Mullaney's Cabbages

"I swears I seen 'em," Mullaney pleads in earnest. His voice is an echo of the angst obvious in his eyes. "The cabbages, they need to stay out in the field fer jus' a wee bit longer, would they can, an' I got all the protections from the cold I could on 'em, but somethin' is in the woods out yonder. Stirrin'." His eyes widen as he coarsely whispers that last word. He gulps and wrings his hands. Like everyone, Mullaney is probably thinking of the stories going around, the stories of monsters driven here by hunger from the new tundra to the north. He reckons he's got one on his back stoop.

Cabbages never made a very prestigious showing at market, but this season has been the worst yet. Mullaney's farm is in the regional minority in that it's not yet barren. In the depths of this winter, those cabbages may be the only thing staving off scurvy. Or death.

"Now, we all gotta be able to hold our own to live out nyar, in the Reaches," Mullaney goes on, "But I ain't no Chan o' the River, beggin' yer pardon. I can hold jus' a bit to let me an' mine git away, should trouble come. But lookin' fer it? Shi-oot! My Delly wouldn' let me ten feet inna thar wood, cabbages or no."

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