In Another Without My Smartphone

The morning sun slipped through the cracked window, painting the room in streaks of gold that did little to warm the chill in the air. I woke to the sound of Levi's boots scuffing against the cottage floor, followed by the sharp clatter of a tin mug hitting the table. The kid was trying to be quiet, bless him, but stealth wasn't his strong suit. Neither was patience, judging by the way he was muttering to himself about the fire not catching fast enough.

I rolled out of bed, the straw mattress crunching under me, and stretched until my spine gave a satisfying pop. The room was still new enough to feel like someone else's, but familiar enough that I didn't trip over the desk on my way to the wardrobe. My tunic smelled faintly of yesterday's bread and the fields I'd wandered through, but it would do. Clean clothes were a luxury for another day.

"Levi," I called softly, stepping into the main room, "you planning to burn the place down before breakfast?"

He froze, one hand clutching a stick he'd been poking into the hearth, the other gripping a half-charred loaf that looked like it had lost a fight with the flames. His eyes darted to me, wide and guilty, like a fox caught in a henhouse.

"I was just… warming it," he mumbled, gesturing at the bread.

"Warming it or sacrificing it to the fire gods?" I asked, crossing to the hearth and nudging the stick out of his hand. The flames were low but steady, more smoke than heat. "Move over, apprentice. Let's not add 'arson' to your list of skills."

"Arson? What's that?" Levi asked in confusion.

"Arson," I said, carefully shifting the burning log so the flames caught better, "is when you set something on fire on purpose. Usually buildings. Usually a very bad idea."

Levi's eyes went even wider. "I wasn't gonna do that!"

"I know," I reassured him with a grin. "But given your track record with that poor loaf, I thought we should clarify."

He pouted, hugging the half-burnt bread to his chest like a wounded pet. "I just wanted it warm. Like you did yesterday."

I took a deep breath, the smoky warmth filling my lungs. "Okay, fair. Let's start over."

I rummaged through the shelf for another, less charred loaf and set it by the hearth on a flat stone. "Like this," I said, motioning for him to watch. "Slow heat, away from direct flame. It'll warm up without turning into a weapon."

Levi watched with rapt attention, leaning so far forward I had to tug him back by the shoulder to keep him from singeing his eyebrows.

"You really didn't do much of this before, did you?" I asked, glancing at him.

He shook his head. "Uncle did all the cooking. I mostly carried water or weeded the rows. Sometimes I helped mix the flour."

I nodded slowly. "Well, you're learning fast. Even if your first attempt was... spirited."

He cracked a shy, fleeting smile—small and crooked, but it was there. Progress.

I poured us each a cup of weak barley tea, sliding one across the table to him. He clutched it with both hands, as though it might vanish if he let go.

A moment of quiet settled between us, filled only by the gentle crackle of the fire and the occasional creak of the cottage walls as they adjusted to the morning chill.

Then came the sound of shuffling behind us—Ruld, emerging from his room like a bear poked too early from hibernation. His hair was even wilder than usual, and his good hand rubbed at his eyes as though the act of waking was a personal insult.

"You two plotting my demise already?" he grumbled, sinking heavily into a chair.

"Hungry, are we?" I teased and Ruld grunted.

Ruld squinted at the steaming tea cup I set in front of him, eyeing it like it might leap up and bite him. "If that's the same barley tea as yesterday, I might rather starve."

Levi's eyes widened in horror. "You can't starve, Uncle!"

I snorted, leaning back against the hearth. "Relax, Levi. He's just grumbling. It's his morning ritual—some people stretch, some people meditate. Your uncle prefers to threaten his breakfast."

Ruld shot me a baleful look but picked up the cup anyway, cradling it in his big, calloused hand. He took a cautious sip, grimaced, then sighed through his nose. "Still tastes like rainwater wrung from an old boot," he muttered. But he didn't put it down.

"Speaking from experience?"

Ruld snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching as though it had briefly considered turning into a smile before thinking better of it.

"Boy," he said, jabbing a finger at me with the cup still in hand, "I've tasted rainwater from actual boots that had more flavor than this."

"Ah," I said solemnly, "so that's where your refined palate comes from. All those years in the prestigious boot-sommelier academy."

Levi let out a surprised giggle, nearly sloshing his tea onto the table. Ruld's eyebrows climbed halfway up his forehead at the sound.

"Don't encourage him," he grumbled, but his voice was softer than before.

I shrugged, nudging Levi's bread closer now that it was nicely warmed, edges golden but not charred beyond recognition. "Encouragement builds confidence. And besides," I said, slicing off a piece and handing it to Levi, "if we're going to survive harvest week without you trying to lift a plow with your teeth, someone here needs to have a sense of humor."

Ruld grumbled again but took a piece of the bread I offered him without further complaint.

We sat like that for a moment—three mismatched souls gathered around a battered table, tea steam curling up into the beams above us, the morning light making dust motes look like floating fireflies.

Levi chewed in thoughtful silence, eyes drifting between me and his uncle like he was studying the dynamics of a new animal herd.

Finally, he set down his tea with careful precision. "What do we do today?"

"We wait." I answered.

"Wait?" Levia looked at me like I spoke of flying. Rul wasn't far off, his eyes screamed of a bloody murder. 

"Not by much." I pacified the two. "Just for sometime."

"Oh! Okay then." Levi accepted my answer while Ruld kept boring holes in me with his eye. I, meanwhile, kept my peace.

******

The silence was broken by a knock on the door. 

"I'll check." Saying that I got up from my chair and made my way to the door. The door opened with a thud of the bolt and creaked open. 

A dozen or so men stood on the dirt path, boots caked in mud, clothes browned from the fields and sun, faces roughened by seasons of wind and sweat. Most of them looked like they'd woken up angry and decided to stay that way. At their head stood a broad-shouldered man with a neck thicker than my waist, a sun-scorched face half-hidden under a battered straw hat.

His eyes flicked past me into the cottage, then back to me—sharp, measuring, as if trying to figure out which shelf to place me on: nuisance or threat.

"Morning," I said, leaning lightly against the doorframe. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

The man in front took a step forward, his boots squelching in the mud. "You the one who claimed to know a way to harvest all our crops?" 

"Yes. That would be me." I replied, giving the crowd a glance.

He looked me up and down like he was inspecting a mule at market—finding too many faults to count and already regretting the trip.

"You're barely out of boyhood," he spat. "You plan on harvesting three fields with those twigs you call arms?"

A few of the men behind him snorted, one of them hawking and spitting into the dirt. Another shifted, arms folded, as though they were just waiting for an excuse to swing.

I tilted my head, letting the morning light catch my grin just enough to make it look careless, easy. "Well, I was planning on using my brain first. The arms are a backup plan."

A ripple went through them—some amusement, some irritation, some surprise that I hadn't started babbling apologies.

The big man stepped closer, the boards of the porch creaking under his weight. His voice dropped to something low and heavy. "Listen, boy. This isn't the city. We don't have time for experiments or jokes. We need these fields cleared before the rains come. You playing hero here could ruin all of us."

I let the words hang for a moment, breathing in the sharp smell of damp earth and sweat and old anger. Then I shrugged, pushing off the doorframe.

"You're right," I said, and his eyebrows twitched upward in surprise. "Besies, I never claimed to be able to miraculously harvest your fields in a day."

I stood up straighter, not leaning on the doorframe. "I said 'Come to Ruld's place if you want to find a way to harvest your fields quicker.' Or am I wrong?"

None said a word. Then one among them spoke, a tall man with lanky arms. "So, what's the way?"

"Cooperation." I said. "Ever heard of it?"

A few of them shifted, glancing at each other like I'd just suggested they knit each other sweaters for winter. The big man in front — who I'd mentally labeled Neck — stared at me, jaw tight enough to crack walnuts.

"Cooperation?" Neck repeated, as if tasting a spoiled fruit. "We do cooperate. Each man works his own field, same as always."

"Exactly," I said, stepping forward so I could look each of them in the eye. "And that's why every year some of you finish early, some finish late, and some lose half their yield to early rain. Meanwhile, you're all exhausted, short on coin, and cursing each other in the tavern until next planting season."

A ripple of quiet, like wind through dry grain. One of the older men — thin, wiry, with a face like a crumpled map — muttered under his breath, but didn't speak up.

I went on, voice calm but clear, slicing into that silence. "What if, instead of everyone struggling alone, you all helped each other? We go field by field, all hands together. The first field finishes in a day or two, then move to the next, and so on. By the time the rains come, everyone's harvest is done, not just the fastest or the luckiest."

A few of them shifted again — uncomfortable, but listening. Levi had come up behind me now, peeking from the doorway, his eyes huge. Ruld leaned back in his chair inside, silent but watching.

Neck spat into the dirt. "And why should we help that lazy fool down by the west slope, or old Toma who charges double for grain? Why should we lift a finger for the man who wouldn't lend us seed last spring?"

"Who said everyone?" I said, my eyebrows exaggeratedly arching. I began to walk towards the crowd. 

"Who said everyone?" I repeated, stepping off the porch so they had to look directly at me, not just down at some kid in a doorway. My boots sank slightly into the mud, but I kept my balance, meeting each gaze as though I had all the time in the world.

I let the question hang, then tilted my head with a small, teasing smile. "I never said help every single man in town, no matter what. All of you have come here for the answer. Have you not? All of you have the same goal. Harvest the lategrains. Others didn't but you all did. So the answer is simple: all of you will help each other harvest."

The men shifted again, a murmur rolling through them like a hesitant breeze. The lanky one scratched his jaw, the older man looked at his boots, and even Neck's scowl twitched like it wanted to become something else.

I took another slow step forward, letting the morning light catch the muddy hem of my tunic. "Look, you all came here because you're desperate. You know the rains won't wait for your pride or grudges. You want those fields cleared? Then you need each other. You don't have to invite your worst enemy to dinner — you just need to swing a scythe beside him for a day."

The lanky man raised his head. "And what about tools? We don't have enough scythes for everyone."

I snapped my fingers. "Good question. We pool tools. You share them — yes, you might have to lend yours out for a day. But guess what? In return, you get ten, maybe fifteen men on your field tomorrow instead of just your own tired arms and your neighbor's half-interested son. You finish in a day or two instead of a week."

The old man with the crumpled-map face finally lifted his head. His voice was rough but clear. "What if someone slacks off? Or goes back on his words?" 

"That won't happen." I replied. 

"Why?" he asked again.

"Beacuse if he did, then one others might slack off on his or two if his field gets done and he backs out the next season he'll not be a part of this cooperative. Simple." I replied.

A heavy silence fell. The kind that makes even the birds forget to chirp.

I let it breathe — tension has its uses, after all. Then I spread my hands slowly, palms open.

"You've all worked these fields your whole lives. You know every patch of stubborn clay, every fickle weed. You also know exactly who pulls his weight and who doesn't. So, you enforce it yourselves. You keep each other in line. Because the moment one man cheats, he's out. No help next season, no tools, no extra hands. Just his own aching back and his pride for company."

Their eyes moved among each other, quick and wary, like stray dogs sniffing an unfamiliar alley. One or two started nodding, hesitant at first, then more firmly. The lanky man gave a short, thoughtful grunt. The older man rubbed his chin, his weather-creased face softening.

Even Neck — the last bastion of stubbornness — shifted his stance, as though his legs had decided to negotiate behind his back.

Finally, Neck spat again — not out of contempt this time, but like he needed to clear something bitter from his mouth. "And how do we do it?"

"Leave it to me." I smiled. 

I clapped my hands together, the sound sharp in the morning air, pulling every eye back to me. "Alright, here's how this works. We start with one field—Ruld's, since he's down an arm and Levi here isn't exactly built for swinging a scythe solo." I nodded toward the kid, who puffed out his chest like I'd just called him a knight instead of a ten-year-old with questionable kitchen skills.

"Today," I continued, "we clear as much of Ruld's lategrain as we can. Every man who shows up brings what tools he has—scythes, sickles, whatever's sharp and not rusted to dust. We work together, move fast, and finish by sundown if we can. Tomorrow, we pick another field—one of yours." I pointed at the lanky man, who blinked like he'd been caught stealing pie. "Then the next day, another. We keep going until every field in this group is done, or the rains beat us to it."

The men exchanged glances again, but this time the murmurs were less skeptical, more calculating. They were starting to see it—not just the idea, but the shape of it, the rhythm. Like a field song they hadn't sung in years but could still hum by heart.

Neck crossed his arms, his hat tilting back enough to show the sweat-streaked lines on his forehead. "And you're organizing this? You, the city boy who looks like he's never held a scythe?"

I grinned, unbothered. "I'm not swinging the scythes. I'm just the one making sure you don't trip over each other. Besides," I added, lowering my voice just enough to draw them in, "I'm not here for glory. I'm here because I'd rather eat bread than mud this winter. Same as you."

That got a chuckle from the lanky man, and even the older one's crumpled-map face cracked into something resembling a smile. Neck didn't laugh, but his shoulders loosened, and that was close enough.

"Fine," Neck said, the word falling like a stone dropped into a well. "Ruld's field. Today. We'll see if you're all talk."

"Fair enough," I said, stepping back toward the cottage. "Meet here in an hour. Bring your tools, your sons if they're old enough to work, and maybe a waterskin or two. It's going to be a long day."

The men dispersed, some with nods, others with grumbles, but they moved with purpose, their boots kicking up dust as they headed back to their own cottages and barns. I watched them go, the weight of their trust—or at least their curiosity—settling on me like a second satchel.

Levi tugged at my sleeve, his voice low but eager. "You really think they'll come back?"

I glanced down at him, his wide eyes reflecting the morning sun. "They'll come," I said, ruffling his hair. "They're stubborn, not stupid. And they know a good deal when they hear one."

Ruld had limped to the doorway by now, his splinted arm tucked against his side like a broken wing. He didn't say anything at first, just watched the last of the men disappear down the path. Then he turned to me, his eyes sharp despite the pain etched into the lines of his face.

"You're either mad or foolish," he said, his voice rough but not unkind. "I haven't decided which."

"Plenty of time for you to figure it out," I replied, clapping him lightly on his good shoulder. "For now, let's get you back inside before you decide to start harvesting with a spoon."

He grunted—because of course he did—and let me guide him back to his chair. Levi scampered ahead, already digging through a crate for a whetstone to sharpen the few tools Ruld had that weren't dulled from years of use.

******

The hour passed faster than I expected. By the time the sun had climbed high enough to burn off the morning chill, the yard outside the cottage was alive with the clatter of tools and the low hum of voices. The men returned—fifteen of them, some with sons in tow, others with wives who carried baskets of bread and dried fruit to keep the crew fed. Scythes gleamed in the sunlight, some freshly sharpened, others patched together with twine and hope.

Neck was there, of course, his straw hat now pushed back to reveal a scowl that seemed more habit than hostility. The lanky man—whose name, I learned, was Torren—had brought two teenage boys who looked like they'd rather be anywhere else but were too scared of their father to say so. The older man with the crumpled-map face, called Eldon, leaned on a sickle that looked older than he was, his eyes scanning the field like he could already see the grain falling.

I stepped onto a low stump to get their attention, the chatter dying down as they turned to face me. "Alright," I called, loud enough to carry over the rustle of the wind. "We start at the north end of Ruld's field, work south in rows. Two men per row, one cutting, one bundling. If you've got a son, he can help stack or carry water. We move together, no one racing ahead, no one lagging behind. Clear?"

A few nods, a few grunts. Neck folded his arms, but he didn't argue. Good enough.

"Levi," I said, turning to the kid, who was practically vibrating with excitement at being included. "You're on water duty. Keep the buckets filled and don't let anyone keel over from thirst. Got it?"

He nodded so fast I thought his head might fall off, then darted to the well with a bucket nearly as big as he was.

I hopped down from the stump and gestured toward the field. "Let's move."

The work began slowly, the men finding their rhythm like a band of musicians who hadn't played together in years. Scythes swung, grain fell, and the air filled with the dry, sweet smell of cut stalks. The women moved between rows, tying bundles with practiced hands, while the younger boys hauled them to a cart Ruld had dragged out of his barn before his arm gave out.

I didn't swing a scythe—Neck was right, I wasn't built for it—but I moved among them, keeping the pace steady, redirecting stragglers, and making sure no one started a feud over who was cutting too close to whose row. Ruld watched from the edge of the field, leaning against a fencepost, his face unreadable but his eyes never leaving the work.

By midday, the field was half-cleared, the golden sea shrinking row by row. The men were sweating, but they were talking now—gruff banter, complaints about sore backs, even a few laughs. Torren's boys had stopped sulking and were racing each other to stack bundles faster. Levi darted around with his bucket, splashing more water on himself than anyone else but grinning like he'd been crowned king of the harvest.

I paused to catch my breath, wiping sweat from my brow as I surveyed the progress. It was working. Not perfectly—there were still grumbles, still moments when someone swung a scythe too close to a neighbor's shin—but it was working.

Eldon caught my eye, his sickle resting on his shoulder. "Not bad, city boy," he said, his voice carrying just enough respect to make me suspicious. "Didn't think you'd pull it off."

"Day's not over yet," I replied, but I couldn't help the grin that crept onto my face.

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, the field was nearly done. The last rows went faster, the men moving with a kind of quiet determination that hadn't been there in the morning. By the time the sky turned pink and gold, Ruld's field was a patchwork of stubble and stacked bundles, the cart loaded high enough to creak under the weight.

The men gathered near the cottage, passing around waterskins and the bread the women had brought. Neck approached me, his hat now in his hand, his face still red from the sun but less hostile than before.

"Whose field tomorrow?" he asked, his voice low but not quite a challenge.

I glanced at Ruld, who gave a slight nod from his post by the fence. "Torren's," I said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Same time, same deal. Bring your tools, bring your hands. We keep going."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the group, quieter than I expected but solid. They were tired, but they were in. For now.

As the men dispersed, heading back to their homes with promises to return at dawn, I felt Levi tug at my sleeve again. "Did we do it?" he asked, his voice small but hopeful.

I looked out at the cleared field, the neat stacks of grain glowing faintly in the twilight. "Yeah," I said, resting a hand on his shoulder. "We did it. One down."

The cottage was quiet that night, the kind of quiet that comes after a day of hard work and small victories. Levi was asleep before his head hit the pillow, and Ruld stayed up only long enough to grumble about the state of his fence before retreating to his cot. I sat by the hearth, the fire low and warm, but my mind awake.

I thought back—not about herbs or spells this time, but about the day, the men, the field, the way they'd moved from skepticism to something like trust. It wasn't much, but it was a start. A root taking hold in stubborn soil.

Outside, the first stars blinked into view, and the air carried the faint, heavy promise of rain. Tomorrow would be another field, another fight against time and weather. But for now, the cottage was warm, the grain was safe, and I had a bed that didn't squeak. So far, a good life.