Cull

Cull learned about fair handfuls long before she learned about surveys.

Her flock roosted in the great reedbeds, tens of thousands of starlings turning together at dusk in shapes that rolled across the whole sky. When she was young, her grandmother took her to the granary where the flock's foragers pooled the seed they'd gathered.

"Taste the store and tell me if it's good," her grandmother said, and pushed the little scoop toward her.

Cull dipped it into the near edge of the pile and tasted. "Sweet," she reported. "It's all good."

Her grandmother laughed, not unkindly. "You scooped the top of the near edge, where the barley settles. Now scoop the middle. Now the far corner, where the foragers dump what they gathered last." Cull did. The far corner was full of bitter darnel seed.

"One scoop from one place tells you about that place," her grandmother said. "If you want the store, you take a little from everywhere — top, middle, near, far — and mix it in your hand. That's the taste of the whole." She closed Cull's wing over the mixed handful. "A honest forager never judges the granary by the corner she stands in."

Cull never forgot it. Years later, over a page of survey answers instead of a bin of seed, she would think: ask only the near corner, and you'll only ever know the corner.

When she was grown, Cull walked to the DataForge academy, her cloth scoop tucked under her wing.

At the first bench, a young apprentice looked up. "Can you show me how you gather a few to stand for the many?" the apprentice asked.

Cull didn't recite. She set out a wide bowl of mixed seed — light and dark, whole and broken — and then, instead of scooping from one spot, she drew a pinch from the near side, a pinch from the far side, a pinch from the middle, turning the bowl between each. She tipped the pinches into her palm and held it up.

"If I want to know the bowl without counting every seed," Cull said, "I take a little from all through it, chosen so no part is left out. Then my small handful looks like the big bowl." She let a few seeds fall. "The trick isn't the size of the handful. It's that every seed in the bowl had a fair chance to end up in it. Scoop only where it's easy, and your handful lies about the bowl — quietly, and with a straight face."

The apprentice looked at the palmful of mixed seed. "Then I'll draw them fair," the apprentice said, and pulled up a stool for her.

In Cull's workshop, a badger cub named Ferrow brought her a poll. "The river's too cold for swimming," he announced. "Everyone agrees."

"Let's see the handful," said Cull kindly. "Who'd you ask?"

"The kids on the bank at noon. All of them said too cold."

Cull tilted her head. "The kids who were on the bank instead of in the water. At noon." She spread her scoop over his page. "Think about who you missed. The kids already swimming didn't stop to answer — they were too busy having a fine time. The ones who feel the cold most were the only ones standing about to be asked." She drew a soft line. "Your handful came all from the bank. So of course the bank said cold."

Ferrow's ears drooped. "So the answer's ruined?"

"Not ruined," Cull said firmly. "Just narrow — and now you know it. Next time, take your handful from everywhere the question lives: ask some in the water, some on the bank, some at different hours." She nudged the scoop toward him. "A fair handful isn't more work for its own sake. It's the difference between knowing the river and knowing the one cold spot you were standing in."

Ferrow looked at his poll, then at the water, where three otters were plainly enjoying themselves. He picked up the scoop. "I'll go ask the ones who are swimming," he said.