Read Bhotta's Tears: Book Two of the Black Bead Chronicles for Free Online

keep that promise. Tam had a day, maybe two, to ask his questions. If there were monsters lurking beyond the edge of the Escarpment, testing the limits of their prison, then she wanted to be prepared when they found her.
     

 
     
    Chapter Three
     
    Cheobawn stood up and leaned over backwards to ease the ache in the back of her legs. She looked off in the distance, noting the dozens of backs stooped over in the heat.  Harvesting the melon fields was miserable work. Late summer meant cloudless skies and dry heat that sucked the moisture out of the air. Even though it was still early morning, the sun beat through the thin fabric of her summer-weight tunic and sweat beaded under the band of her straw hat to trickle down the sides of her face.
    The elders had blocked the irrigation lines days before to dry out the fields in order to facilitate the harvest. Now the ground was so dry that fine dust puffed into the air with every step and settled on her clothes and skin, turning the sweat into mud. On top of that discomfort was the constant contact with the melon leaves and the fine, itchy hairs that covered them. She wanted to wipe the sweat off her face and scratch at every bit of exposed skin, but did not dare for fear of smearing grit into her eyes and driving the hairs deeper into her skin. It was best to keep focused on the job.
    She bent again, hooked her short curved blade around the thick stalk just above the melon and jerked the blade through. With a quick toss, she sent it tumbling into the walking cart. Bend, cut, toss. Bend, cut, toss, with an occasional pause to give the cart a little nudge. The cart walked itself forward, rotating its four pairs of feet, planting one pair at a time in the dirt.
    When the cart was full, its feet sunk deep in the soft soil of the field, she holstered her blade and nudged the walker into motion, pushing it gently whenever it slowed. The cart obligingly walked itself down to the end of the row of melons where the boys driving the electric collector wagons could unload it for her. For an unpowered mechanical device, the walking cart was surprisingly efficient at doing what it was designed to do, which was to move heavy loads over the top of the planted rows without damaging the fragile plants.
    Sigrid and Meshel, his Packmate, had drawn collection duty for the dawn shift. Sigrid smiled at her from underneath the wide brim of his hat as he and Meshel hoisted the walker into the air and tipped its contents into the deep bed of straw in the back of the electric wagon. Cheobawn returned the older boy’s smile, peering shyly out from under her own hat.
    Since her first foray, Sigrid greeted her with a smile every time they met now. He was a silent boy whose awkwardness covered hidden depths which, in her mind, gave them something in common. The fiasco at the end of her first foray had bonded them in some strange way. She did not totally understand it. Somehow it felt right to have allies outside the circle of Mora’s influence and the confines of her Pack.
    “Excellent work, Little Mother,” he said. “You set a fine example for others to follow.”
    “Thank you,” Cheobawn said, grateful for the compliment.  
    “Too bad her own Pack can’t learn from her example,” Meshel laughed. “Alain plays with his walker more than he cuts.”
    Cheobawn glanced back down the row to where Alain was pushing his cart back and forth, studying its construction. He seemed to take endless delight in watching the mechanism that controlled the motion of the cart’s many legs.
    “Don’t tire yourself,” Sigrid cautioned her, positioning her walker at the end of her row for her. “Remember to sip from your waterskin frequently and leave a bit for the midday shift.”
    Such obvious advice would have been annoying coming from an elder, but Cheobawn found Sigrid’s concern sweetly endearing. She gave him one last shy smile before she nudged her walker into motion.
    Her Pack worked the rows around