The house smelled of barley porridge and smoke from the hearth. Mom was at the stove, humming. Dinah sat by the window brushing Thalia's hair—what little there was of it.
Zeke was outside already, chopping kindling.
I could hear the steady thunk, thunk of the hatchet splitting wood.
I took my bowl and sat at the table.
Mom smiled at me like nothing was wrong. I smiled back the same way.
"Did you sleep?" she asked.
"Enough," I said.
She didn't press.
Later, while I was sweeping the walkway, I saw old Mardis hobbling up from the main road. His eyes were red. He wasn't crying. Just looked like he had.
Zeke stood up from the woodpile.
"Morning, Mardis."
The old man only nodded.
He handed Zeke a folded paper.
"They've started in Grell," he said.
"Six taken. Boys and men. Ready or not."
Zeke read the paper. Didn't say a word.
His hand was tight around the edge when he gave it back.
"Lord have mercy," Mardis muttered, and kept walking.
Zeke watched him go. Then looked at me.
His eyes asked a question he didn't say out loud.
I didn't answer it.
He went back to chopping.
Thunk.
Thunk.
Thunk.
The sun climbed slow. Noon light on white walls, hard and clean.
I was in the garden with Mom, dirt under my nails, trying not to think about the man in white.
She worked the spade in with one hand and wiped sweat from her brow with the other.
"Beans first," she said. "They'll want that rain Thursday."
"Why do we always plant beans first?" I asked, just to say something.
"Because they're stubborn. Like us." She smiled at me. "They'll grow even if the world ends."
I pushed a knuckle into the soil and watched it crumble. "And if it does?"
She paused. "Then we'll still plant."
Zeke came up from the well carrying two buckets, water sloshing over the edges.
He looked tired, like the buckets were nothing compared to whatever was pulling on his thoughts.
"Thalia's down," he said. "Dinah's writing to her sister again. Asked if she could send dried fruit."
Mom rolled her eyes. "That woman hoards sugar like it's war rationed."
"I think she just wants something sweet to hold on to," I said.
Zeke looked at me. "You get real poetic when you're tired, you know that?"
"Maybe I'm always tired," I muttered.
He set the buckets down beside us and sat in the dirt. His boots were coated in dust. The kind that never really washes out.
We worked in silence for a while.
Then I said, "Is it true they took six in Grell?"
Zeke's hands stilled. He nodded once. "Yeah. Three were my age. One of them worked at the oil press."
"I've been there," I said. "The short one with the black curls?"
"That's him."
I pressed the seed deeper into the earth. "He let me try the lever once. I couldn't even budge it."
"He could. Every day. Strong as an ox."
"Not strong enough to stay," I said.
Zeke didn't answer.
"I don't want you to go," I added. Quiet, but firm. "They should take someone else. Anyone else."
He exhaled, but it wasn't a sigh. More like the sound a rope makes when pulled too tight.
"They'll take who they need."
"That doesn't mean it's right."
"You think I don't know that?" His voice was low now. Not angry. Just tired. "You think I sleep, Salem?"
Mom looked between us. "Zeke…"
"No, let him speak," I said. "I'm not a child."
"Could've fooled me," Zeke muttered. Then quieter: "Sorry. That's not fair."
The spade struck stone. Mom pulled it back and leaned on the handle.
"We are where God's put us," she said. "We don't have to like it. But we don't run from it, either."
I looked out past the garden. Past the hills.
"I'm not running," I said. "I just want him here."
Zeke stared at his hands. "Me too."
For a while, we just worked.
I listened to the wind in the olive trees, and the sound of the earth giving way.
I wanted to tell them.
About the man. The robes. The way he stood without breath.
But something in me held back.
By mid-afternoon the chores were done, or done well enough to keep Mom from hollering. I washed my hands in the basin by the olive press and dried them on my shirt.
Zeke had gone quiet again. He was mending the fence with one foot on the bottom rail, pounding in nails like he meant to drive them through the island itself.
"I'm going out," I called.
"Back before dusk," Mom said from the kitchen window. "Or I'll assume you've run off to enlist and set your bed on fire."
"Yes, ma'am."
The sun was warm on my back as I walked the road into town. White stones crunched underfoot. Somewhere up in the trees, doves were cooing, soft and stupid.
The sun was warm on my back as I walked the road into town. White stones crunched underfoot. Somewhere up in the trees, doves were cooing, soft and stupid.
I found Jonas behind the church bell tower, exactly where I figured he'd be. Sitting cross-legged on the low wall, a plum in one hand and a slingshot in the other.
"Praise be," he said, tossing me the plum. "The Vale boy lives."
"Only barely," I said. "Mom's working us like we're training for the Exodus."
He grinned, mouth purple from juice. "You should've seen mine this morning. She caught me painting a mustache on the Virgin again. Said I was halfway to Hell and asked if I wanted to go all the way."
"You're going to lose a hand someday."
Jonas shrugged. "Maybe. But at least I'll have a story. You can be the solemn narrator at my funeral. Read a Psalm and everything."
"I'd make one up. Something about goats and shame."
He laughed, nearly choked on his plum. "Goats and shame—sounds like the Vale family motto."
"It's on our coat of arms," I said. "Two goats rampant, flanking a bottle of vinegar."
We walked the back lanes for a while. He knew every shortcut, every stone wall low enough to hop, every goat path the shepherds used when they thought nobody was watching.
"You ever think about what's west of here?" Jonas asked suddenly.
"Mountains."
"Past the mountains."
"Demons."
He whistled low. "Yeah. I mean, sure. But—before the demons. I don't know. The old world."
"There isn't an old world anymore."
He looked at me sideways. "You always talk like that."
"Like what?"
"Like a priest with a grudge. All ash and doom."
"I go to church."
"I go to church too. But I don't come out talking like it's the end of days."
"Maybe because it's not knocking on your door yet."
He didn't say anything for a while. We passed through the orchard and kicked up dust.
"You're quiet," Jonas said eventually. "Quieter than usual. What, you see an angel?"
I stopped walking. Just for a second.
"Something like that."
He squinted at me. "You're serious?"
I started walking again. "I said something like that."
"Was it… like the old stories? White robe? Fire?"
I didn't answer.
Jonas let it hang in the air for a bit, then elbowed me. "Well, if he shows up again, tell him I've got a wager for him. Five denars says I can beat him at dice."
"You'd lose."
"Not if I bring my loaded set."
"You'd still lose. He's from Heaven."
"Then I'd really better cheat."
We kept walking. Past the well with the broken crank, past the shuttered shop that used to sell incense before the trade routes closed. The sun threw long shadows on the road, and the sea wind carried the smell of thyme and old smoke.
"You ever think about running off?" Jonas asked.
"Where would I go?"
"I don't know. East, maybe. Hitch a ride with the pilgrim caravans. Join a monastery. Grow a beard."
"You wouldn't last a day."
"I could," he said. "I can fake piety."
"I've seen your handwriting. You'd be found out by the first scribe."
He kicked a pebble into the weeds. "You don't have to be smart to be a monk. Just quiet. You could do it."
"I don't want to."
"Why not?"
I didn't answer right away.
He nudged me with his shoulder. "Come on. You think you're going to end up like your dad? Off on some crusade, never come back?"
"No," I said. "But I might."
He gave me a look, half amused, half wary. "You don't talk about him much."
"There's not much to say."
"I heard he was a marksman. A good one."
"That's what they said when they took him."
Jonas quieted. We turned down a narrow alley where ivy grew thick between the stones. A black cat darted past, startling a flock of pigeons.
"Do you miss him?" he asked.
"Sometimes. Mostly I wonder if he'd know me now."
"He would."
"I was little. I barely remember his face. Just his boots."
Jonas scratched the back of his neck. "You're kinda messed up, Vale."
"Thanks."
"In a good way. Makes you interesting."
"That's what people say when they don't want to say 'sad.'"
He grinned. "I mean, you are sad. But you've got a good jawline. So it evens out."
"Appreciate that."
We came out into the square, where an old woman was gutting fish under an awning, and two younger kids were drawing something obscene in the dust with a stick. Jonas waved to the kids and they scattered, giggling.
"Wanna go to the cliffs?" he said.
"And do what?"
"Throw rocks. Yell things. Pretend we're older than we are."
"Alright."
We headed that way. The cliffs weren't far—just a scramble up the back slope, past the fig trees and the rusted fence. You could see half the island from up there. The white-walled farms. The far-off church spires. Even the sea, a shimmer of judgment at the edge of the world.