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The meadowland sloped gently down from the edge of the rise behind her to the lip several hundred yards south. There was the rough first-pass section nearest, the lumpy brown-green quilt of the area that had been plowed twice, then the smooth reddish brown seedbed the disk harrow left. The disks had an automatic neatness built in, chopping and mixing grass and roots and dirt into a light mixed mass. The smooth look of it was sharp contrast to work that depended on the skill of human hands, or the strength of human shoulders.
The rest of the clan were working on the finished section; adults turning over a spadeful of earth at regular intervals, the children behind them dropping in a section of seed potato and a dollop of fertilizer. Some of the children still wore green blazers, much the worse for wear and grime; most worked barefoot and in their knee-shorts.
They'd bury the cut eyes and mound up the earth on the next pass. It wasn't as heavy work as plowing, but it was monotonous; she'd done her share of that, too.
"We're getting it done," she said, almost to herself. "By the Lord and the Lady, I feel like it's aging me a year a day-not surprising, with days that feel like years-but it's getting done."
Now if the weather cooperates and the bugs and blights stay away … We should have an Esbat soon. There are lots of crop-magic spells.
John Carson nodded. "By the time this field is finished, we'll all know what we're doing, a little more at least," he said. "That'll mean my fields go faster, for which I thank you. Not to mention this fall-come November, we have to start planting the winter grains."
"That harrow's yours," Juniper pointed out. "And it's saving us a lot of time. Neighbors should help each other. Not to mention that silage you're giving us. Big horses like these can't work on grass alone."
"Neighbors need to help each other more now more than ever," Carson said somberly. "I don't know what I'd have done without your plow teams, Ms. Mackenzie."
Most of them courtesy of the museum, but let's not mention that, she thought.
"Good of you to take in all those kids," Carson went on. "I've got my brother and his family and a cousin and his, besides those three the Reverend Dixon talked me into, and I had to turn away others-it hurt, but what could I do? Almost wish I'd been a Mormon instead of a Presbyterian- we'd have had more food stored. As it is I slaughtered more of my stock than I liked."
A snort. "Not that it mattered after those bastards in Salem cleaned me out, eh? It leaves the silage for the plow teams, at least."
Just then a thudding of hooves came from the stream-side road. De
Juniper worried about it-it just wasn't safe not to have more people watching, given the number of hungry refugees about-but there was nothing else they could do, just yet. Not keeping careful enough watch might cause a disaster; not planting the crop in time would certainly kill them all.
A rider in blue denim overalls came through; a girl in her late teens, blond hair streaming. She halted for a moment to talk to De
"Dad!" she said, and then: "Lady Juniper."
De
"There's people headed up here," she said. "We saw them pass our place-we're plowing the old south field, Dad, like you said-and they went right up the creek road. Uncle Jason said I should come right up and tell you."
"How many?" Juniper said quickly.
Could it be a foraging party?
The thought brought a cold chill. That was the latest bright idea of the remnant of the state government, parts of which were still hanging on in Salem. They'd started organizing bicycle-borne townfolk and refugees to go out and requisition food and livestock for issue as rations to the urban population, and the refugee camps-Salem hadn't quite collapsed totally, the way she heard Portland and Eugene had done.
John Carson looked equally frightened. That was how he'd lost most of the considerable herd of cattle he'd had before the Change, that and casual theft by passing scavengers, and the remaining dozen head were grazing on Mackenzie land, for safety's sake.
"Just four, on foot," Cynthia Carson said, and Juniper blew out her cheeks in relief. "They're leading a horse; one woman, three men. No bows or crossbows-just the usual."
For safety's sake, Juniper still fetched the crossbow hanging beside the seat of the disk harrow and spa
Chuck brought his sword and buckler, too, his hand resting on the hilt as he peered down into the shadow of the streamside road. Then: "Alex!" he blurted, letting the long sword swing free.
Chuck's younger brother smiled and swayed, leaning against the horse he'd been leading; he had the family looks-sandy blond and leanly muscular. The girl beside him wasn't one Juniper remembered, but she'd never been much involved with Alex, since he wasn't of the Craft and didn't like her type of music-he'd been strictly a thrash-metal fan. The closest they'd come was when she'd hired him to do repairs on her barn in '95; he was a builder by trade.
The two young men behind were strangers as well-one fair and short, the other dark and tall. Polite strangers, though, since they laid down the ax and shovel they'd been carrying. All four were gaunt but not skeletal, and all carried heavy packs; the horse's load was mainly large sacks made of heavy paper, bulging with something small and homogenous, and topped by bedrolls and blankets.
"Oh, God," Alex said. "I thought we'd never make it, honestly, I did… And you're here…."
He was almost crying with relief, and the haunted-eyed young woman clung to him with tears streaking the grime on her face.
"I… this is Barbara. Vince and Steve, they saved our lives. We got caught around Lebanon by some… "
He swallowed. Everyone winced; they knew what he meant. Not everyone out there was starving quite yet, but enough were, the more so since everyone who did have food was hoarding it against the future. Some were already hungry enough to eat anything at all-and there was only one large animal still common and easily caught.
"Eaters," the girl whispered.
Suddenly his eyes went wide. "Can we stay?" he blurted, looking from face to face.
Juniper caught eyes, willing acceptance; there were nods, mostly; Chuck's and Judy's were emphatic.
"Of course," she said, turning back to the younger Barstow. With a smile: "And the horse you rode in on, too."
The animal was tired-looking, but well-fed otherwise- the valley wasn't short of its sort of food. And it was a saddle breed, unlike Cagney and Lacey or the big Suffolks Chuck had liberated from the living-history exhibit. That would be useful.
"Welcome to the Clan Mackenzie, Alex," she said. "What's in the sacks?"
He gri