A week later, I was hauling soil, gravel and large river stones from one yard to the other, contesting the hot sun and sheer weight for hours every day. I was to fix their yard for a property sale, so they could fetch a better price than they'd paid; they'd got the place from some rich travelers looking for a summer home in the isles, but who couldn't stand the village. My first wheelbarrow broke, and I had to keep using it for a month before the second one arrived. It was like pushing a box through turf without rolling it. The stupid wheel was bent, and the axle barely squeaked 'round an inch for all my might. I'd taken to setting it sideways, and dragging the thing through the grass; haul on a platform, tied to it. It provided handles, so I could grip something to pull it along. Despite that, I was proud of my work – it was truly satisfying to learn what your own two hands could do, and that with enough time, anyone could shape the land to their vision. Not that it was my vision we referenced – The Rationner had her own ideas, and they seemed to change every hour.
She'd then shout, "I TOLD you what to do AN HOUR AGO!!"
She meant it, too – she had a clock from Italy she'd purchased on vacation. She watched it very closely, and every step I took that was out of line, she thought for some reason that I was trying to waste its waending. Truthfully, though, whatever she claimed she'd previously stated, she'd never said such a thing in her entire life. Drinks, and lots of forgetting, claimed her mind faster than pipe-weed could puff it up every day. It was like she was permanently lost on a fog-swallowed road, staring straight ahead at the distance; swearing it into being, demanding it change itself into her destination. Eventually, however, I'd always manage to negotiate with her, and inform her how long each task actually took – and she seemed to adjust accordingly. She wasn't just accounting the village's production rates... she was monitoring mine, as well. I was able to ask her, once and for all, to simply write things down – which, I believe, disrupted her little game. What she got from playing it is completely beyond me, but she'd refused to compromise for weeks. Maybe she was resentful of my presence, and wanted to emburden me for her own amusement. I was starting to wonder who their child was that had been my parent, and whether or not I could stay with them – but my grandmother told me nothing of them, and only changed the topic when I asked. Told me I was asking 'ridiculous things'. If her shell-switching game with my tasks wasn't already frustrating enough, to play it with what I had the right to know was even moreso. Nice as she was, I decided I didn't like her very much, either.

Their other workers (whose jobs were only to replace the flooring and deliver solid rock) seemed happy with the business, but complained about the work. One who'd been asked to help with a wheelbarrow full of stones complained that he'd been treated better elsewhere – he'd overheard them trashing his ethic and performance across the yard.
My grandfather bowled his guts at him, "Well if you don't fucking like it, you don't have to be here!!"
That put the poor sod off, and made him shut up again. It was the same verbal abuse my grandfather threw at me, when I questioned his foul behavior, or asked why he kept over-shopping and leaving everything in the pantry to rot. I couldn't eat too much, or I'd get pushed from the kitchen – but if I left anything, it would corrupt the rest. That, most likely, was because none of it was steak or pork – which he was especially partial to, and demanded I partake even if it made my mornings greasy and sick.
"Breakfast is the MOST important meal of the day, and nothing's more nutritious than meat! A big, juicy steak has everything you need – fruit and veg are garnish and sides."
When I, after several arguments, convinced The Rationner I couldn't eat steak for breakfast or my work would wane, she finally managed to dissuade him from the subject.
She found him wise for thinking of 'my health', but I thought he was just thinking with his stomach. She was only thinking with her faith, no mind to whether or not he lived up to it. She was deeply Catholic, and yet defied her own beliefs – in one breath she was Sunday fundamental; and in the next, she was polishing runes with warmth for a better divination. She believed the world was to end soon, completely, and had little preparation for it but some water in the basement, in sealed jugs. She'd spent a small fortune of her own on prognosis, from blind crones with all-seeing wallets. He, on the other hand, pretended he was Buddhist; he recycled mantras and called them his 'life experience'. My grandfather said that the vagrant prince inspired him, and taught him that peace and kindness were the only way. He seemed wise to me at first, which is why I believed him... but then I found his book of proverbs, which he'd left on the couch. It was everything he'd said, and all the stories he'd claimed as his own... a bandage dogma. He was just using it to fake self-improvement. I hated to be so critical, but The Mentor had set high standards for me as a grandparent, and as a religious teacher. I decided I'd been too harsh in my judgment, and gave them the benefit of the doubt... still, I had doubt abound.
When it came to eating, my grandmother was a vegetarian every other month, until she gave up again. My grandfather called himself an 'expert of health', and believed that animal flesh was the source of all blood in the body – eat none, and you'd dry up. I still had mine, but I dared not invite an argument with the man. I'd my own routine lifting weights with The Knight's friends at the barracks, not to mention all my yardwork, but I knew bragging had its cost. A conflict would result in my demise, or worse. And sure, he provided. But only enough for himself first, and left the scraps for his dependents: me, his pastry-ravenous wife, and the old white dog. Or he'd bombard the table with feast, cakes, and festival junk, to prevent his worth from falling into question. It made everyone sick, but they were too entranced by its cheap flavors to notice. It kept him on their good side, but not mine. Several times fooled last year, then trapped in the outhouse with my mistakes, I never touched the stuff again.
Regardless, I was free to spoon my berries and yogurt in a bowl, and boil my peas; while he bragged about his homemade fried pork-bread. I wasn't interested.

Later, he set to chopping up the fallen trees into firewood, and had me go about the yard with a hacksaw. I did my task, and took back armfuls of lumber to stack against a stone-wall by the deck. He didn't like how I'd stacked them, and demanded I stacked them again. The pile was growing too tall for the wall, and too wide along it, but he insisted I was simply "being lazy" and that if I "tried hard enough", I could manage it. Like with most of his awful instructions, I had to recruit The Rationner to help make him see sense. She pointed out easily that I was right, and proposed that we set the wood on platforms covered in pine branches, instead. This would protect them from the snow as well as we could manage, with our limited supplies.
He grunted, "Just like my useless mother. Women don't know a damn fucking thing."
The Rationner was hurt by that, but he raised his voice again, and they began trading insults, until it blew up into another fight. I was done what I'd been asked to do by the time they stopped, but every so often I'd have to hike my shoulders up for the PITCH that would pierce the air. It was like they were trying to scare away the birds together. Well, they were still there, little sparrows and starlings, eating from my grandmother's bird-feeders. Though she was kind in wanting them fed, she wasn't giving them the ambience they were looking for, nor I. It was a place where anger took precedence over peace, and emotion took first place over reason.
When my grandfather eventually caved, he found me in the dining hall and sat down across from me as if we were dealing cards.
Attempting to play me against his own wife, grandparent against grandparent, he grunted, "Women, huh? Bunch of nags, the lot of them. Should smack them all upside the head, some days. You know what I mean?"
I stared at him, eyebrows raised in the middle, spoon of boiled peas still between my teeth, hanging open.
He shook his head, smiling. Clearly satisfied, he laughed, "Ha- aaaaaayyyup. Mmm-hm." It was the same "yyyup" that all working men gave, standing around the fence; assurance of the mundane. But he'd claimed he was the one who taught it to them. It was the kind of laugh that burst and stopped itself immediately; if only I could've halted the conversation that fast. Then he looked back, and asked, "You wanna go for a ride to town?"
I shook my head, finished my peas, and went back to my room for a nap. To be fair, his wife had attempted the same – to talk to me against her so-called 'provider'. And I knew that if I'd fed into it, they'd fight even worse, and the house would never get sold. And I'd have nowhere to stay until I became of age to get back to my own.

The next day, he was chasing me around the yard with a measuring stick. I don't even remember what I'd said, only that he aimed to hurt me for it 'as badly as I could be hurt'. It was easier than I'd thought to evade him, circling around the lumber I'd stacked. So he, in a fit, tore down my work and let fall an entire corner. This was something he actually did often – break something out of rage, and pretend it was an accident.
What he said was, "You think your grandmother will believe you? She sees only what I tell her to."
But she'd been watching, and she called out from the deck, "Actually, I saw that. You're going to have to pick all that up, hon. And don't you dare hit him with that stick, or I'll tell your friends you've been cooked for stew."
His eyes went wide, and honestly, so did mine. We shared a glance, a single, solitary look, that told us that in that very moment, we were thinking the same thing: she was a scarier sort, when she wanted to be, then he was. It was the only thing we'd ever agreed on. In fact, she'd grown up on a farm where her father had let her love each animal as a pet, and then slaughtered it in front of her. It made the rest of the day a bright one, to be sure, and he left me alone for the rest of his shoring. Only three days later, he left again, and I was free. For a while, but then he was back; faster than from his usual trips, as if he'd never really left in the first place. He said the boat had to be turned around, because of plague rats which were found aboard.