Iron Rations

Yule Connor- Trade

After breakfast, James had headed to work. I did my usual duties. Clean the house. Strip the bush off its blueberries, water it, and add fertilizer. Feed the chickens. I had to ration the feed because we’re running low on money these days. Mr. Will had delayed James’s paycheck for three days now, claiming the printing press is low on money too. I don’t believe it and neither does James, but it’s not like we can argue. If we do, it might cost James his job.

As I sat on a stool not far from the chicken coop, I popped a berry to my mouth and it exploded into juice when I crushed it between my teeth. I’ve always loved that feeling, though I don’t know why.

Beyond the yard of the family log cabin are the woods. I’ve always wanted to go there, to join the hunters on their morning treks, to find out if the rumors about wild dogs lurking in the woods are true. I was itching to explore the place only meters from my boots.

No, I told myself. No.

I buried my boots in the snow, as though doing so would keep me from the forest. The woods…before, my parents used to go there. They were hunters, armed with hunting guns. When they hunt, I and James stay at home and sip hot chocolate by the fire. When they run, they come home with bounties from the woods: dead rabbits, ducks, pheasants, deer and foxes, which we used to make clothing from their pelts or cooked their meat. They also brought home herbs and fruits, which we ate and used as medicine. During birthdays, they’d bring home something special: cotton, used to make blankets, deer antlers from which we made toys and figurines, and once, they brought a gold nugget home for Christmas. At that time, Mom said she and Dad saw a truck carrying different metals on the way to the next village. They had a trade with the driver: one gold nugget equals three deer, and two rabbits. Dad said the driver wasn’t smart, since a gold nugget cost more than that. But Mom said the driver looked especially hungry, which is why they made an easy trade.

One day when I and James were 11, my parents did not return from their hunt. I kept on telling James we should go to the woods, but he said we should wait until nightfall. But when nightfall came, they still did not come. Getting our coats and two lanterns, we ventures into the woods, and after an hour of searching, we found our parents. Bloodied and torn like dolls, eyes still open. Attacked by a bear, from the looks of it.

While I cried beside my parents’ corpses, James ran to the village and after half an hour, he came back with many people. The next morning was quick procession, before my parents’ bodies were buried.

I guess that experience got us to never go to woods, at least alone. James goes there with his friends during the warmer parts of the year, and he’d always come back with a sack load of apples. He said he doesn’t go hunting with his friends, only stays at the part of the woods where the apple trees bear fruit. For the rest of the month then, we had apples as our main course. Sliced apples for breakfast, apple pies for lunch, apple bread for supper. Not to mention we’d have apple juice for drinks, aside from water.

My stomach grumbled at the memory and I stood up. I carried the stool to the inside of our house and set it in the kitchen. Feeling restless, I decided I needed a bath. I got a fire going and put a kettle filled with snow on top. It’ll take some time, but eventually, the snow will turn to lukewarm water.

As the water heated, I checked the cabinets and pulled out an empty milk bottle. Great. Now I needed to go the end of the village and buy a bottle. I pulled out the empty bottle and went to my room. My bath will have to wait. I removed my t-shirt and pants, and changed to a bright green sweater and a pair of charcoal-black pants. I’ve always liked the green sweater: it always seemed to contradict the dullness brought by the year-round winter in the country.

I opened my cabinet and saw my favorite wool cowl neck wrap. But I was disappointed to see there’s a large violet stain in the center. I would have worn it, but I’m going to trade. Some traders are picky about their customers’ appearances, so I guess I’ll only have to wear my green sweater and pants.

I went out of my room and put on my socks, then my boots. I turned off the fire in the kitchen, not wanting to end up burning the house. I set the kettle of almost-warm water inside a cabinet, wanting to hide it from James when he returns home. I’ll be looking forward to a good bath when I return.

Then I looked for something to trade. I got a handful of bitter medicinal herbs, tied them to a bundle and pocketed them. No one’s sick anyway. I decided I needed another thing to sell. I dug through the cabinets once more, and I suddenly remembered James had asked me to trade one of the chickens for “something useful”. Milk counts as useful.

I headed outside and got one of the chickens inside a sack. I didn’t close the sack. The chicken might be dead long before I got to the other side of the village.

I went inside the cabin for the last time and got the milk bottle. Then I locked the door when I got outside, before heading to the village. It began to snow. “Traders got to trade whatever’s on their plate,” my father used to say.