Ellis stood awkwardly in the grass and looked to the caravan full of crates.

“Don’t worry,” Jerg assured him, “It’s not so bad. We’ll give you the light boxes.”

“He’s practically a man, Jerg, make him carry your boxes.”

“I can manage just fine, Les,” Jerg answered as he walked over to the carriage, managing to wrestle a wooden chest into his grasp. “But your concern is heartwarming.”

Jerg carried the chest over to the pile of offloaded goods. He lowered it down carefully, leaning back and letting the chest slide from his grip carefully and without tumbling over.

Ellis watched him with a prideful curiosity. Even while missing a hand, he was able to do this much.

“Oi! Shit head!” Lester called out suddenly.

“Sorry!”

Ellis jogged over to the carriage and picked up one of the crates closest to the edge of the caravan. It was full of turnips.

“Byles sells produce?”

“Byles,” Jerg said, as he hoisted up a crate of carrots, “Byles sells anything and everything he can get his hands on.”

Ellis carried the turnips over to where the other crates were resting in the grass.

“Not there,” Jerg said, just as Ellis was beginning to lower his crate down. “We put the vegetables over there.”

He gestured with his head to an area at the other end of the yard. Underneath a thatch roof sat a long wooden table, beside which stood several barrels of water. Ellis followed Jerg across the yard, keeping a few steps behind him.

“Here.”

The two placed the crates next to each other on the table.

“Now what?” Ellis asked.

“Gregor!” Jerg called out in response.

“Who is Gregor?”

Jerg looked around.

“He handles the food and provisions. Gregor!?” Jerg continued to call out, this time heading behind the table to have a look around. There was a wall of wooden posts adjacent to the long table, upon which were hanging different assortments of dried vegetables and meat.

“Gregor!?”

An old man suddenly stuck his head out from behind the wall. He had a long, scraggly beard and his skin was covered in small dark colored spots. His eyes were glassy; crooked hairs grew out from his ears and twisted over themselves.

“What do you want!? Can’t you see I’m on break!”

“We don’t get no breaks!” Lester called from the other side of the yard.

Jerg sighed.

“We got some carrots and turnips from Tanner’s field. Byles has a buyer coming from Viemen’s place in a few hours. He wants them prepped and ready.”

“Tch. Always working. Always working,” Gregor mumbled to himself.

He headed over to the table and grabbed the edge of the crates with each hand. He tried pulling them up, lifting them as high as he could —maybe a few inches— before letting them drop back down on the table with a thud.

“Ahhh, Jerg! There are too many!”

“Gregor, you’ve handled more than this. I’ve seen it.”

The old man slapped the table with his hands.

“Well, that doesn’t mean I can do it now!” All of a sudden, Gregor pointed a bony finger at Ellis. “Tell Torren to help me out! No reason for an able-bodied man to be inside playing with dresses.”

“That’s not Torren, Gregor. This is Ellis.”

“Huh!?”

“Ellis!”

“Who!?”

“ELLIS!”

“Who the hell is that!?”

“HE—”

“It’s alright,” Ellis said quickly, “I’ll help him out.”

Jerg let his next words die in his throat.

“Fine,” he said with a sigh, “Come back over when you’re done.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Ellis nodded.

“Come on boy, whatever your name is.”

Ellis approached cautiously. He moved one step at a time until he stood next to Gregor.

“What do I do?”

“Clean, idiot. Grab me that water over there.”

Ellis followed Gregor’s finger to an empty patch of grass.

“What water?”

“The water! In the barrel!”

Ellis looked again to where Gregor was pointing.

“Gregor, there’s no water there.”

“Boy!”

Gregor raised the back of his hand at Ellis who flinched reflexively.

“It’s over there!” Ellis quickly added as he spied the barrel on the other side of the table, “I found it!”

“Yeah, I bet you see it now, don’t you. Go grab it!”

Ellis ran over to the other side of the table.

“Gregor…?”

“What?”

“Couldn’t we just stand on this side and—”

“Damnit you!”

“Alright! I’ll bring it…”

Ellis straddled the barrel and dragged it over to the opposite side of the table, placing it between the two of them.

“Good. Now…” Gregor reached his hand into the crate of carrots. “Take the greens off these turnips.”

Ellis looked at the bright, orange-colored root.

“That’s a carrot.”

“What!?” Gregor held it up to his eyes. He stared at it a moment before snorting to himself. “No difference, Dellis. It’s all the same. Take off the greens and wash ‘em clean.”

Ellis picked up the chunky, whitish-yellow turnip and held it in his hands.

“Quit gawking, boy. Hand me that knife over there.”

Gregor pointed to the far end of the table. There were several dirty cloths, an empty bucket, and no knife.

“Can you see alright?”

Gregor grabbed a carrot by the stems and whipped it at Ellis.

“Ow!”

“Can you see!? Find me a damn knife!”

Ellis shook out his arm and searched the table for a paring knife but couldn’t find one. He thought about telling Gregor the truth, but didn’t want to deal with the consequences. Instead, he turned around, pretending to look under the table, and pulled his own dagger out of its sheath.

“Here you go.”

“Hmph.”

Gregor snatched the dagger out of his hand.

Ellis watched as Gregor managed, with surprising speed and accuracy, to cut off the stems and dunk the carrots in the water. Once cleaned, he tossed them behind him without even looking. Gregor continued, one carrot after another, cutting, dunking, washing and tossing.

“I don’t hear you working,” he said to Ellis, without taking his eyes off his work.

“Uhh…”

“What is it boy, use your words.”

“I don’t have a knife.”

“Just rip ‘em.”

“But then why do you—?”

Gregor held up the carrot threateningly.

Ellis said no more.

Together, Ellis and Gregor continued their work in silence.

Though it was tedious at first, the more he continued, the more Ellis began to find a rhythm to the work; the crunch of the stems as they broke away, the cool softness of the water against his hand, the satisfaction of the bright turnip skin gradually revealing itself as the dirt washed away. He still was nowhere near as fast as Gregor, but somehow, he didn’t mind. In fact, to his surprise, Ellis found he rather enjoyed the whole process.

Before long, the sun was well passed its zenith and Jerg came over to them with an offer of lunch.

“Lunch? Already!?”

Jerg nodded.

“Bout damn time!”

Gregor stabbed Ellis’ dagger into the table and shoved the carrot he was holding into his mouth and took a bite. It snapped loudly between his teeth.

“Greg, you’re not supposed to eat the merchandise.”

“What’s Byles gonna do? Kill me!? I’d like to see him try.”

Gregor patted his lower back with a balled-up fist as he walked over to the others, still chewing on his carrot.

“What’s on the menu today?”

“Bread and pickled onions.”

“Bread!” Harold jogged over excitedly and reached out to grab a piece of bread off the tray that Jerg was carrying.

“Woah!” Lester cried as he grabbed Harold by the shirt. “Leave some for the rest of us!”

Harold shied away from Lester with a look of guilt. He stuck out his hand and slowly took the smallest piece of bread off the tray and then skittered away.

“Lester, he is three times your size. He needs to eat.”

“Let him buy his own,” Lester said as he grabbed a roll off the tray. “He gets paid like the rest of us.”

“You know that’s not how it is,” Jerg said in a stern tone.

“His problems ain’t my problems,” Lester muttered as he took a scoop of pickled onions and slapped it onto the bread. He brought the roll to his mouth and sank his teeth in. Lester chewed loudly, letting the juice from the onions run down his lips and drip onto his shirt. “Got enough of those.”

Gregor reached his hand over and snatched a roll for himself. He didn’t bother with the onions. Instead, he walked himself over to a nearby crate and sat down on the edge. He alternated between chewing the bread and taking bites of his carrot.

“Harold,” Jerg called over to him, “Come here.”

Harold eyed Lester carefully, then jogged back over to Jerg.

“Here,” Jerg said as he handed him another roll.

Harold’s eyes lit up; his mouth turned upwards into a large grin, wrinkling the skin around his eyes.

“Jerg is always good.”

“Make sure to eat it all,” Jerg told him.

Harold nodded and headed back over to his corner of the yard.

“Take it. Don’t be shy, Ellis,” Jerg urged as he handed him the tray.

Ellis stared down at the single piece of bread that was left.

At home, he could just run down to the kitchen any time he felt like it and steal a roll or two from George’s oven. He could take pickles or preserves from the pantry and help himself any time he wished. Every meal they ate together was accompanied by soft, fresh bread and rich creamy butter.

Ellis could feel no warmth coming from the tray. The bread was cold.