The Knowledge Stone Read Free Page B

smile, ‘even if no-one else does.’
    The wooden plough lay at the edge of the field where it had been left at the end of the last ploughing season. Its metal parts were rusty but the boy knew that the rust would be cleared away as soon as he started ploughing. Heaving and straining, he pulled the plough upright and propped it up with a stick. Then he manoeuvred the bullock round to the front of the plough and fastened the harness ropes to the cleats. Holding the plough upright on its single wooden wheel and keeping the ploughing blade clear of the earth, he tapped the bullock on its back with a stick, calling for it to walk forward. The animal complied and, in due course, they reached the top of the field where they turned around and were ready to begin ploughing.
    There were times when the boy really enjoyed his work on the farm and this was one of them. Despite his inexperience, lack of strength and diminutive stature, he knew he did a good job of ploughing.
    ‘Not that Old Malik ever says so,’ he thought ruefully, ‘but the fact he doesn’t complain means that he must be satisfied. I do wish he would be nice to me, just occasionally.’ He sighed wistfully.
    As expected, the ground was dry and difficult. The plough stalled and jammed many times and the bullock had to heave with all its power to pull it free. There were some occasions when even the strength of the bullock was insufficient and then the boy had to dig around the large jagged stones and heave them out of the furrow. Some stones were so big and heavy that the boy could not lift them and they had to be rolled laboriously, end over end, to the edge of the field. Soon, his hands became reddened, bruised and sore.
    When the boy eventually reached the end of the first furrow, he looked back to admire his work: ‘Not bad,’ he thought, ‘quite straight and it looks to be deep enough.’ He hoped fervently that Old Malik would be satisfied with his work.
    The plough was turned around and the second furrow made in the same agonisingly slow way. These first two furrows were followed by the third, the fourth and the fifth, all neatly parallel to each other. The sun was now high in the sky. The boy stopped and mopped his beaded forehead with a rag, squinting upwards at the blazing sun.
    ‘Whew! It’s really hot now,’ he said aloud. Then he jumped as the harsh, strident tones of Old Malik’s voice pierced his delightful reverie.
    ‘Talking to yourself, are you? Just about what I expect. You’ll grow up to be a madman – that is, if you live long enough to grow up!’ Old Malik thought this a very good joke and laughed loudly and unkindly. By this time he had walked to the top of the field where he scrutinised Joachim’s furrows narrowly.
    The boy waited in silence, trembling a little.
    Old Malik stood completely still and said nothing for several minutes. Then, he turned on his heel and walked off down the hill. ‘You can eat after you give that beast a drink.’
    Standing some distance away, Joachim barely heard the rapidly fading words, carried away on the wind. Obediently, the boy visited the stream and fetched water for his bullock; he also watered Old Malik’s animal at the bottom of the field. Although Old Malik had not ordered him to do this, he knew from bitter experience that he would be in trouble if he did not attend to the other beast. At times, Old Malik used such tricks as an excuse for beating the boy.
    ‘I hope this will please him,’ Joachim thought. He also fed both animals by laying down a pile of sweet-smelling hay for each. Then, sitting under the thin branches of the spindly tree in the top corner of the field, he spread out his daytime meal on the cloth. The boy observed with gratitude that the slices of bread were thicker than those he had been given in the morning. There was a thick piece of cheese and a small pat of butter, too. To drink, Maretta had included a pot of mead, made from the honey produced on the farm.
    ‘What