Crone Ch. 02: Injured and Healed

Without his shirt it was quite bracing!

It was again a day of gloom and murk. Whatever magic had waned during the night was now back in full force.

Even the cottage was again a thing of moss and decay. Gone were the clean windows, the neat siding.

Shaking his head, dismissing the mystery as just more witch magics, he surveyed the yard.

Water and wood! The daily tasks were in front of him, and no time like the present!

This activity warmed him wonderfully, and worked the stiffness out of his shoulder.

Soon dispatched, he rounded the house to see if the muck was ready for the animals. Indeed it was, setting to one side of the stoop.

Hefting the bucket, recognizing the chaff from last night's herbal activities, he smiled as he took it to the paddock.

This morning he was greeted by the 'pets', impatient for their breakfast. Three large, hairy spiders! Wow! This was the best yet!

The legs moved fairly convincingly, spiderlike, but their progress seemed stilted, stiff.

He dumped, set the bucket down and reached to rub the one that always jumped into the trough.

It noticed him, moved to position it's large hairy abdomen where he could easily reach, then resumed munching.

It was remarkably soft for an apparent spikey hairy spider. More like wool!

And somehow smaller than it appeared. His hand seemed to wander into it at times, as if it's surface were not entirely there.

Smiling at the mystery, he returned the bucket and went into his shed.

His bed was as he had left it, a pile of straw. Turning he surveyed his domain.

Coarse unimproved wooden walls, scratched and dented from generations of cattle and whatnot.

A slate floor covered in straw with old dung clinging in the corners. Roof rafters adorned with cobwebs and chaff.

A plank door with gaps between the planks. Rusty iron hinges. Stains on the inside of the door, where he'd carelessly released his spew when thinking of that girl.

It was really quite grim. He hadn't cared until now!

Gathering a bit of clean straw, he went out and set it on his table. Finding the old bare broomstick where he'd left it, with a little rope he bound the straw to the shaft.

Now he had a broom!

This soon took care of the dung, dust and cobwebs. Not a great improvement, but less grimy!

Sweeping the chaff out, he rummaged around in the other stalls and found some relatively cleaner straw to re-cover his cubicle.

Going to the well, he raised a bucket of water and freed the bucket from the rope.

Carrying it to his cell, he sluiced it over the walls and scrubbed them with a handful of straw. Some of the stains came away, and lifetimes of accumulated dust.

He swept the dirty water out the door by chasing it with a wad of straw and his broom.

Clammy and cold, but quite a bit fresher. It would dry by nightfall.

Returning the bucket he saw his well cover lying in the grass. Testing it he found it firm after a night in the dew.

He replaced it over the well. It fit well enough, sufficient to keep accidental inundation to a minimum.

What next? He had nothing to adorn his cubicle, not like the simple paintings and rag rugs of his mistress. And not the skill to create them. Perhaps he'd find something in the village when next he visited.

Taking his axe and saw he prepared to trek into the forest for more wood. In passing he saw a queue in front of his mistress' door.

Crispins' Day Eve! She'd said there would be good business today.

He remembered his duty to greet the women. Pausing with his tools, he put one hand to his forehead and called out.

"Greetings maladies'! A simple laborer's welcome to my Mistress' manse!"

Most of the ladies pointedly ignored him. One or two of the younger ones gave him a once-over, more out of curiosity than any interest. None replied.

That done, he continued to the back and piled his tools on the sledge, began to pull.

Arriving he considered his felled tree. It would provide only a few small spools more. His saw quickly separated them from the remaining brush.

Thinking of his plans for soap and fat, he pieced up some branches into manageable lengths and stacked them on the sledge with the spools. He'd season them in a pile by the cow shed. When the kettle and spit were real, they'd be useful as kindling or for charcoal.

Pulling his load back, he arrived sweaty and tired. His injury might be healed but it had left him a little weakened. No matter; the day had warmed despite the gloom and he could wash.

Sniffing himself, he found he smelled strongly of sex. Unsurprising; his girl (for he thought of her that way now) has thoroughly baptized him.

Shucking out of his pants, removing his well cover (!) he pulled up a bucket of cold clear water.

Taking care to clean his face, neck, chest and hips, he rinsed liberally. Better! But his crotch was slimy with his spew and hers.

He wet and began to stroke his cock and balls. They were sticky from adhered jism and sweat. It took some repeated rinsing to smell decent again.

By that time his cock had firmed up from the attention. He considered releasing, but thought it lewd to do so where a customer might stray.

Dousing himself with the remains of his bucket, he returned it to the well and covered all.

His pants were not too bad; he have to wash them with soap once he'd found some suitable cleaning agent in the woods. Horse chestnuts would do. Soaked, they released a soapy oil that would release old sweat and dirt nicely.

He pulled pants on and bound the waist.

Returning to the shed he slipped into his shirt and fixed the toggles. It was warmer, but not really warm.

Peering from his shed he saw only one customer remaining, sitting on the bench. It had taken the whole morning for his chores, and for hers as well. Lunch would be late.

He considered. He could forage for those nuts, but he had nothing to put them in. No pockets in the pants, which were simple deer hide.

His shirt would do; it was warm enough.

He set out for the wall, vaulted across, traversed the path and entered the woods on the other side.

She'd mentioned some berry bushes were to be found this way, on the high ground. That's also where chestnuts liked to grow. He'd look for both!

It was not a steep slope, but he was soon tired. Lacking lunch his energy reserves were quite limited.

Stopping on a fallen tree trunk, he considered his options. Continue on up? Strike out across the slope, hoping he gone far enough? Head back?

He elected to cross the slope, making his way back to the path nearer the village. He'd return on the level.

This was easier. He'd have to skirt some nettles and so forth, but the hillside was not terribly overgrown.

At one point he crossed an old crumbled wall, part of an ancient field boundary. That made sense. At one time this land had been cleared and tilled. It was still relatively clear.

Peering into the occasional thicket, he quickly found the berries he was looking for. Yellowish-red and small, leaves like saw teeth, Rowanberry. Taking off his shirt, he wrapped it around a hand and used that to pull out some sticker-branches so he could reach the fruit.

Unwinding, he gathered it into a sort of pouch, filled it halfway with the berries. They were in season and fairly ripe.

Hungry, he found himself eating a good half of what he picked. No matter; there were plenty.

That done, he tied a knot and carried it like a sack.

Heading mostly downhill now, the way was easy. Soon from his height he spied the path through a break in the trees.

Chestnut trees! He felt like he'd discovered hidden treasure.

Finding a stout stick, he banged it at the lower branches yielding a cascade of nuts. When he had felled enough, he gathered them and added them to his 'sack'.

A good jaunt! He struck off for the path, finding it in a few minutes.

It would be good to remember where these trees were, approach them from the path next time. But nothing much recommended this place from any other.

He contented himself with collecting some stones near the woods and creating a small cairn by the side of the path. If another traveler didn't scatter them, he might find this place later.

The return trip took no time at all. His clearing appeared soon. Arriving, the bench had an occupant, his Mistress with a platter.

"Ho! You're late! I've eaten my lunch and part of yours!" she called gaily.

He smiled, approached, offered his sack.

She took it quizzically, untied it.

"Ah! My berries! I'll make jelly, I know you like that." She frowned, held out a misshapen brown nut with a large white spot, shiny and wooden.

"What is this? I'm not familiar."

"My people called it horse-chestnut. Not edible without a lot of trouble. But I can use it to clean my clothes."

She looked doubtful, her wizened features screwing up in a sort of frown. Then she smiled.

"Have your lunch! Today it's fried bread, some roasted sweetroot."

He eagerly took a root, a piece of bread, wrapped them together and bit off a large mouthful.

It was delicious. He was very hungry, that was true and probably colored his taste. But the sweetness of the root combined with the herby fried bread was heaven.

Wolfing it down, he took seconds and ate more slowly. She made room on the bench for him, putting the nearly empty platter on the ground.

He sat gratefully, leaned against the house side, chewed thoughtfully.

"You smell better! Was that the nuts?"

He laughed. "No, I've got to soak them to get the lather out. Then I'll wash my clothes. It would help to have a wash tub of some kind?"

She nodded. "I'll leave it by the back door."

They sat in silence a while. She began humming tunelessly. Then she began quietly singing some childhood song, looking aimlessly at the woods across the road.

He looked at her strangely. What brought this on? He'd never seen her so relaxed, so ... content?

She saw him looking, stopped singing, smiled her twisted smile. "Did you have a good night while I was away?"

He colored, said nothing.

She laughed. "My spies tell me you slept like the dead. Good for you! That injury needed rest. I trust it's improved again today?"

He was glad for the change of subject, shrugged that shoulder, rotated the arm in its socket.

"Good as always! I hardly know it was injured. Thank you for your healing!"

She accepted that as her due.

"I hope your visit went well? I expect travelling was difficult, without moonlight..."

She looked quizzical, then light dawned.

"Oh, I have no trouble ... traveling on the new moon. It's one of the best times for me.

"Moonlight amplifies various magics, and can make the world seem ... noisy to one such as me. The new moon is one of the few times I can hear myself think! Really be myself.

"Feel like a regular person, instead of constantly bathed in influences and constructions of spirit."

He nodded, but he really didn't understand. It was a world apart from him. He changed the subject.

"Once the jam is made, if you would be so kind as to save some seed uncooked I'll sow it along the back of the paddock. Once we have a patch of our own, we'll not have to forage so far!"

She agreed that would be fine, bent to take the tray, offered the remaining scraps. He swept everything left on the tray into his hand, stood to go.

He carried the berries and nuts to the door, handed the shirt-pouch to her as she entered.

He returned to his shed, munching the last of his lunch. Rummaging around, found his chisel.

Going to the woodpile he selected the smallest spool, tried the chisel on the center. It carved a piece out neatly.

Carrying all to his shed he put it on his bench. Taking his axe, holding it near the head, he skinned the bark from the outside with short chopping motions.

Considering the shape, he trimmed it a little from the rim on one side, made it rounder. Then applying his chisel with a will soon he had hollowed out quite a cavity, making a neat little bowl!

Laying it and the axe on the ground outside in the old barnyard area, he trotted to the road, collected an armful of stones from the shoulder.

Returning he arranged them in a rough circle. Collecting chips and splinters from the axe yard, he returned to his newly-made fire circle and piled them carefully.

Examining each stone critically, he found one with an inclusion he liked. Holding it over the splinters he struck the inclusion against the axe at various angles until he got a spark.

A few tries and a wood splinter lit. Setting aside the axe and stone, leaning in and blowing carefully! carefully! he got a tiny blaze.

Some of his new brush collected this morning provided wood to make a small fire.

Raising the bucket he carried it to his fire ring. First he wetted the wooden bowl thoroughly inside and out. Setting it on the fire (!) he filled it with water.

The bowl spitted and charred as the fire got at it, but didn't burn much as it was wet. He'd flick a little water any place it got too dry.

In a few minutes he had a bowl of hot water!

Taking it carefully off he set it aside, steaming and smoking. A pottery bowl would certainly be on his list, next he went to the village.

At the back door he found the promised wash tub, with his shirt and nuts inside.

The tub was some grey sheet metal, squared off and with a rolled rim, not lead but something else. No rust - the metal must be something that resisted rust.

Back at his fire he took two rocks and nut by nut cracked each until the shell had split exposing the creamy waxy meat inside, added them to the tub.

He emptied his bowl of warm water into the tub and with a stick agitated the contents. Immediately a frothy foamy scum formed on the surface. Feeling it with his fingers, he found it slippery. Perfect!

Once he was happy enough 'soap' had formed he fished out the nuts, put them in his bowl.

Adding his shirt he sloshed it around, agitated it, squeezed it and re-soaked until he was happy it was cleaner. Wringing it by hand he propped it on two sticks near his fire to dry.

Shucking out of his pants he did the same. They immediately colored the water grey and came two shades lighter.

Padding over to the well naked, he fetched another pail of water, carried it back.

Dumping his wash water in some tall grass he added some clear. Rinsing the pants, they started looking pretty serviceable.

Dumping all that he put fresh into the tub, sat back and plunged his feet in. Agitating them furiously, he took them out, sat cross-legged, and scrubbed at them with a hank of grass.

His feet had gotten quite dark, stained by grass, ancient leaf mould in the forest and simple dirt. Even his makeshift bath did them a world of good.

Lastly he dumped the now-filthy washtub water, poured the last of the bucket into the tub, swished it around to rinse then dump the rinse-water on his fire to extinguish it.

Leaving his pants to air-dry by his shirt, he restored the bucket to the well and covered it. The tub was returned to the back stoop.

The spent nuts he flung from the bowl into the woods. Perhaps one day a nut tree would grow here!

The bowl went onto a shelf in the shed, propped against the back to dry inside and out.

He stood under the eaves of the cow shed, hands on hips, surveyed the homestead.

What next? Only an hour or two had passed since the late lunch, and much of the afternoon remained.

The Crone was busy, was perhaps even now making jam. It would need storing in a cool dry place.

He settled on a table for the storage basement.

Wanting something more than the rustic table he'd made for outdoors, he considered. Planks would take time, made from long logs without many knots and two splitting wedges at least.

The wedges first. They should be hard wood, hard as he could find. The stuff he used for firewood was soft and split too easily.

Taking the axe and saw, stowing them on the sledge, he took into the woods.

...

As he left the Crone observed from her window. She sat in a chair, teacup in hand, berries bubbling in sweet syrup on the fire, seeds saved and drying on the table.

He'd worked naked since lunchtime, and she was not going to miss the view.

His ass was so fine! Sculpted by muscle, firm and broad! To hold that ass in both hands, and squeeze!

That fur that covered his back and breast, clean now and shiny. Oh to revel in that! What luxury!

Those limbs, young and strong. That cock, large even when at rest. Shoulders that rippled as he pulled the sledge.

One hand went to her lap, under her skirts, and became busy.