would be wise for you to consider even the most ridiculous things that I say as indispensable. May my words be sacred scripture for you.”
He turned back to his hut. “Oh, one more thing. You are never to enter my palace without abasing yourself before it, face to the ground, and saying in a loud voice, ‘I, who am wretched, beg leave to enter.’ Those words, please, slave. You may not rest or enter your own rooms without my permission.
As Tarin turned, Voran tried his best to burn Tarin to the ground with his eyes. But nothing happened.
The sun had crested by the time Voran began. The harrow was old, and its teeth were worn down. Sometimes it didn’t pick up stones at all, just nudged them for a few feet, then gave up with a groan. Voran had to work every inch of the field with his hands, digging into the sandy soil until his fingers hit stone, then digging them out, then repeating it all again.
Soon he gave up the harrow entirely, and just crawled up and down the field, digging up stones.
The sweat poured down him and his chest burned from the inside. Worse than the fatigue was the mind-numbing boredom that accompanied such work. He imagined all the different ways he would make Tarin suffer. Soon his irritation extended to stones, trees, shacks, everything. All his thoughts became a long drawn-out grumble.
After digging up all the stones, he carried them to the left side of the field. Some of the stones were almost as large as he was. These he could not raise, but only push inch by inch to the edge of the field. Voran soon realized that he had lost much more strength than he had thought. Maybe Tarin was right. Maybe a stick-thin former warrior with no endurance wasn’t the best choice to find the Living Water.
As he placed the last stone on the pile—now taller than he was—he sat on the earth and closed his eyes. A thought flitted through his mind: Tarin told him he could not rest without permission.
“AAAAAASSSSSSSSS!”
Too late.
“Raven Son, you blithering idiot! Why did you put the stones on that side of the field? I expressly told you to put them on the right side of the field.”
He stood with one arm cocked on his hips, like an irritated mother.
“But…you said…”
Tarin shushed him.
“Did anyone give the idiot leave to speak?” He addressed the shacks directly, then cupped his hands to his ears, as if listening for their response. “No? I didn’t think so. Go, fool. Carry the stones across to the other side.”
“But Tarin…”
“Don’t dare to call me by my name. What? Don’t you have an ounce of shame? I am your lord, so call me so. Now take the stones away, and put them in their proper place. You’ll never finish at this pace.”
Voran sized Tarin up, thinking it was time to teach the old man a lesson. Tarin merely laughed.
“You don’t want to try it, boy. Believe me.”
For the next few hours, Voran carried all the stones to the other side of the field.
The next day, Tarin told Voran to return the stones back to the left side. The day after that, he told Voran to put the stones back in the soil.
“What?” said Voran, his fists balling up of their own accord.
“You heard me,” said Tarin, as calmly as a corpse.
The day after that, Tarin told Voran to dig the stones up again and pile them up on the left side of the field.
“The left?” asked Voran. “You’re sure?”
Tarin grinned at him stupidly and crowed.
Voran dug up the stones and piled them up again. Without even realizing it, he fell asleep while placing the last rock on the heap, still standing.
“UPUPUPUPUPUPUPUP!!!!”
Voran jumped in the air, and all the rocks fell on him, nearly burying him alive before he managed to roll aside.
Tarin was dancing around the field, smacking a wooden spoon on a frying pan. Every time he had to take a breath, he stopped and hopped in place three times, as though that would help him inhale more air. Then he danced again, smacking and screaming “UPUPUPUPUPUPUPUP!!!” at the top of his lungs.
It was pitch black outside. Still night.
“Raven Son! Who sleeps during the day? Get up and working!”
“Day, lord? It’s the middle of the night.”
“What? Look! There’s the sun!”
He pointed at the thinnest moon Voran had ever seen, just rising over the tips of the sentinel trees.
“Oh, yes,” said Voran, mustering as much sarcasm as he could. “How foolish of me. There’s the sun.”
Tarin cocked his head at him like a curious bird. “Sun? You’re confused, my dear boy. That’s hardly enough sliver even for a moon! I think you’ve gone a little soft in the head.”
