A Widow's Allotted Warmth

20251212

Written for Luna Asli Kolcu’s “Myths of Winter - Week 2” event.

Beth told herself she was imagining the sideways glances. It was the grief and the worry and the fact it felt so odd to be queuing on her own. No family or Charlie standing with her. Only baby John slumbering in his sling against her chest.
She absently rocked him, holding tight to the handle of her handcart for support. Keeping her head ducked and her eyes on the worn, stained wood of the cart bed.
Nobody was giving her looks. None of the whispers were to do with her. Why would they be? She needed to spend more time being friendly with folks; mourning in isolation was clearly doing funny things to her head.
And Charlie wouldn’t have wanted her to give up on life. Though, she liked to think he’d understand why she was struggling still. Why his absence still ached so sharp and deep, like a pulled tooth but in her soul.
Still. She had to be brave, for herself and John and Charlie’s memory. She set her shoulders and resolved to hang around and chat with people after collecting her supplies. It’d do her good.
Just as she thought this the line moved up again, and it was her turn to bow before the priest and hold out her hands. Three stones dropped into her gloved palm - white for lamp oil, brown for firewood, and black for food.
They were much smaller than she expected. She told herself that was because it was only for one person and a baby. Of course it’d be smaller than a full family’s.
She slipped the stones onto her bracelet and told herself everything would be fine.
On the line shuffled. To collect the first allotment of winter. All year people toiled to plant and grow and harvest and forage and hunt, the fruits of their labour vanishing inside the storehouse for safekeeping. Now they would each receive their fair share. And so the community would weather another hungry season.
Was she imagining the sideways glances, people examining her bracelet? Her stones were far smaller than everyone else’s, but surely that’s just because she was alone, not…
Heather, the miller, met Beth’s eyes for just a moment, her expression grim. Sorrowful. Then she looked away and busied herself fussing with her family’s cart, which was piled high.
Sweat prickled Beth’s back. Her palms felt clammy in her gloves.
She told herself it was nothing. Nerves. Grief messing with her head.
Perhaps… perhaps she wouldn’t stay to chat with everyone. She could do with a lie-down.
Finally she was standing before the second priest. She showed him her bracelet. Let him take her cart. Stood rocking John and avoiding looking at the rest of the crowd.
All in her head. All in her head.
Then the priest returned and the slender threads of hope she’d woven crumbled to ashes.
This - how did they expect her to last a full week with so little? That bundle of wood might last three days, if she banked the fire well, and lamp oil she could skimp on, but for food there was only a small sack of flour!
She caught the priest’s sleeve and stammered “Please-!”
Fear froze her voice, her mind racing for a safe way to phrase this. Questioning the Warden’s decisions would earn ire she couldn’t afford.
But to walk away with these meagre supplies would mean death for her and her son. With so little she wouldn’t even be able to seek aid from her or Charlie’s families - they’d not be able to stretch their own allotment to include her, and would fear punishment for going against the Warden’s calculations.
So she licked her cracked lips and whispered “Are you sure?”
“Of course.” The priest shoved her hand away. While his mask hid his expression, the disgust in his voice was plain as the mop of Charlie’s dark curls on John’s sweet head. “Move along.”
Beth slowly adjusted her gloves and gripped her cart handle. Silently pleading with his featureless painted face. But he simply jerked his thumb. Admonishing her for holding up the line.
Her feet carried her away from the square and towards home. John sleep blissfully against her chest, unaware of the cold and hunger which was to come.
How did they expect her to manage?
The certainty came slow and painful and heavy: they didn’t. They knew that she would freeze before her next allotment. And even if she managed to stave off the cold, she would be weak with hunger in a few weeks.
Why? What had she done? Surely there must be enough to go around! The harvest had been good, Charlie worked hard in the fields before the summer fever took him, she’d kept up with her spinning despite her grief - in fact she’d managed more than usual, the soothing meditative process being a lifeline on her worst days.
So why?
The priests wouldn’t answer, she was sure of that. And the Warden was snug in his fortress, with no care for the poor souls prostrate at his gates.
Gates.
Beth stopped and looked back at the storehouse. Ignoring the pitying glances she was now sure people were giving her. The walls of the storehouse were stone. The roof was slates. But the doors were wood. Thick and solid… and tarred against damp.
She looked at the jar of oil and bundle of firewood in her cart. Not enough to light or warm a week… but they could be a fierce blaze if coaxed. And… she knew the care you had to take, to ensure flour didn’t catch and become a blast. How hard was it to make that happen?
The nights were very dark now. As were widow’s greys.
Such thoughts were madness, of course. She knew that, in an oddly serene way.
But.
If she was going to meet Charlie so soon… she would do so able to promise that she’d done everything she could to provide for their son.

Prompt was “When winter comes, the village council distributes stones that measure how much warmth, food, or light each family deserves. Yours is smaller this year. No explanation given.”