Ennah

Sentisse, 66 years after the Rise

This evening’s soup is the worst batch I've ever produced. I even contemplate adding in some brew, but Uncle Aniol, sitting across from me at the dinner table, spoons it up without a word. I'm not sure if he just doesn't have the energy to scold me or if he's too lost in thought to notice.

I can't blame him. The empty space at the dinner table is so much bigger than just the vacant chair and the missing bowl.

Tears seem to come out of nowhere, and I quickly scoop up another spoonful of the bland liquid, lowering my eyes just so Uncle Aniol won't catch me crying. It tends to make him even crankier than he already is all day long — public displays of emotion are not something he handles with grace. And though I really can't blame him for his bad mood, I don't want to be at the receiving end of it.

So I swallow and will the tears to stop flowing. Of course, willing them away doesn't do much — they cling to my eyelids, trickle down my cheeks, and make their way up towards my eyebrows. When I blink, one of them is hurdled into my soup, creating a ripple that has my dinner flowing over the rim of the bowl. I quickly shoot backward to release it to gravity again, before the soup spills everywhere. I've mastered the art of spooning it up quite well, but rogue tears are something else altogether.

My sudden movement has Uncle Aniol look up from his own bowl.

“Get it together, girl,” he mutters. “Can't have you loitering about crying all the time; we’re already understaffed as it is.”

I don't even dignify that with an answer. So that's what he's so damn grumpy about — it has nothing to do with him missing Aunt Carme, but all the more with missing the work she'd always put in around the vineyard. I ought to have guessed — he's awarded more tasks to me this morning than I've ever had, and I haven't been able to finish all of them as it takes quite some time to figure out how to, for instance, collect all the dried lentils and put them in weck bottles when one interferes with gravity. We've made certain divisions of tasks for a reason, and now that Aunt Carme is gone and all the women’s chores are up to me, it becomes perfectly clear why we’ve done so in the past. Luckily, there’s little writing correspondence for me to do right now, for all the writing can take ages. At the same time it’s scary; little correspondence means little business, and we need business to stay afloat.

Our mailbox was empty today. I checked it twice, simply because I’m used to it. Granny trained me to take responsibility for bringing in the mail, to make sure no letters from the yellow manor will be missed. The question is, do I want to continue that habit?

Well, if I want to stay here, I’d better keep it up. I need to know about the offers we put out, the invoices, the amount of prospects that turn our offers down versus the number of people buying our wine and things like that.

Should I tell Uncle Aniol of my plans? I’ve tried to tell Aunt Carme, but I don’t think she fully grasped what I was saying, and I very much doubt that she told Uncle Aniol. I study him over the empty spoon I’m holding up. He’s in a foul mood — he has been like this for days now. It wouldn’t surprise me if his grumpiness drives him to find the most arduous tasks for me — like preserving the lentils. I’ve spent all morning in something of a lentil storm, I wouldn’t be surprised if there are a few somehow clinging to my hair. So many of them fell on the floor that I've had to rinse half of our stock again, and now there’s a heap of them waiting for a second try after they’ve dried.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

I don't dare to think about how many rounds it will take me to have them all safely packed. And when he saw me struggling, Uncle Aniol did nothing but look at me sullenly and remark on where to find the lanterns so I can finish my chores in the evening — as if I don't know where to find them. Perhaps he was trying to more or less nicely tell me that he expects me to finish everything, no matter the hour or the darkness. After saying this, he immediately added that the oil probably needs to be refilled as well, so my list of chores became even longer. Being nice about it doesn’t make the workload lessen. Thankfully, I've found a way to refill the oil without spilling the best part of it.

Ugh, if it hadn't been for Amador, I would have gone stone-cold crazy by now. Even if our being together has been just a shallow, temporary flight from feeling and thinking to feeling and touching, I needed it dearly, and now it’s all I can do but cling to the memory and hope he'll come around again soon so I won't lose my mind.

Uncle Aniol goes on eating his soup. Without looking up, he says, “I need brew.”

I purse my lips together, keeping back a sigh. I really can't blame him, so I shove my chair back. “I'll go fetch some right-“

“Not for the soup, silly girl. For the vineyard.”

“But… The batch I made a month ago,” — it feels like a lifetime ago — “was more than enough to last us for this season.”

He looks up at me, his gaze bitter. “I need more.”

“But the harvest…”

“The brew will not spoil for a number of years, right?”

“I suppose, but—“

“What if something happens to you too?”

“To me?” I feel like the silly girl he's made me out to be, but his train of thought just seems so foreign. “I'm fine.”

“Carme was too, only a fortnight ago.”

“But…”

“I cannot risk it, Ennah. There is too much at stake.”

Yes indeed, there is. I have to tell him I’m staying. That I’m not going anywhere and he doesn’t need to worry. I don’t have anywhere to go anyway.

But if he has enough brew, he might kick me out. I know he promised Aunt Carme he wouldn’t do that, and I don’t think he’d break a promise to his beloved dead wife.

“I understand that you’re scared,” I start, taking care to choose my words wisely. Let’s probe his reaction for now. “But I really am perfectly fine. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Two deaths within six turns of the moon,” Uncle Aniol says, seemingly unaware of my last sentence. “Damagic creeping closer every day, Càgila can arrive on our doorstep any day now to ask for higher fees because it’s so near. The world is throwing every floating thing our way at the moment. I cannot risk the vineyard.”

His gaze is so intense that I let go of my spoon — it drifts away from me for a few seconds before dropping on the table with a loud clang.

“It’s the only thing that can provide for us, Ennah,” he says, his tone now soft and even a bit scared. I only hear the word ‘us’ and my heart starts beating expectantly.

He shakes his head, the worry in his voice loud and clear. “If the quality of the wine falters even a bit, other breweries will take over before we know it. I'm already working my ass off to make sure we don't lose any customers because I was preoccupied with…” He swallows. “This is all we have, Ennah. And now it’s up to you and me to keep this operation going as best we can. Carme worked so hard to make this vineyard a success. She loved it so much, she gave up so many of her dreams to make this one flourish. I'll be damned to flying if I let it fall.”

Again, the tears fall before I even notice them coming. “I'll help you in any way I can,” I whisper. “I’m in here with you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Uncle Aniol nods. “Good. We need to survive.”

“Yes.” It’s barely more than a whisper, but the resolution burns in my heart. I’ll do everything within my power to make sure the vineyard not only survives, but thrives. And I will do so without making myself redundant, for that would be a big, big mistake.