When you are young there isn’t much to think about. Your days are the same thing over and over with, at most, minute differences. For those of us in the countryside boys normally are out in the fields while the girls are helping around the house. Wake up, eat, help out, repeat. Now as monotonous as that must sound, realize that for us it is as necessary of work as breathing. There are not many affordances given for us in the country. We are poor, most things are handmade and hand-me-downs, and we bathe maybe twice a month, which is really just scrubbing down with a cold, wet rag.

As agriculture is our main source of income and nourishment, one bad harvest can cause many hardships. Famine has become prevalent in recent years as our crops fail more often than not. The local lord doesn’t care, the only thing that is expected of us is to produce crops and therefore income, if you can’t do that then you are better off dead or enslaved.

Our village is currently in the middle of the most recent famine and times are hard but don’t count on us children to necessarily understand the circumstances we find ourselves in.

“Motherrrr…” My silver eyes peek out from underneath the laundry my mother is hanging up to dry outside our home.

“Yes, Sarah?” Lillian Rolfe is your typical young mother, married at a young age to someone older than herself, and already bearing two children before her twenty-third birthday. She has long chestnut colored hair that, when loose, falls to her mid back, but normally during the day she keeps it pinned up into a tight bun. Her skin is fair with a slight tan from living out in the countryside and is lightly freckled. The most striking thing about my mother however is her silver eyes, a rather uncommon trait that is rarely seen in the general populace. A trait that she passed on to me, the oldest daughter of two, Sarah Rolfe.

At only eight years of age, it cannot be said that I act as the elder sister, more so at times it seems I am more immature than my seven year old counterpart Lena. I am also the spitting image of my mother, with my flowing chestnut hair and curious silver eyes. Any semblance of body shape is lost underneath my too large shirt that has holes in many places. Because we are poor, women don’t wear skirts and instead wear shorts much like the men working in the field do. I don’t really mind, I don't even have a semblance of what ‘nice’ clothes would be like.

“I’m hungry. Make me something.” I say this completely straight faced to her.

“Sarah, first off if you want food actually ask and don’t just demand me to make it, secondly you know we don’t have the luxury to just make a meal whenever, wait until dinner like everyone else.”

“But I’m hungry now!” Changing my tactics, I look at my mother with eyes full of begging, much like a puppy.

“Why couldn’t you have acquired the same patience Lena has?” The question is more directed to our surroundings than anyone in particular.

“No, now don’t ask again and go focus on your chores.”

“But I’m already done with them…” Of course I wasn’t but I thought maybe saying so would help my cause. Perhaps realizing what I was up to my mother responds with a smile on her face, “Oh really, then I guess I should go check and see?”

“No, that won’t be necessary, I think I just remembered that I need to go finish up one small thing!”

With that I make my escape with my mother smiling at my back as I run off. I love my mother, but angering her is something I cannot recommend.

Our home isn’t what you would necessarily call a house, it is more of a shaky wooden construction with a roof, a shack. There are only two rooms within, a small excuse for a kitchen and a room in which we all sleep together on a single large cot. Like I said before, we don’t bathe much so there is no need for a dedicated washroom and our bathroom consists of a single wooden outhouse behind our home.

When I walk through the entrance Lena is busy sweeping the floor, one of the chores that I was actually supposed to have done. Her outfit matches mine and it wouldn’t surprise me if they were made from the same patches of cloth. When she sees me enter she stops sweeping and turns her eyes to me.

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“Begging for food again sis?” Like I said, I’m generally outclassed by the seven year old.

“Wh- wh- what are you talking about, I just went outside to fetch some water to help clean up a little!”

“Then where is the water?”

“...” I’m caught once again.

“Sis, you know we barely have enough food as is, you should be thankful we get to eat on a somewhat consistent basis.” She isn’t criticizing me, just stating the facts.

“I know… but it’s as you say, we barely eat much at all so my stomach is always grumbling…” As if on cue my stomach noisily growls.

“Well maybe if you actually did your chores instead of pushing them off on me all the time your mind would be taken off your hunger.”

“Lena, you’re cruel.”

“Oh well,” she returns to sweeping while I go to grab a bucket to actually get water.

If I were to describe Lena, I would say the exact opposite of me. She’s quiet, responsible, and, as you have probably guessed, has a better grasp of the circumstances around her. She takes many more of her physical features from our father sharing his icy blue eyes and shoulder length dirty-blonde hair. As it stands she’s the only presence of our father that we both have left. Shortly after Lena was born he went off in order to negotiate with the local lord on the taxes as a bad harvest meant many of the people in our village were suffering. He never returned and it doesn’t take much imagination as to what happened, even Lena and I understand that.

The kingdom that we live in, Zoanan, is your typical human kingdom of the era. A social hierarchy based on the separation of commoners and the aristocracy exists and is enforced strictly. If a commoner even utters a word of protest they can be executed on the spot and all everyone around can do is watch. At the highest point of the nobility is the royal family, ruling over the entire kingdom and at the bottom, the Barons who lord over small territories within. The Baron of our territory, Aston Territory, is a man by the name of Lance von Aston. As with many nobles he was a large man, nourished with a hefty portion of the scant harvests of his citizens and propped up with more wealth than many of those in our village would ever see in multiple lifetimes. He was also notorious for killing dissenters. Of course these were all things that I overheard from other villagers as I had never met the man, although even I could understand that he is an atrocious and dangerous person.

The well from which we draw water is located down the road about forty minutes one-way. Walking through the middle of our village alongside the dusty road, I take in the sight of our village, which isn’t much. We live in a village of about thirty people and all of us share the same circumstances. Many of the homes of others are similar looking shacks like ours, and some are only a single room while the most was two. Many of us are agricultural families who have lived here for at least a generation and as such we were all like a large family in a sense. Women are taking advantage of the sunny and warm day to do laundry much like my mother. What is on the clotheslines range from large, ragged pieces of cloth that barely pass as sheets to patchwork clothes made up of scraps of maybe hundreds of older clothes. The men can be seen out in the fields with their tools trying to harvest every little scrap of crop that exists in order to be able to pay the monthly tax.

As I am about to leave the village someone calls out to me,

“Oh Sarah, are you going out?”

The one who called out was the village elder, Augustus, or as I call him,

“Yup old man, I’m going to fetch some water from the well!” I put on my cheerful mood.

“So finally helping out at home eh?” Saying this with a chuckle, his old eyes are filled with amusement. I just stick out my tongue at him and continue on my way. He shouts after me,

“Make sure to be careful even if it is close by!”

I don’t turn around, just wave my hand in acknowledgement.

I continue on along the road and eventually reach the well. It is located in a small grove of trees that help provide shade to those who are drawing water after a somewhat long trip, at least for an eight year old. I go to the well and lower the wooden bucket down into the darkness below until I hear a splash as it enters the water. After letting it fill up I bring it back and transfer the water into the larger bucket I brought along. After doing this two more times I decide to rest and cool off a little before walking back, after all I can’t be nagged on out here. I place the bucket, now filled with water, on the ground next to one of the trees and sit on the ground. I lay back against the tree in the shade and just enjoy the moment of peace when I don’t have to think about our poverty or hardships.

A slight breeze flows through the grove rustling the leaves making the dappling of light on my face dance. Its refreshing coolness caresses my face and I find my eyes struggling to remain open. Finally my eyes close and I fall asleep with a feeling of tranquility that I wish could remain forever.