Kestrel jumped when the ringing began. Her alarm clock jiggled back and forth as the tiny hammer whacked first one bell and then the other. Kestrel's hand flew to smack the switch to turn it off, and as she did, she told herself for the millionth time that she shouldn't jump. It was just a way to wake up in the morning, but it didn't matter. With a yelp, the black and white farm dog jumped off of the foot of the bed. Really, it was her little sister, Mallee's dog, but if Mallee kicked too much in the night, Ginger inevitably made her way to the foot of Kestrel's bed. Only a six-year-old would name a black and white dog Ginger, but she had, and now the name was stuck to the animal. Ginger waited until Kestrel had left the bed before she crawled back in and stretched out in the warm spot that Kestrel had just left. She would be up soon so that she didn't miss any treats that she could scrounge during milking and cooking breakfast, but she never jumped at the alarm clock, not the way Kestrel did.
Even though she always woke up sitting and with her heart pounding, usually she was able to calm herself quickly. This morning she tried to slow her pulse, but telling herself to calm down today, to breath carefully didn't help. Today was the Exit Exam.
She picked the clock up, twisted the key in its back, and set it down again. Right now the thing she wanted most in the world was to put her head back on the pillow and close her eyes, just for a minute. And she couldn't. She sighed and lit a candle. Her mother didn't like her to have a candle in her room because of the danger of fire. But Kestrel hated to get dressed by the light of a magic cube. The light made her face distorted with harsh shadows, and with a candle flame, she could hold her fingers close and pretend that it warmed her a little.
Even though the snow had melted, the early morning air was still cold enough to freeze a skim of ice on her water basin. The water chilled her hands and made her flinch when she splashed some on her face. Cold made her feel tight and incapable of moving. All of her muscles pulled in on themselves, trying to keep warm. She wished that just for once she wouldn't have to get up until the sun had warmed things up.
At least her EI uniform was thick, though it was scratchy and uncomfortable. She looked at it for a moment. How many more times would she wear it? As awful as it was, she wasn't sure that she was ready to give it up.
She tugged her gray shirt over her head. She pulled on the long, thick socks, the ankle-length blue jumper, the waist-length jacket. The boots were black and heavy because shoes weren't part of the uniform, so everyone in Terence Hill had the same kind of boots that did not match the EI uniforms because they were also boots that you wore to muck stalls and tromp over fields. Kestrel didn't think about them except to reflect that she would have to leave time to clean off the farm mud and muck before she left. She picked up her light cube and blew out the candle.
Downstairs, she went to the pegs by the back door for her farm coat, a big, heavy thing made of home-carded wool that her mother had woven the cloth for. It had been dyed--first with tobacco leaves and then with years of mud and grass stains. It kept her warm, and kept her uniform clean while she did her chores. Her mittens were more of the same--big heavy things of wool yarn, made to keep her fingers warm when she went outside in the cold rather than to look beautiful.
Outside, it was still dark, very dark because no stars peeked out from behind the cloudy sky. Overcast skies should have made the morning a little warmer, but not today. A breeze that felt full of ice flecks tried to bite its way through her coat. Kestrel felt for the grooves in her light cube, flicked the switch, and was suddenly surrounded by a white-blue light. When she draped the strap around her neck, it felt like the world tipped drunkenly until she adjusted it to shine forward. She lifted the big bucket of slops in one hand and the empty water bucket in the other with the basket up over the crook of her arm. Trying not to feel too lop-sided, she headed for the barn.
Her father was already there, sitting on a low stool next to a cow. Kestrel lifted the blanket cover off of the big milk can. It looked like he had already finished with two cows. She dipped the ladle into the milk and pulled it up. She took a long drink and then hung the ladle back on its hook. If she waited until after EI, then the milk would be skimmed and cold. In the summer, she could drink all the fresh milk she wanted because she was in charge of milking, but in the winter, her father had less to do in the fields, and so he took over more of the chores at home and in the barn so that the children could learn and their mother could weave cloth. Next summer, though, Wren would be in charge of the milking instead of Kestrel. Next summer she wouldn't be there. She didn't say it, not even in her own head, but next summer she could be married with a home of her own. And if life came to pass the way she hoped, then she would never milk cows again.
She walked over to the fat brown cow. Her father smiled at her, and she smiled back. They rarely talked early in the morning, but they were both there, and somehow that togetherness was a good thing--though Kestrel would have liked it more if he talked. She didn't mind milking, on the whole, but it wasn't what she wanted. If she had to give up the warmth of the barn and the smell of hay, and milk, and animals, then it was a small price to pay for the life and the husband that she would be getting in return. Her father tipped his head. She nodded. Enough chat. Time to get to work.
Each of the three horses got a flake or two of hay and a scoop or two of grain. She checked their water and used the end of a trowel to punch through the ice.
The pigs got their slops and fresh water too. Ducks and geese got grain, and the chickens got feed as well. She pulled off her mittens to dive under the warm feathers and pull out breakfast. Fourteen eggs was a good day, enough for everyone to have two eggs with enough left over to make the biscuits for dinner.
Outside, the Ginger started barking. Last time Ginger had started barking like that, she had somehow managed to tie herself to the fence with an overlooked clump of bailing twine. On the other hand, there were a couple of times when most if not all of their ducks would have been lost if they had ignored her. And either way, Mallee would be upset if anything happened to her dog. Kestrel looked at her basket. She couldn't go chasing the dog with a basket full of eggs, but setting it down, seeing what Ginger wanted, and then coming back for the eggs would take a lot of time. Maybe she should just go to the house and ask Feldspar to run out and check.
1) Kestrel tightened her grip on the basket. She wasn't the only one waiting for breakfast, and even if they lost all of the ducks, it wasn't as bad as missing her exam. She would get the eggs to her mother and send Feldspar out to make sure that Ginger and the ducks were safe.
http://kestrelbook.blogspot.com/2012/03/chapter-2_03.html
2) For a moment, she bit her lip and considered. The dog's barking grew more insistent. "Stupid dog," she muttered as she set the basket on a shelf in the tack room where it wouldn't get stepped on or investigated. She tapped her lumicube to brighten the light, and went out into the cold to see what was wrong with Ginger this time.
http://kestrelbook.blogspot.com/2012/03/chapter-2b.html
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