Sect Year 5 · eleventh month · night of day 28 · the fifty-second life: the Haskett bend on the river, his eighteenth year and the years after
The seed took. By midsummer the furrows ran green from the gate down to the river, and the blades stood so thick in the wet clay that a man on the headland could not see his own boots. Pryce Haskett came down to the bend on the first morning of the harvest with the tally board under his arm and his hat pushed back. He looked at the green for a long time without speaking. Then he looked at Emmer.
“Best yield in the valley,” he said. “My grandfather never had a field like this, and he had the better land.”
“The ground did it.”
“The ground didn’t pay the wage.” Pryce unhooked a purse from his belt and counted coins into Emmer’s palm, one at a time. It was the back wage, every copper Hob had docked during the bread month. When the coins were done he set a loaf on top, still warm from the bake-house, and tucked it under Emmer’s arm. He didn’t say the thing had been right. He didn’t say it had been wrong. He turned his face toward the river and went back up the headland.
