Crone Ch. 02: Injured and Healed

Jordan continues to service the Crone, the Lass.

__________

In the morning the swill was again standing outside the front door.

He'd been up late finishing his table. The lantern had been invaluable, even though it cast but little light.

Curious what the 'pets' would manifest as today he approached the trough confidently, called "Hey! Hey! Pig pig pig!" without trepidation.

The mist revealed three bobcats! Small, familiar, but somehow not familiar.

They didn't move as bobcats! Come to think of it, the wolves hadn't moved as wolves.

Instead of athletic sinuous stalking, these 'bobcats' capered forward stiff-legged.

It seemed familiar, but he couldn't remember where he'd seen that gait. Anyway they ate as usual.

Cautiously he rubbed the head of one, ruffling it behind the ears.

It stopped eating, looked at him, preened against his hand! Not like a bobcat at all!

Smiling he took his bucket back to the stoop.

The water he dispatched quickly. The woodpile was ample, still he split another spool and left one for wood projects.

What to do next?

A basket outside the back door answered that. A dried herb, an example he concluded, was it in.

Off to the herb patch!

This one was easier to find. No flower; serrated leaves, fuzzy on the back, branching in pairs.

It was common, and he soon had the basket overflowing. Smelled nice too!

Maybe he could learn the names; learn the purposes. But to what end? He had no talent, could not make use of them except as pot herbs.

Returning, he sat the basket outside the back door. Went around to the front.

A woman sat on the bench, pensive. She saw him, hailed him.

"Boy! Yes, you! Is the witch in today?" she demanded.

He turned respectfully, "yes ma'am, my mistress is in."

"Well I've been waiting this half hour! I need satisfaction!"

He marveled at her, so impatient. She'd walked what, an hour? and waited a few minutes.

Her troubles must have made her owly.

"I'm sure it'll not be long ma'am. She's with another customer." He didn't know that but it was likely.

"Hrmmmf." She was not mollified. "Don't know why I came at all. Dealing with a witch is probably a sin!"

Jordan was stunned. He'd not regarded her as a witch really; an herbalist, sure!

"I'm sure mistress can help you; she has helped so many. And it can't be a sin, to help people!"

That seemed to confuse her. Jordan elaborated.

"It's not a sin, to want an end to troubles. It's the natural state of people, to have troubles and want help."

She seemed to be mulling that over.

"I think, ma'am, it might be a sin to stay in misery, when help is close at hand!"

The door opened, sparing him any more conversation. A senior woman came out, holding a sheaf of paper.

It clearly contained something; she held it close. She walked off without making eye contact.

The crone appeared, beckoned to the woman.

She stood, undecided, looking between Jordan and the Crone. She made her decision, went in the door, brushed past the Crone.

Jordan got a quizzical smile? He shrugged, nodded, turned to go.

"Talk to me after, Jordan." She seemed serious, and he turned back, showed he had understood.

He waited on the bench, nervous, unsure if he'd stepped over any lines. It seemed to take an age for the owly woman to emerge, stride off with her own charm in hand.

He stood as the Crone came out.

"What did you say to that customer? Before I came to fetch her?"

He stuttered.

"I..I..I just said...I said it wasn't a sin, to help people or to ask for help."

She nodded, tilted her head, looked at him.

Satisfied, she went back into her hovel, closed the door gently.

He didn't know to be relieved or more worried!

In future, he resolved to keep his mouth shut.

...

What to make next? Cart, spit, plow? Split some rails for fencing? Another table, for storage in the cellar?

The cart would take more planning. A wheel required iron, or a hard leather band, or something. To keep it from splitting on the road; to keep it from being shaken apart.

He knew that wheels could be made of a hub and spokes, but he was no wheelwright. His would have to be a simple round of wood, bored through for an axel.

And the axel! Hardwood for sure, with oiled leather bearings.

No, a cart was too ambitious. Perhaps a barrow would be easier, with only one wheel, but the same problems still. And he didn't fancy trundling a barrow the three miles to the smith.

Fencing was not needed yet. No garden; no livestock.

Back on the farm he split fence rails all year, to replace them as they rotted.

They would have no such need, as any fence would be short and new. No, he'd split rails as needed and not before.

The plow intrigued him. He had no plowshare, an iron wedge used to break the hard soil. But that could come later.

And no draft animal! He didn't think the 'pets' counted.

A plow as he knew it, would have an animal to pull and a man behind. Two people, if the draft animal was him.

He didn't think the Crone should be wrangling a plow. It was hard, rough work. She was likely not capable.

What then? A mattock? It could be used to break sod.

A mattock was essentially a strange flat-bladed axe, sometimes with a prong on the other side. All that was needed, save the iron, was an axe handle.

He didn't want to sacrifice his own axe for the handle. Which meant finding an ash tree, selecting a proper limb, carving it and finishing it.

That he could do!

Hefting his saw, he headed out into the forest. Ash trees were fairly common, but they liked plenty of water. He'd just follow the creek and see what he found.

The first ash was too young - barely taller than him and no branches long enough nor thick enough. No matter; the day was young.

The second was brushy and plagued by bugs - the ground too wet for ash here. The limbs would be riddled and full of knots.

Ranging further from the creek to better-drained ground, he walked parallel but upriver all the same.

This was more like it! Standing alone on the top of a low rise with long limbs, infrequent branching and some as thick as his arm!

Putting the saw frame around one shoulder he pulled himself into the lower branches. These were too large - a handspan and more through.

He climbed higher.

Here the branches bent under his weight which was encouraging. He didn't want dead dry wood, which would crack and splinter.

Selecting one that extended from the trunk as far as his arm before branching, with a satisfying curve and reasonable girth, he quickly parted it from the tree with his saw.

It fell nearly to the ground, hanging in the lower branches, held tangled by the brushy end. He climbed down.

From the ground he could reach the sawn end, so grabbed it and heaved! It resisted but finally pulled loose and he had it on the grass.

Trimming it with the saw, he quickly had a usable length cut free with no knots nor too much curve.

Shouldering that he returned to, well, 'home' was probably what he should call it? to finishing shaping it with tools in the cowshed.

A mattock didn't have much curve to the handle. It wasn't swung like an axe, but held head-down and used to chop sideways at the earth.

It also had either a wide end at the head and a narrower handle, or narrow at head end and wider at handle. It depended on the socket the smith preferred.

A through-hole required the narrow shaft be thrust through the hole, and the wide end keeping it from coming completely through. It would then be wedged in place.

A socket head required quite a narrow end, either pinned or soaked so the wood swelled to hold it fast.

He contented himself with shaving the bark, trimming the spots where twigs erupted and polishing it with his rag and some lamp oil.

Putting the prepared handle on his tool shelf, he found himself again at a loss.

He was saved from idleness by a call for lunch!

Hefting his little round table, he carried it to the front stoop where his mistress waited with a platter.

Her old seamed face lit up at the sight of his creation. He set it down by the bench, looked at it proudly.

"Won't that be a salvation! A place convenient for the platter, for the cups! For I have some summer wine today, to share."

Indeed the platter contained not only bread and cheese, but a skin and two clay cups.

She poured while he broke bread and cheese. Holding their cups up in salute, they each took a careful sip.

He looked quizzical. "What fruit is this? A berry I think?"

She was pleased. "Rowanberry! I know, usually reserved for jellies. But cooked it sweetens, and I prefer it for wine!"

He smiled, drained half his portion and began on the bread.

Between mouthfuls he asked "Where around here do you find the berry?"

"Oh it's nowhere you've been. The other direction! The bush prefers higher ground."

The forest to the south, across the clearing, sloped upward for miles. That made sense.

"If we established some here, perhaps at the back of the paddock, it could be convenient."

He said that matter-of-factly, which caused her to stop chewing and stare at him.

Finishing and swallowing, she said "You are nothing but surprises. A farm lad, a journeyman carpenter, and now a fruitier as well!"

He colored.

"No, not really ma'am. It's just that the seeds are simple to sprout, in a little manure worked into sandy soil. It would take three years to see fruit..."

He stopped, aware of her gaze, embarrassed a little.

Why did this old Crone's opinion of him, matter to him at all? He was nothing to her, really, and she was just his employer.

Still, he was secretly pleased at her praise.

They finished lunch in quiet companionship. When their beakers were empty she refilled them, leaned back against the house with her own cradled in her lap.

"That woman. The one who was reluctant. I expected her to be gone when I came out. Skittish, critical, that kind often find reasons to flee.

"Yet she didn't. And I think I know why."

He didn't answer, suddenly alert. He waited for her next words.

"I think it was you. Not that she needed your opinion or valued what a man had to say, not that.

"Women who come to me are often unhappy, and a man is usually at the heart of it.

"No, it was simply your loyalty. You are a strong capable man, that much is evident to all that see you.

"And yet you work for me. Willingly, without fear or doubt. As if I am a person to be trusted, relied upon.

"And my clients need someone to rely upon, as they've been let down by others."

He had no answer. It was beyond his understanding, why women came to his employer.

He just knew that they did, that they were always unhappy, and that they always, always went away with new confidence.

"I'm proud to work for you, ma'am. You have skills, knowledge, and the will to use it for good."

She smiled at him, a little sad.

"Thank you, Jordan. You are the first to say that, to even think it."

He had no answer, so he just sipped at his wine and looked at the day.

"So."

He waited her out, that being their preferred way of communicating.

"I'd like you to spend part of every morning greeting the customers. Work out front if that's possible. Be visible. Talk to them if they want to talk."

"I can do that. Mom says ... mom used to say I can talk to anybody."

She smiled. A kind smile, never mind the blue lips and bloodshot eyes.

That was it for lunch; she stood and took the platter inside.

Jordan redeposited the table in the cowshed, out of the weather. Then he went to the well to wash.

The well! It needed a cover. That could be made from what he had at hand.

Hauling the remaining spool onto the stump he split it in two, then split broad pieces from the flat faces for the cover.

He split another flat piece, and divided it into straight pieces as broad as his hand, for straps.

Bringing his drill he bored both ends of each strap, through the cover.

These he pegged together through the simple expedient of jamming chunks of kindling through the holes and pounding them into plugs with the blunt back of his axe.

Bringing up a bucket of water, he doused the whole until it was soaked, and laid it on the hillside.

By tonight the wood will have swelled and the whole become tight. If he regularly spilled a little water on it each time he brought up a pail, it would stay tight.

He'd done all this in a few minutes, but felt strangely fatigued by the small effort. He found he was sweating, though the day was cool.

Well, he would wash, having finished lunch and a chore. Again he stripped out of his shirt and doused himself.

Stropping arms and torso with his hands, he was quickly presentable.

Examining his various scratches, he found one had turned an alarming red. Not good. Left to itself sores could sicken him, maybe main or sometime kill.

Knocking on the back door, the Crone answered immediately (had she been standing there?)

"Ma'am, I'm afraid I might have been scratched too deeply." He raised his arm to show the scrape on his side.

She reached out a bony hand, traced the scratch with one finger. It was raised and hot.

"Yes, that will need attention. Come in."

Inside the house! This was his first time allowed through the door.

The back room was very primitive, just a deal table and a stump to sit on. Both were deeply scratched and stained.

A lamp similar to his, shed a bit of light.

The corners of the room were cobwebbed and the air, smoky. Yet he did not cough. Was it not smoke? Just mist somehow?

She had him sit on the table, arm raised, while she collected a pot and a plaster, sat on the stump.

Painting his scratch with the green goo in the pot, she stuck the plaster over all.

Then she passed her hand over his side, checking her work, lingering on his ribs a bit longer than was necessary.

"To keep out the dirt!"

It itched awfully. He resisted the urge to scratch; that would spoil the plaster.

Looking at her work critically, she sighed.

"There will be no more work for you today. Lay up in your shed, with your shirt off.

"That shirt! It's probably where the corruption came from."

He feelings were wounded; his shirt he kept washed and fairly clean. Still, she was the boss.

Collecting his shirt from the yard, he tested the well cover - not quite sturdy, so he left it lay to swell some more.

Back in his stall he settled on some straw, rolling around until he had the weight off of the injury and was fairly comfortable.

His last thought before his eyes closed, was "This will be a long afternoon, with nothing to do!"

...

He awoke in pitch darkness. The itching had subsided; his sweating had ceased.

He probed the plaster - it no longer was so tender.

His mistress was quite adept at her magics! He owed her a debt for this.

Awake now, unable to sleep again after what? half a day dozing in the straw, he rose.

His abode seemed less dank; no critters stirred. Did the dark keep them away? He would have thought the opposite, but no matter.

Padding out into the yard on bare feet the moon was nearly new, which meant the gloom was quite impenetrable.

He could make out the skyline over the trees as a faint glow. And a flickering light in the house. The mistress was awake.

He would go say his thanks for her healing poultice!

Approaching across the lawn, he kept bumping into gravestones. They made strange creaking noises when disturbed, which seemed odd.

The window was clean and clear - she must have washed it? Why didn't she ask him for help?

He couldn't help glancing through as he passed - the inside was nothing like he'd expected!

The walls were neat and plastered. The floor was polished wood. A carved table and chairs was in the center of the room. Pictures on the wall, like a proper town house.

Pots and tools and his basket of herbs were on the table, clearly in the middle of being processed.

He could not see the mistress at the moment - but he could hear her banging around out of sight.

Finding the front step by tripping over it, he recovered, knocked.

There was a sudden shuffling inside, then stillness.

He knocked again.

"Mistress! I've come to thank you for your herbs!"

Finally the door creaked open a crack. He could see a face in shadow peering out.

"You look well! I'm glad the oil of garlic and elderberry was effective!"

Her voice was strangely pleasant, almost musical. Where had he heard it before?

"The scratch is no longer tender; my fever is gone. I believe you saved me from much suffering!"

"Well, you are entirely welcome. Must keep the servants healthy, to get any use of them." This in a gently mocking tone.

He smiled.

"May I be useful now? I am past sleep. And I saw as I passed your window, you are working at your craft. Could I perform some task for you?"

A silence, then the door crept open further.

"I am afraid I've misled you."

From the lamplight, he could see now that it was not the crone at the door, but another woman. About the same height but much younger, comely and healthy.

"Oh! I'm sorry. I thought you were my mistress. I'll leave you to your duties."

"No, no, come in. I'm doing some compounding, working through the night as tomorrow is the eve of Crispin's Day. The virgins will all be visiting for ... womanly herbs."

She swung the door wide, waved for him to enter.

"I'm not dressed for proper company..."

He had no shirt, as he'd been instructed to leave it off.

She observed his skin in the lamplight, sun-darkened and furred. He did look a bit like a Gruagach of legend.

"It's fine. I've seen you this way, and no customers will disturb us tonight."

She returned to the tasks at the table, leaving him to close the door. He approached the table, stood across from her.

"I'm here to ... help the herbalist. She's off on her private affairs, and bade me finish this task."

He recognized her now - the lass from the pond! But decently clothed. A different shift, but the same boots!

"Yes she said you would help her from time to time. I'm glad to meet you. I'm Jordan."

He didn't mention their first meeting as it might embarrass her. In this environment, it would certainly embarrass him.

"Yes I know. Jordan, it would be a blessing to have someone prepare the herbs. They must be treated thusly..."

She demonstrated gently separating the leaves and stems, dipping the leaves in a pot of clear liquid then stacking them on a small dish. The stems she tossed into the slop bucket, hidden under the table at her feet.

"You'll have to come to this side, to reach."

He came around, pulled a chair over next to her, sat.

She took his hand (much as she'd taken his hand before), put an herb in it. He held the stem firmly with the other hand, while she guided his near hand in gently! gently! plucking the leaf.

"The thing is to not bruise the leaf, to separate it at exactly the nub where it joins the stalk, so as to preserve its vital juices."

He flushed as he felt her beside him, holding his cold hand with her warm ones, her warm body next to his naked chest, her face inches from his.

He concentrated on the task, certain he was being given a test of some sort, and not about herbs.

"Like that?"

"Pull almost straight along the leaf line, instead of at an angle. It will part without being bent so."

He tried again, got it right. She left him to the basket, scooted her chair over to resume her compounding.

It was a disappointment to lose her warmth, as it was a cold night. The room was heated but frugally, with just embers on the grate.

They worked in companionable silence until he had the basket empty and the bowl full.

Then he sat and watched her. She moved with fluid grace, peeling a leaf from the pile in the bowl with one hand, blotting it dry, adding it to the mortar, gently operating a pestle with the other, alternating with pinching orange and brown powders from a paper and sprinkling them into the grind.