Lesia's Dream by Laura Langston

stop beside the garden.
    The rain had also made the sunflowers and cabbage sprout! Lesia grinned. The tiny seedlingsmarched in rows, along with beets and hemp and something called kale. A hearty green, Paul had called it when he’d given them the seed. Soon they would be eating their own food. Mama would be so pleased!
    Scrambling down the bank to the shallow creek, she took a breath and waded into the icy water. The rain had made the water level rise; it was deeper than usual. She grappled for the trap, found it and pulled. Nothing! With a grimace of disgust, she reset it and tossed it back into the water. The water was good for bathing and drinking, she thought as she filled the tin can she had brought from the dugout, but not so good for fishing. Maybe Ivan was right. Maybe their neighbour was trapping all the fish for himself.
    The rabbit trap was empty too, sprung by another coyote that had left bits of fur and dried blood behind. If only Mama could manage to eat gopher, Lesia thought as she headed for the south field, the grass rustling against her knees as she brushed against it. If only they had more potatoes. Or some flour.
    In the distance was the farm she had admired the day they’d first arrived. She could see a man—their neighbour—checking his cows. A baby calf. He looked up. She waved her arm and yelled out a greeting.
    He turned away.
    He hadn’t seen her, Lesia decided as she picked up her axe. Perhaps he didn’t want to see her?
    There are many Michals in the world, and they would like us to liue beneath them.
Baba’s words floated through her mind. But Baba had also said that all people are equal in the eyes of God.
    Canada would give Lesia a chance to prove that and more.
    The rain had left the ground moist and heavy, and with each stroke of the axe, grass and soil and flower petals rained into the air, a colorful blend of purple violets and orange lilies and white lupins.
    On and on she worked, hacking and chopping, separating rock from soil, until the sun was high in the sky. By then, she was dripping with sweat and her muscles, well rested after days of inactivity, were tightly knotted. She reached for the tin of water she’d taken from the creek. It was all she could do not to empty the can completely.
    Her stomach growled with hunger. Bozhe, to sit in the shade of the dugout and eat a real meal instead of watery soup! Instead, she sat by her rock pile, dipped two fingers into the tin of water and dabbed her cheeks … the nape of her neck. Aaaaaahhh. Warm but refreshing.
    There was a rustle from behind. Lesia froze.
    It was an animal. Was it a skunk?
    Putting the tin down, she pulled herself to a crouch and slowly turned. Her body was stiff; she was ready to run. There was another rustle. Then a flash of brown-gold. It was a prairie chicken.
    Mama loved fowl! Maybe, just maybe, if she was fast, she could kill it. Lesia grabbed a large rock and aimed.
    Feathers flew. A howl of protest sounded from the innocent bird. Stunned, it thrashed about and attempted flight.
    Grabbing her axe, Lesia lifted it over her head and lunged forward. She struck out once, twice, unsure if she was hitting the ground, the bird or both. But she would
not
let it get away The prairie chicken flapped and screeched. Bile rose and lodged in Lesia’s throat. She had never killed anything in her life. The closest she’d come was plucking feathers from the old hens in Shuparka.
    Finally, the creature was still. Dead.
    Tossing the axe aside, she forced her feet to move forward, to look at what she’d done. Her blows had severed the chicken’s neck. She had decapitated it. But her other blows must have hit the ground because the body was in one piece.
    It was a good size. More than enough to feed five.
    Swallowing the lump in her throat, she bent down. The nearby grass was splattered with dropletsof blood. More blood pooled on the ground under the bird’s neck, and blood trickled