Steelheart by William C. Dietz Page B

to be enriched with table scraps or tilled by hand. The senior Raswa gestured to the plow.
    "Allmy grandson did was to enlarge the chisel—and change the way it's shaped. The plow remains a God-given plow. In fact, the inspiration for this small but meaningful change was nothing less than the shape of the mission itself. Imagine how the structure would look lying on its side, and you'll see what I mean. The new blade simply does what our female folk do. It lifts the soil, breaks it into smaller pieces, and moves material to one side. The residue, like table scraps, is folded into the earth."
    The connection between the mission's architecture and the wedge-shaped plow bottom was entirely fanciful, but the elders didn't know that, and Solly marveled at how gullible they were. Would the lie take Grandfather to hell? If the oldster was scared, Solly saw no sign of it.
    Elder Worwa was stunned. "Would you look at that? Raswa is right!"
    Sensing that victory lay within his grasp, Grandfather Raswa made what he hoped would be the final and telling argument. "Look at my family's fields. Solly used the old blade on one, and the new blade on the other. Guess which is which."
    The elders looked out over the valley and, knowing it as they did, had no difficulty locating the plots assigned to the Raswa clan. Neither patch looked as good as it should have for that time of year; the long winter had seen to that, but the southern parcel was at least twenty percent farther along than its northern neighbor.
    The calculation seemed obvious. Approve the innocuous change, and use it themselves, or forgo a serious increase in productivity—a sacrifice that would be made even more onerous by the fact that as harvests shrank, tithes remained constant. The stockpiles had kept them even so far—but wouldn't last forever.
    Elder Gorly, his back bent by a lifetime's hard work, put their thoughts into words. "Solly acted as an instrument of God, bringing new life to our fields and food to our families. We owe him a debt of gratitude."
    The other elders mumbled their agreement, fingered the wedge-shaped plow bottom, and marveled at the difference it made. A smile rippled the length of Grandfather Raswa's lips, and Solly felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude.
    Brother Parly, never at a loss for words, felt the need to reassert his authority. “Thank you, Elder Gorly. I agree with the judgment rendered by the council—and hereby dismiss the charges brought against Solly Raswa."
    "However," the monk said, his face growing stern, "our approval should not be construed as explicit or implicit approval for unrestrained tinkering. The Raswas would be well advised to fill Solly's days with good, honest work and to monitor the manner in which his evenings are spent. Do I make myself clear?"
    "Very clear," Solly's father said, speaking for the first time. "It shall be as you say."
    "Excellent," Parly responded, allowing an expression of benevolence to steal over his face. "All is as it should be. Let us pray."
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    The regional underpriest had walked the same route for more than ten years. His eye knew each nuance of the land, his ears knew the sounds the birds made, and his feet knew every dip in the road. It narrowed at the point where two great ridges came together, and became little more than a trail.
    The Harmony River roared below, splashed against rocky walls, and threw mist into the air. Mist that turned to a thin coating of ice—no small danger where the pilgrims were concerned. His name was Crono, and he paused to check his flock. The vast majority of the pilgrims were either very young or extremely old, since the rest of the population was needed on the land.
    This year's crop was better than expected. Yes, those from poor villages, with small to nonexistent stockpiles of food, were overly lean, but the rest seemed hardy enough. There were more than fifty of them, each burdened with a fifty-kol bag of grain, all destined for the