Read A Winter's Night for Free Online Page B

the entrance to the courtyard, waiting to escort the huge thresher inside to the threshing floor. He held the white stable oxen, freshly fed and brushed, by their halters, prepared to come to the aid of the old horses who were struggling to pull the steam engine, as black as the coal at its core. In theory, the engine should have managed on its own, powered by the steam it generated, easily making it up the slight upgrade that led to the courtyard and pulling the rest of the convoy behind it, but it was already pretty winded at this point and it would be no small accomplishment if it succeeded in turning the pulley on the thresher when it was stock still. Floti, who had yoked his champions two by two, hauled the engine into the courtyard followed by the thresher and the baler made of wood and iron, painted an orangey red color and flaunting the name of the company that had built it in big letters. Behind them were at least a dozen farmhands who shouted “Ho! Ho!” to encourage the draught animals to keep pulling.
    When the entire train had been hauled into place, the foreman gave a smile of satisfaction at seeing all of the parts perfectly aligned on the threshing floor, then gave orders to mount the transmission belt. The drive pulley had no edges and if the belt was not placed with precision it could fall off. If it fell inwards, towards the wall of the thresher, it was just a question of wasting a bit of time to mount it back in place. If it fell outwards it could kill. Floti had seen an accident of this kind take place once and he would never forget how it ended up. One of the workers was hit full force by the belt and he fell to the ground unconscious. A lesion to his spinal cord left him paralyzed for the rest of his days. That event had greatly impressed Floti, making him aware of the profound injustice that governs the world. He’d long realized that his father’s honesty, the balance and justice of his authority within the family, were values limited to a tiny community and that the weight of such values was entirely insignificant in a society dominated by the abuse of power.
    When the foreman gave the signal, the engine let out a long whistle, sounding like a steamboat. Four men armed with pitchforks climbed on top of a pile of sheaves of wheat under the ceiling rafters of the hayloft and started to toss them into the threshing drum. There, another worker pushed them towards the mouth of the monster that swallowed them up and then vomited the clean kernels from the front and the hay and chaff from the sides straight into the baler. It always took a little while before the grain started to spurt out, and when the blonde cascade of kernels began to fill up the sacks, the porters greeted them with a cry of exultation in celebration of the miracle that had taken place for yet another year. They opened their big calloused hands to let the kernels flow through their hands and to feel their caress.
    They’d have bread, for another year.
    Soon the entire courtyard was invaded by a dust as dense and glittery as gold and it became nearly impossible to breathe. The workers knotted handkerchiefs over their noses and mouths and continued their work ceaselessly to the rhythm beat out by the bellowing machine. The ones who had it worst were those working up in the hayloft. When they started there was very little room between the towering stack of sheaves and the sun-scorched ceiling rafters and their sweat soaked through their dust-caked clothing. The bristly awns of the husks crushed by the threshers felt like needles splintering under their skin and created unbearable itching. Then, little by little, as the pile wore down, the air started to circulate a bit better and the distance that separated them from the scorching ceiling began to afford the workers a bit of relief.
    The children were the only ones really having fun. They would pour in from all around, awed by the great collective effort and the rumbling