There was a freshness in the air. A cool collective nature in it. It came through the open windows, driving out the bitterness of winter where ever it went. All corners had to swept clean of the coldness of the snow and the frost. Rejuvenating life to come again and to bring in a wiser year.

With the grueling torture of the winter season over, there was much to do. Upponhill must look in at itself and know what needed to be done to prevent another season of suffering. It must seek allies in the outwards world. The natives of this land may not be so kind again. But Hugh knew he needed to make sure they would continue the compassion. For the salvation from death that they had given them, he will trade them salvation in the afterlife. There was no greater cruelty than ignorance. And as softly as they had to come he would go to them, like an old friend.

But for now, the exiled monk had immediate work to do. He could not do more than think ahead to what he had to accomplish over the spring thaw and into the summer sun. And what needed to be done by Autumn. Not just for himself, but for everyone. For Upponhill, and for the family he roomed with.

Hugh had no tools or skills of his own to build. His trade was the spoken and written word. He was of little actual use in the ways of establishing the rough colony. But he had looked to try to learn in as short a time as there was. His quest to aid the colony was assisted by the family he roomed with in their small cabin in the center of town. It was strategic, just across the narrow dirt track roads that wound through Upponhill stood the modest chapel the townsfolk built. It was Hugh's house of worship and practice, as well as everyone else's.

They were a busy country family, cast out of their home because they were by all accounts Antoinnese. Their relation to Tirna's former enemy being of too much concern to its new king. In the collective suffering of the rest they united with their foreign neighbors and invited one into their home. The patriarch of the family was a carpenter in the height of his mid years, still strong but wisened. His wife a homely girl, several years over half his age. The two already had children, twins.

Neither them or their children were home this afternoon. The father left to do work elsewhere in the village. Over the winter a quickly built had collapsed under the weight of the snow. One person had died, Hugh had administered her last rights. The other - the husband - had survived with broken bones and sorrow in his breast.

Hugh's broom glided along the floor as he swept. Brushing the winter's dust to the center of the room. Working for something or someone felt right to him. Winter was rough in more than the physical sense. It was rough in the psychological and spiritual being. He had found shelter in his God and he thanked him for that. But to not continue to act, or serve charitably in any way bothered him. It gnawed deep at his bones and made him restless. But now in the spring cleaning, it gave him a sense of purpose. Something to do. To sweep, to clean, to earn his place under this roof.

The spring cleaning had more value in it than to simply feel he was earning his rights under the couple's roof. It helped to bring spiritual peace and balance. Long had it been taught from the distant east to the near west that a clean house was a good house. It brought fortune and bolstered one's endeavors. It showed the forces of heaven and the Providence of Ethahn that they were observant, diligent, and careful. To him, it was another small step to the quest of purity by making something pure. More so it was for someone else over him; this home was not his, after all.

Hugh's kindness helped the couple who were his landlords better use their time. The wife could go forth and assist other wives in the gardens. The husband could ply his trade for the benefit of the men. And the twins could play about the colony and be children, for as long as they had it. And while Hugh cleaned he could meditate. The timely and practiced sweeps of the wicker broom being one monotonous pass over the plane of the physical world. Life was like a house, it must be kept swept and cleaned. Cleared of excess to be filled with holiness. The idolatry of pagan pollution, like the season of tracked dust and ash and the detritus that naturally fell from one's body must be removed. And at any point possible it should be cleaned from one's life.

This was the belief Hugh felt as he went about the task. Moving the simple furniture strung together by notches and swatches of rope and bark twine.

Piles of dirt, ash, and sawdust now sat piled in the center of the room. Hugh leaned back, satisfied at his work. Once again the wood shone bare and clean as it had when the home was built. And now he had only to remove it.

“M' child, you do great work.” he said to himself, smiling wide. The sight of a task – or ritual – well executed was a sign of relief. He walked to the back door, throwing open the wooden latch and pushing it aside. It groaned heavily on its hinges, like grinding bones.

The disposal of dust as well as the spiritual disposal of the unwanted was a surgical affair. He could not be burned out, as the contemporaries in Tirna-Sorset believed. Burning it would only leave behind the ugly residue of a fire. And grinding and pounding it would only leave it caked and stubbornly ground into the stone and wood work. You may scatter much of it, but in the cracks it would remain, packed to the consistency of stone as a whole. And it would be a blemish of creation.

When throwing it out, it must not go to anyone else. One's sins mustn't be passed to another man, it would only continue the cycle. As such, one's dust must not be case into the street, it only passed one's issues on. Instead, it must go out the back, where it will keep everything clean.

With a heft kick from the broom Hugh cast out into the spring-time sun a cloud of dust. The thick rolling plume rolled about itself as it was caught by the calm easterly wind, gently pushing it away and along the house's side. The air was fresh, and smelled sweetly of the sea. The sounds of birds was strong and beautiful. It was natural song, Ethahn's song.

Again the priest swept out the door more dust, cleaning it out the backdoor and into the sandy space of the master's work yard. Here outside the house the discolored dirt lay down among the sawdust of his trade.

Watching it go Hugh could not help but feel that these people he was with – his new kin – were the dust and the ash of Tirna-Sorset to dismiss. The propaganda aligned scarily to doctrine and tradition. They were not burned, they were not exiled to Antoinne, and they were not repressed into the Earth. They were not a stain, a blemish, or a ashed scar. They would not become a host set on returning home by armed force, or a regiment to bolster the ranks of Aenda's enemies with anger lit in their eyes.

They were thrown to the backyard of the his new Empire. Into the new world. The idea caused Hugh to shudder and an unnatural cold shock slithered down his spine.

“Never you mind, Hugh m' child.” he whispered dismissively, wrapping his arms around himself.

There was work to do still. Sweeping for the spring was not the only practice in this lengthy ritual.