8 Winter 515
Dove lifted the threshing flail and brought it down again on the unbound sheaf in front of her. The flail had a long wooden shaft that she held, and a shorter wooden shaft joined to the first shaft by a short chain. The shorter shaft clunked down on the sheaf and bounced sideways. She swung it again, feeling the momentum of the shorter shaft flex on the end of its chain and pull the longer handle along behind it. She swung and thwacked it down and this time her aim was better. Some of the dry grains fell out of the ear onto the threshing floor. Pleased by her success, she thwacked it again and again until all the grain had been knocked out of the sheaf onto the floor and her arms ached gently. Once that was the case, she set the flail aside for a moment, picked up the straw left behind and shook it. The last few loose grains bounced down onto the floor, and she tossed the straw over onto the pile of straw building up along the side of the barn. She fetched another sheaf, cut the binding, and dropped the loose stems on top of the existing grain. She shook out her arms, picked up the flail again and swung it up, round and down onto the unbound sheaf, taking on the threshing task again. The flail thudded and thwacked, the grain bounced, the straw rustled, and she found a rhythm in the steady repetition of movement. It reminded her a little of practicing with her sling, but a flail required a different hold, and - her sore hands reminded her - created a different pattern of callouses.
All too soon, the sheaf gave up the last of its grain and she had to change tasks again. She shook out the straw and tossed it onto the pile, then fetched the broom and swept both the grain and the dusty chaff over to the opposite side, where the winnowers were working in the draft from the big barn doors. Some of the chaff floated up into the air as she swept, and her nose itched to sneeze. She rubbed it, hoping to prevent that, but to no avail. She sneezed once, then twice, in the dusty air. She dug a rag out of her pocket, blew her nose, and then shoved the rag back out of sight and went to fetch another sheaf. She cut the binding, dropped the stems in her work area and went to trade the broom for the flail again. She propped up the broom, but as she reached for the flail, she must have nudged the broom handle, because it tilted sideways and fell. She let go of the flail and grabbed for the broom before it thumped down across her foot. Her fingers raced against gravity and closed around the broom handle before it quite landed - only for her to hear a loud thud as the flail decided to also fall, in the opposite direction. Dove's only consolation was that the flail hadn't landed on her feet.