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theonecalledwanderBel the Baker’s Daughter laughs, probably more at me myself than at my feeble wit. But I don’t mind, because I’ve succeeded in putting her at her ease.
“The horses are afraid of the water,” I say. “What are the children afraid of?”
“What have you heard?” she asks.
“Not much, I just got here,” I say. “But I know what happy children sound like.”
“The heart’s gone out of them,” she says.
“I know what that sounds like, too,” I say. “What else has gone wrong?”
“Nothing, yet,” she says. “It’s like I said. We can’t survive without trade, we can’t get trade without horse traffic. The elders are worried, the children know it. As above, so below.” She shrugs. “It’s only been a few months, but we’re past the point where we can pretend it’s just a passing fluke.”
“Do you drink the water from the well?”
She flinches, but turns it into another shrug.
“It was good enough for groundwater before the trouble,” she says. “Spring-fed, they say. Even with the local ideas of sanitation, it’s cleaner than the river by a good sight. Since then? Well, we try to avoid it, but there’s only so much beer to be had, and the water for that has to come from somewhere. And I need water for my baking, and we have to cook, and we have to clean. No one’s taken sick. It smells clean and tastes wholesome.”
“You don’t like drinking it, though.”
“No, I don’t,” she says. “I don’t like thinking about it, either. Can’t get away from it, but I don’t like drinking it. I boil it and say it’s for the tea, but there’s something wrong with it, no matter what the Select say.”
“The horses are afraid of the water,” I say. “What are the children afraid of?”
“What have you heard?” she asks.
“Not much, I just got here,” I say. “But I know what happy children sound like.”
“The heart’s gone out of them,” she says.
“I know what that sounds like, too,” I say. “What else has gone wrong?”
“Nothing, yet,” she says. “It’s like I said. We can’t survive without trade, we can’t get trade without horse traffic. The elders are worried, the children know it. As above, so below.” She shrugs. “It’s only been a few months, but we’re past the point where we can pretend it’s just a passing fluke.”
“Do you drink the water from the well?”
She flinches, but turns it into another shrug.
“It was good enough for groundwater before the trouble,” she says. “Spring-fed, they say. Even with the local ideas of sanitation, it’s cleaner than the river by a good sight. Since then? Well, we try to avoid it, but there’s only so much beer to be had, and the water for that has to come from somewhere. And I need water for my baking, and we have to cook, and we have to clean. No one’s taken sick. It smells clean and tastes wholesome.”
“You don’t like drinking it, though.”
“No, I don’t,” she says. “I don’t like thinking about it, either. Can’t get away from it, but I don’t like drinking it. I boil it and say it’s for the tea, but there’s something wrong with it, no matter what the Select say.”