Crone Ch. 03: Matchmaker

He pulled the sledge to a hilltop and left it. Striking out through the woods he ranged around, searching for a downed oak or chestnut, seasoned and hard.

The first logs he located in the brush were rotted and soft, lain there in the wet too many seasons.

Under a chestnut shrub in late flower he spied another. Investigating he found the bark not rotting nor sloughing off; not mossy.

Some hard wood? By the bark perhaps an oak.

Here it had lain sheltered for a season or two. The brush had been browsed by wildlife, chewed and scattered by rodents. Just the log and large branches remained.

Pressing it with his fingers he found it hard. Pulling off some bark with an effort, the wood under was dry.

The axe would tell all! He marked the location in his mind, returned to the hilltop to fetch his tools.

It took a moment to re-find the log, hidden in the shrubs. Once found he laid aside the saw and took up the axe.

Dressed as he was in, well, nothing, he had to take care or he'd do himself grave injury.

Clearing a spot of scrub and planting his feet, he took careful strokes at first. Chipping away at the bark he hit solid wood. A stronger stroke to test it and Thwack! The axe stuck.

Just what he'd hoped to find - seasoned not green, bark still attached so few bugs had been at it. Hard wood!

He wrenched the axe free, switched to the saw.

For wedges he wanted hard straight wood near a knot where the grain was dense.

That was also the hardest place to saw. No matter, it would just take longer.

Selecting his first cut he carefully drew the sawblade across the spot to set a mark. Then he began in earnest, bent to the task, back and shoulders making the effort and not just arms and hands.

Making full strokes, using the entire length of the blade with each stroke, he made relatively quick progress. In a quarter hour he was most of the way through.

Leaving that for now he took a break, stood tall and let the breeze cool him. Sweat beaded his back, his brow. It trickled across his chest, his stomach, tickled a bit.

When his arms felt whole again he started his second cut, not far from the first.

This took longer as it was nearer a fork and the woodgrain grown close and hard. But that made for better wedges so no matter.

His body ached by the time he had made it nearly through. Now he was crouching to reach the log near the ground.

When it crack!ed and rolled, he stepped carefully back, watched it come to rest again.

The free part, his part, was smaller and near the top. The branches compressed when it fell those years ago still had some spring. It had been that which moved the log.

His first cut was now rolled toward the top. Setting the saw down, crouching and grasping the fresh-cut end with both arms, he heaved! with his legs and shoulders.

The muscles of his legs, ass and back bulged and banded with the effort! His neck grew thick, his face twisted in the effort.

With a crunching cracking sound the first cut broke through! His section of the log was free.

He lifted it, carried it to the sledge and set it on its side.

A narrow spool not as long as his forearm and no thicker through, it would be trimmed to a block on his bench. Wedges could be sawn from the block as needed.

The rest of this hard wood log could be used for the planks. But it was heavy, the day was growing shorter, and his body had done enough.

In his weakened state he knew it was time to stop or he'd likely slip up and injure something.

Stowing tools and harnessing himself, he trudged with his load back to the homestead.

...

She saw him return, prize on the sledge, toiling at the load, legs and back and oh! that butt flexing with each step. Naked body slick with sweat and shining all over.

Her heart twitched in her chest at the sight, her legs clenched involuntarily. She felt a girl of 16 again, seeing her first naked man.

Praise the day the muses had directed him to her home, to be her laborer. It was the best thing that had happened to her in years.

She sat down to enjoy what came next: his bath at the well.

...

He sluiced the cool, cool water over his limbs, his chest, his hips with both hands and rinsed the sawdust from his skin and fur. It cooled him wonderfully, his face had become red from all his efforts.

He tilted his neck back and poured the rest of the bucket over his head, enjoying the feel of water streaming through his hair, down his shoulders, across his torso. Streaming from his chin, fingers and dick.

Letting the bucket fall he walked wearily to where his pants and shirt lay, drying in the small breezes. Still a little damp but never mind so was he. He donned them, cinched and bound the toggles.

Going to his axe yard he toppled a spool and sat on it. Reaching to his sledge he tipped his block of hardwood from it, heaved it over to land near his feet.

Once the sides were trimmed flat, it would be fairly square. Easy to saw or split wedges. He'd prefer to split them, as that created less waste.

A splitting wedge didn't have to be sharp. It was inserted in a crack in a log and pounded in to make the crack wider. It never had to bite into wood on its own.

The number of wedges he would need depended on the length of the log being split. One every two feet or so meant, for his table maybe 3 or four wedges.

Sometimes a log didn't split at first, and he'd have to double them up. So, six to start with.

When the log did split, the wedges simply fell to the ground and got re-used.

He was startled by footsteps approaching though the grass.

"You've been working hard!"

It was his Mistress.

"Yes, ma'am! I'm starting on the storage table."

She looked critically at his block. "That's a pretty small table!"

He smiled. "A hardwood log will have to be split, to make planks. This is just the blank for creating splitting wedges."

She shook her head. "So much to prepare, before the actual work begins! You are a wonder, the skills!

"Anyway, extra work needs extra fuel. Here is something to fill your stomach."

He saw she had a half-loaf of bread, and a pot of something. Taking the bread with thanks, he set it on his block.

Taking the pot he sniffed - lard? Spiced with something. Very filling indeed!

"It's got onion, apple, some bacon for flavor."

He grinned. This was going to be good!

He tore a piece of bread, and lacking utensils used a bit of crust to dip some lard from the pot, smear it on his chunk.

It melted in his mouth, rich and fatty and flavorful! Without meaning to, he moaned his pleasure.

"You keep that up. some young thing will marry you just to hear your delight! She won't need anything else to please her."

He blushed, astonished at how forward his Mistress had become.

She laughed at his shyness.

"Men! Always talking of sex and women to each other. But let a woman say a word, and they become like children!"

He grinned despite himself. It was silly to be shy. She was a very mature woman, certainly worldly and unashamed by bodies and sex.

Her trade as healer was in such things.

"If a woman would have me, I'd work hard to please her! If that was what she needed, then so she would have it!"

Mistress looked shocked.

"Among men, you may be unique. I've dealt charms and cures to many women, and the cause each time is a man that can't or won't please a woman."

He smiled around a mouthful of bread.

"Perhaps your trade only lets you see that kind. The men who please their women, the women don't come to you?"

She shook her head.

"If they exist, then they are rare. Some villages, I've helped every woman there."

He admitted this might be true, continued tearing the loaf and stuffing his face.

Pausing in his gorging, he asked

"Will you need me to visit the village soon? I could use a few things myself..."

She considered.

"I've wanted another crock, to cure some ... things over winter. It would be fairly small but still heavy."

He shrugged. "That could be found in the near village; so could my goods. Not too far to carry a crock."

"It's decided then! After chores tomorrow, you shall have yourself a half-day in the village.

"I'll provide the wherewithal for my crock, and what you need."

He considered.

"A few coppers should be enough. I need only a pottery vessel for the fire, some lengths of deal cloth for bags, repair. Perhaps some cordage."

She nodded. "See me before you leave and you'll have it."

She examined him critically.

"Include a new suit for yourself. I want my house to appear ancient and shabby, but my hired man? You should look competent."

He was surprised. His hide shirt and pants had always seemed to him, a farm boy, sufficient.

But he wasn't a farm boy now, was he?

"I'll not waste your copper, ma'am! Some duck cloth trousers and a plain flaxen shirt would suit me."

She nodded, let him get on with his evening, returned to the house.

He had a good quarter-loaf left of the bread. It would keep until morning, and be a welcome breakfast before hauling that log back from the woods.

This was where a little cloth would be handy - to wrap the bread against the dew and vermin. Well, he'd put it on the shelf, covered by his bowl and hope the mice didn't find it right away.

...

Rather that start more work tonight he contented himself with planning.

He spent the rest of his evening in scoring his block, planning best how to cut it into wedges.

The grain was probably too tight to split. He'd wanted that to make them last, but it meant he'd have to saw them all and not split them out of the block.

His chisel made a mark in the hard wood when he attempted to scratch it. A splinter of wood provided a straight edge. He would get a good dozen wedges.

A table an armlength deep and as long as he was tall would take four planks from that log. Once the log itself was split the long way, one good plank could come from each half.

The rest would be mostly bark and young wood, and not suitable. They could be made into straps, braces, legs, that sort of thing.

Yes two good lengths of his fallen log would be enough.

His strength restored with the good food, he found himself wanting to occupy himself before bed. There was still an hour of light.

Scouting around the farmstead he made a start at laying out his livestock pen and field. Well, a garden nearly, just a rod or so.

In the brush behind the cowshed he tripped over a low stone wall, the ruin of one.

Tracing the rubble he found it ran from the end of the shed to the edge of the wood, north a couple rod, across and back to the shed.

Perhaps an old pig pen? Only a couple of saplings grew inside its confines, though it was thick with brush.

The old pig manure had likely encouraged such small growth while keeping pine and oak from germinating.

He took his axe and quickly dispatched the saplings.

Some of the more stubborn brush he dispatched likewise, dragging it all to his stick pile to dry and cure for later charcoal making or kindling.

The wall would take more work. It was worth rebuilding as the stone was all there and didn't need carrying. And stone wall was much better than wood rail.

Picking up a piece of the rubble he saw it was roughly dressed, oblong and fairly flat. They would simply stack to make a wall, needing no mortar.

He mentally added a mason's hammer to his list of tools to find in the village. Some stones would be broken or lost and he'd need to square them up.

He could use this pen for livestock, or for crops. He'd decide later.

The evening was closing in, along with the cold. Time to retreat to his shed.

Crossing the yard, the moon barely a sliver past new, the yard was dimly illuminated.

Those places in moonlight were as he expected - derelict wall, dead flowers, blank tombstones.

But as the small light didn't dazzle his eyes he could just see, in the dark places under a tree or as a cloud passed briefly over the moon, something else.

He didn't know what it was at first. Squinting, staring, keeping very still he just looked for a while, cleared his mind, attended to all his senses.

A flower! One of the flowerbeds contained live, green flowering plants! Not dead withered husks.

Then the shadow would lift or the cloud would move and all was desolate again.

Too cold to dwell long, he went inside and lit his lamp. Setting it on the shelf he did an inventory of tools.

Not like the fine stuff he'd grown up with but it would do. A couple simple additions and he could be very useful to his mistress.

Cleaning his tools with a hank of straw, he was unhappy with the result. He'd rather have some lint or even leather to polish the blades and handles.

And a stone! For sharpening. No need for a smith's fine equipment; any suitable river stone and he could hone an edge to suit a purpose.

Mentally adding that to his shopping list he extinguished his lamp, retreated to his cell and buried himself in his straw bed.

Soon warmed and with stomach contented, he fell asleep and dreamt of flowers both dead and alive, broken walls of mossy stone and at the same time bright painted pickets, tombstones that were also birdhouses, and dead sapling/lamp stands painted in gay colors.

...

Today he attacked his chores with enthusiasm!

Up early after fine sleep, his bread consumed (the mice hadn't found it) he dispatched the water and wood in minutes in the foggy morning air.

The slop bucket was half-full. He supplemented with stuff pulled from behind his cow shed. Those poor animals needed something interesting to eat!

Today they were simply dogs - not even very scary ones! Panting companionably they trotted to the trough and in very un-dog-like fashion began to eat the vegetable fodder!

The basket was on the stoop behind the house and contained a simple clover. No need to wander the forest for that; it was everywhere.

Scouting his 'pig pen' he soon filled the basket with withered blossoms. It was too late in the season for buds; they lasted only a few weeks in early summer.

No customers had queued by the time he had finished and tidied up. He knocked on the back door in case someone should come along by the front, and waited.

It took a little longer for his mistress to appear. And then she seemed - distracted.

"Oh! You're off to the village then? Let me see. How much did you need?"

He had the odd notion that no matter what he'd said, she'd have given it him. Still he didn't want to abuse her generosity.

"For odds and ends, 20p should do. But should you be willing to venture as far as a shoat, then 2 shillings? For the piglet and a leather lead."

She brightened at that.

"I've never kept pigs before! I'll be interested to see how that's done!"

She went inside and he could hear her rummaging around. Shortly she reappeared, handed over 3 shillings.

"Another shilling for a suit makes 3.

"You'll need some spending money - a young lad has wants as well as needs!"

She handed him another shilling! He didn't know what to say.

"That's not necessary Ma'am!"

"Oh posh. As a laborer you are worth surely 2p a day.

"But you are also manservant, carpenter and now swineherd! A shilling a week is not too much I think."

He took it without argument. He was none of those things, but a simple farm boy.

Still she was the Lady of the house and it was not his place to contradict!

Vaulting the wall he started up the road, his shillings in hand and a smile on his face.

Today would change everything! With leather and cloth, pot and cordage, and now a shoat! he could really put the farmstead on a paying footing.

The day grew lighter as he walked, for of course the spell of darkness extended only a short way beyond the house and surroundings.

It grew no warmer, but with sunlight on his face and warmed from moving quickly he felt the day was fine.

Soon he met his Mistress' first customer of the day, by her countenance. She was pensive and walking slowly. They often arrived slowly, always left briskly.

"Good day miss!" he greeted her cheerfully.

She faltered, stared at him, stopped.

"You work for ... her?" she asked nervously.

"For my Mistress in the cottage? The healer? Yes miss! And a good job it is too!"

She seemed taken aback by his forthrightness.

"But...but she's a ..."

"A healer? Yes miss!

"With the wisdom of years and all the skills of her craft, I don't believe there's any distress she can't mend!

"Why she mended me when a scratch grew foul!" He pulled up his shirt on one side, displayed the red weal that was all that remained of his weeping gash.

She colored, but looked, perhaps a beat longer than was necessary.

"It's healing very nicely." she was being polite, but it was true.

Lowering the shirt, "I trust she'll be able to help you today! Good day, miss!"

He continued without waiting for her response.

Often they didn't know what to say, and he found it best to relieve them of the necessity by cutting the conversation short.

As he walked on her head swiveled to watch his backside, dwelling quite a while on his butt flexing as he strode confidently away.

She was the only supplicant he met before arriving at the near village. Mistress had said it would be a slack day, with holiday tasks done.

The village was sleepy. The only person he saw out and about was his young friend from the last visit, a girl of about 11.

She was poking a stick down a molehill for reasons of her own. She looked up, and recognition appeared on her face.

"You're that strange boy that works for the Crone! Hello!" She seemed proud to know him.

He returned the greeting with a smile.

"I'm out gathering supplies today. Are any dry goods to be had in your fair village?"

She considered.

"Yeeees. Maybe. The adults were celebrating last night. Nobody is up yet, not even for chores! Save the baker; she never shirks."

He could see the smoke from the bakery chimney. That would have been started before dawn, to bake the dough made and risen in the wee hours.

"Whaddaya need?" she asked officiously.

"Well, some cordage..."

"Shoemaker! He's got spools of the stuff. What else?"

He smiled. This lass was proving a treasure of information.

"Deal cloth, a pot for the fire, a crock."

"The pot can be got from the baker. Now the bread's in, she'll throw together a pot to order. Not too big?"

"No, just for boiling a few pints over a fire."

"Baker then. Cloth - the tanner has hides of course but no cloth.

"And anyways he had to be carried home last night, dropped senseless by the bonfire in the early hours and couldn't be roused."

"What were you doing up, in the early hours?" He smiled so she'd know he wasn't upset.

She grinned back. "The crock'll come from the next village along. Behind the smithy is a potter proper, with crock and pipkin and suchlike."

He nodded. It was much as he suspected; this village was too small to afford all he'd need.

He said his goodbyes and left her to her molehill.

The shoemakers' was clearly still shuttered. He continued to the bakery.

A "Haloo!" was met with a voice from inside.

"Come through! Come through!"

He stooped, went through the low doorway, found himself in a sales room with shelves empty but for a pile of new rolls.

Another door led to the ovens in the back. He poked his head through.

A baker in dusty flour-covered tunic was just placing the cover back over the oven door. That done she turned, eyed him up and down.

"You're not from around here? What can you need from me this early morning?"

All business! Well he would answer in kind.

"Pot for the fire! Size between a quart and a pottle!"

"Pipkin or kettle? Hearth-fire or outdoor?"

He hadn't thought that far ahead.

"Outdoor! Pipkin?"

That would be useful for an outdoor fire, three legs would always set steady and a handle for fetching it out and pouring.