At dawn, Edric repeatedly rubbed the few copper coins on the table with fingers as rough as old bark. Sweat had polished them smooth. This was the last decent money the village had.
Outside the window, the sky was gray, much like his mood.
"Dad, everything's loaded."
His eldest son, Owen, pushed the door open and entered, bringing with him the countryside's familiar smell of hay and livestock.
"Two cartloads of oats, one of potatoes, and those baskets of eggs Aunt Anna saved up... Everything's tied down tight."
Edric grunted and stood, his hunched back giving a faint creak.
He was the head of Sharp Hill Village, and its oldest resident.
Traveling more than twenty kilometers to the market in Koltsovo Town to trade for salt, matches, kerosene, and a pitiful amount of sugar and cloth was the village's most important quarterly undertaking. As village head, he had to lead the trip himself.
"Let's go. Don't let the sun catch us lagging."
His voice was hoarse. He picked up the oak staff worn smooth against the wall. The road was not entirely safe. Wolves, venomous snakes, and farmers driven mad by poverty were all threats.
Soon, with the first ray of sunlight breaking over the horizon, the carts creaked onto the road.
An old horse pulled one cart, while Owen and another young man pulled another. The women trudged behind them, carrying baskets of eggs.
Edric had walked this road all his life. Even with his eyes closed, he could count every birch tree and every pothole along it.
The fields were silent except for the wheels and footsteps, just as they had been for decades.
As the creaking carts approached Koltsovo Town, Edric instinctively slowed the group, preparing for the tax collectors at the entrance to fleece them and