The Dead God Series Collection

Chapter 1-1

There’s a particular freshness to the air at that time of year when Winter starts to give way to Spring. This effect is particularly noticeable in the early hours of the day, when the sunlight is new and clean. When the world is still trying to rouse itself from a night of slumber. Breathing in this air focuses the mind, quells those annoying erratic thoughts that float unbidden through conscious thought. This natural changing of the seasons is the perfect time to dwell on changes that we might make to our own lives.

There’s a particular freshness to the air at that time of year when Winter starts to give way to Spring. This effect is particularly noticeable in the early hours of the day, when the sunlight is new and clean. When the world is still trying to rouse itself from a night of slumber. Breathing in this air focuses the mind, quells those annoying erratic thoughts that float unbidden through conscious thought. This natural changing of the seasons is the perfect time to dwell on changes that we might make to our own lives.This, at least, was what Torben thought as he walked across the field that morning. He’d always seen himself as a pseudo-philosopher, and he often felt that he was closest to answering life’s deepest questions when carrying out mundane tasks, particularly early in the morning.

As he walked across the field, dipping a hand into the sack around his neck, pulling forth a handful of seeds and scattering them across the field, he could feel himself lost in the monotony of the task. Dip and scatter, dip and scatter, dip and scatter.

The only thing that could distract him from his thoughts were the distant sounds of Master Amos further up the field as he guided the plough through the earthen sea. He steered the oxen skillfully, a little left, then a little right, picking the best course, leaving the straightest, truest furrows in the wake of the plough. You could tell that Master Amos had been living and breathing farming since he’d been born.

Torben’s mind continued to wander. By the end of the working day, he’d have done enough thinking to solve all the world’s problems, at least thrice over. That is, if he actually came to any concrete conclusions. As with all of his musing, Torben always seemed to be on the precipice of a breakthrough, only to be distracted by the next question that swam into his consciousness.

By the time he reached the end of the field, the thread of philosophy had turned from the elemental nature of seasonal change to the still unanswered question of where exactly he’d left his dominos. He reached into the sack and scattered the seeds amongst freshly turned sod.

‘All out, Master.’

Master Amos raised a hand in acknowledgement from the upper end of the field as he brought the oxen round and started to drive them back towards the gate. Torben strolled forward and sat with his back against one of the many trees that lined the limits of Master Amos’ field, and, with a sigh of relief, removed the sack from around his neck and laid it on the ground.

He didn’t have to look to know that his neck and left shoulder had been rubbed raw by the thick hemp sack. He rubbed both meditatively, mulling over the prospect of what the rest of the day would bring. More walking up and down the fields behind the plough, dip and scatter, dip and scatter. It was enough to make a man go crazy.

‘Give us a hand with this lot, lad.’ Master Amos had drawn the plough and its pair of oxen level with Torben and the tree that he was leaning against.

As Torben stood, his shadow enveloped the much smaller figure of Master Amos, who must have been at least a foot shorter than him. Torben lifted the haft of the plough and Master Amos unhitched the oxen, then led them to a nearby post. As he tethered them, Torben could hear him whispering softly, keeping them calm.

He was a kindly, ageing man. To be honest, Torben had no idea how old Master Amos actually was. For as long as he’d known him, Amos had existed in a perpetual state of elderliness. His weather-beaten face had barely registered change but, of late, Torben had noticed that he walked with more difficulty, and that his back seemed more bent with fatigue.

‘Good lad,’ Master Amos said as Torben brought over an armful of fodder to lay down before the oxen. ‘I reckon we’ll get this next field and the one up top done by the end of the day, if we’re lucky. It’s meant to rain tomorrow, that’d be bad news for ploughing.’

Like all farmers, Master Amos seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to predicting the weather. Torben liked to think that it was all blind guesswork, but he’d lost count of the amount of times that Master Amos had predicted the weather and been right.

As Torben straightened, Master Amos lowered himself gingerly onto the ground next to the tree. He began unwrapping a cloth bundle and proffered a chunk of bread to Torben when he sat down next to him. Torben drew a small knife from a sheath attached to his belt and handed it to the older man, who’d taken a wedge of hard cheese from the bundle. Wordlessly, he took the blade and divided the cheese in two, handing Torben half, as well as the knife.

Master Amos was a man of few words. There’d been many days when Amos hadn’t spoken a word, neither to Torben nor to his long-suffering wife. It wasn’t that he was unfriendly, far from it; he was one of the kindest people Torben had ever come across. Amos, it seemed, didn’t feel that small-talk was a necessary part of existence.

Torben picked up a water skin that he’d dropped at their feet and took a large mouthful. He wiped water droplets from his mouth and passed the skin to Amos. ‘Are you going to bring in any more labour for the rest of the season?’

Amos looked at him, weariness heavily lining his face. He sighed deeply and ran his hands through a greasy tangle of silver hair. Torben new exactly what the answer would be.

‘Don’t think I’ll be able to scrape together the brass to do that this year. I know that last year I said that I’d get some hired labour, but …’

‘I know, it was a tough winter again,’ Torben replied dejectedly.

Master Amos looked away, the weary, worried expression still lining his face. It had been a tough winter, and he was starting to wonder how many he had left. ‘Look, Torben, I know that you must find life here with us a little suffocating, but until I can pull things back from the brink, there’s nothing that I can do.’

hadTorben didn’t answer, but stared despondently into the distance. The field laid along the side of a hill and offered an excellent view across the surrounding countryside. From this vantage point, he could see the small collection of buildings that made up Master Amos’ farmstead. Beyond the farm were the rooftops of Bywater Village and beyond those the sprawling valley that made up Burndale. Barely perceptible tendrils of smoke curled up from village chimneys, the only sign of life in the landscape.

The fact that Master Amos couldn’t again afford to bring in temporary labour to help out on the farm meant that Torben was, for all intents and purposes, tied to the farm. He’d been telling himself for the last two years that once he got the money together for hired help, he’d go off and explore, stretch his legs and let the road whisk him away, far from Bywater and the depressing little valley. He’d never set foot further than seven miles from Bywater and had never been to the borders of Burndale.

But three harsh winters in a row meant that Master Amos was closer than ever to toppling over the brink, into destitution. If Torben left, it would be a death sentence for the old man, and he couldn’t do that to him, not after all of the kindness he and his wife had shown him.

‘Right lad, let’s get on; the fields won’t sow themselves thou knows.’ Amos looked at the forlorn youth next to him. Torben’s blue eyes stared emptily across the valley as wind tugged at the heap of messy brown curls on his head. He could tell that Torben was lost deep in thought, and he didn"t need to guess what he was brooding about.

He’d been ruminating on how to best show his gratitude to Torben for days now, but the shortage of money meant he could do little for the young man. ‘And think about it,’ Amos continued, ‘if we get this all done today, you can take tomorrow off. I need to take the plough to the blacksmiths to get straightened anyway, so they’ll not be much for you to do.’

This was a lie. There was always plenty of work that needed to be done on the farm, but it was the only thing Amos could think of that he could afford to give. In any case, the statement jolted Torben back to reality and for a second he looked genuinely taken aback. He couldn’t remember the last time that Master Amos had freely given him a day off. ‘But what about the repairs that need to be made to the cow shed?’

‘That can wait,” he replied, trying to sound as carefree as his gruff nature would allow. ‘It’s going to rain tomorrow. I don’t want you scrambling all over the cowshed roof; like as not, you’d do yourself a mischief.’ Amos stood, using the tree at his back and the staff he used to steer and goad the oxen, to help pull himself up.

As he did so, Torben continued to sit on the ground, stunned by the gift that had been handed him. A whole day off! He could go to the tavern in Bywater—he hadn’t managed to get there in over two months—and he could, well … Torben couldn’t think clearly about what he’d be able to do. It had been so long since he’d been allowed free time.

‘Come on now, don’t just sit there gawping at nothing,’ Amos exclaimed. ‘We still have work to finish today!’

‘Right you are, Master!’ Torben sprang to his feet, grabbed the sack from the ground, and rushed towards the gate further down the field to replenish the supply of seed grain.

Amos watched him go. The newfound energy Torben was exhibiting made the old man smile; it had been a long time since he’d seen the lad get excited about anything. Farming life was hard and it took a certain sort of person to do it, and Torben was not one of those. Sure, he could carry out the labour as good as anyone. Sure, the lad’s body had become conditioned after weeks on end of back-breaking labour. But Amos knew that he lacked the resilience to last as a farmer. He had too much wanderlust in his soul, itching to be let loose. It was only a matter of time before Torben would leave Bywater.

notAmos made his way to the oxen and untethered them from the post. Torben had sprinted back up the hill and was already lifting the plough into position. It only took a couple of minutes to get the two beasts ready and, with a click of his tongue, they once again lumbered across the field, dragging the plough behind.

Torben fell into line and began scattering seeds into the fresh furrows. Every now and then, when the wind dropped, Amos heard the jaunty tune that Torben was humming as he worked.