This time it just be your mum.” “I know.” Kira sighed again. In the past there had been sicknesses that spread from one cott to the next,
with many deaths. When that happened, a huge burning would take place,
followed by a rebuilding that became almost festive with the noise of workers smearing wet mud
over the fitted wooden sides of new structures, methodically slapping it into smoothness.
The charred smell of the burning would remain in the air even as the new cotts rose.
But today there was no festivity. There were only the usual sounds.
Katrina’s death had changed nothing in the lives of the people. She had been there. Now she was gone.
Their lives continued. With the boy still beside her, Kira paused at the well and filled her container with water.
Everywhere she heard arguing. The cadence of bickering was a constant sound in the village:
the harsh remarks of men vying for power; the shrill bragging and taunting of women envious of one another
and irritable with the tykes who whined and whimpered at their feet and were frequently kicked out of the way.
She cupped her hand over her eyes and squinted against the afternoon sun to find the gap where her own cott had been.
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