Crone Ch. 03: Matchmaker

One cart was two-wheeled with a prop for setting up as a stand. It had handles like a plow, and would have to be balanced and pushed by hand.

The wheel was bound in leather with iron nails, around a wooden hub that had holes cut to reduce weight he supposed.

The next was a little fancier. Two wheels in front and one in back, it had an iron ring on the front for attaching a draft animal but also handles in the rear for steering or pushing as needed.

The wheels were iron-bound around a hub with short stubby spokes - just squared segments of wood really, six of them stuck into a block of wood with the axel through it. It looked like it would be heavy but sturdy.

The next he liked best of all. One wheel fore and aft, with longer ash spokes stuck into a turned wood hub.

The hole in the hub was leather-padded and greased, the stubby wooden axel stuck through and pegged so the wheel could turn freely within a fork in the frame.

The rear wheel was mounted in a more complicated block that somehow swiveled with the handles. Made sense - you'd have to steer it to keep it upright!

The cart itself was a simple plank box with a cover folded out and propped, now serving as a shelf for wares. It doubled the area for display, and would close up tight against weather when travelling.

Props on four corners held it steady as a stall, but clearly it would take no time to be ready for travel.

The vendor noticed his attention, and as there were no customers at present he directed his attention to Jordan.

"You interested in the trade?" he asked pleasantly.

"Well sir, I'm really just looking at your cart. I'll be in the market for one soon, but it'll have to be something I can build myself.

"This is a pretty nice rig you have!"

"A bear to steer when the road is rough - I've tipped it over more than once! It takes a strong back to wrestle it upright again!"

Jordan saw how that could be an issue. But he'd never load his cart with so much weight it would be a bother. At least he didn't think so.

"I'd like to see it in operations, but I suppose you'll be here all day..."

"Nossir! Once lunch is over, I'll be heading south to the next village. They have an evening service and late tent supper planned. I'm to provide baked goods!"

Jordan had an idea.

"I'm heading that way. Would you like a companion? I'd be glad to help with the cart for that trip."

The vendor was intrigued.

"If you're willing to share the chore of pushing, you'd be very welcome!

"Do you have anything to carry? It would be no trouble to load it on the cart as well..."

Jordan smiled. "Yessir, I have a crock to carry, and I'm dreading the trip. It's not large but anything is heavy after the first half mile."

"Well lad, if you're here when I'm packing up, I'd be glad for the company. I'm not as young as I used to be. This may be my last year in the business."

"I'll be here! I've one more task today with the Smith, then fetch my crock and I'll be ready to leave."

"Sounds about right. See you here once the church bell sounds the next hour!"

From his memory of the last bell, Jordan figured that gave him time. If the Smith were in his shop!

Hurrying off he made a bee-line for the smithy.

What luck! Gregor was sitting on his stool, his flagon in his hand and a dreamy smile on his face.

"Gregor! I'm here to fetch my hammer!

"How did it go with Candice?"

He smiled a broad-faced smile.

"Candice is wonderful! So ... wonderful!" He was not a big one for words.

Jordan could see that it had gone well.

"Glad to hear it! Well. My hammer? Is it cooled?"

The Smith shook himself, set down the flagon, fished in the bucket and pulled out his masons' hammer head. Ringing it on the anvil, it gave a clear sharp chime.

"Good iron! Good quench! Will serve you well!"

"Fine, fine. What would you charge, to put an edge on the peen?"

Gregor was still smiling. "For you, Jordan, nothing!"

That sounded just fine. While Gregor went to his stone, Jordan hied himself behind the shop to fetch his crock. It was where he left it. The shelves were much depleted - the potter had had a good day!

Hefting the crock, he called into the potter's shack "I've got my crock! Thanks to you for holding it all morning!"

He got an unintelligible holler from inside, took that as good enough and went back with his load.

My it was heavy! The cart would save him an aching back and sore shoulders, for sure!

Gregor was just finishing up - he'd hammered the peen fairly straight to start with, and a masons' hammer had only a wedge not a cutting edge. So the sharpening stone had quickly dressed the peen sufficient to the task.

Gregor handed it over with a smile.

"You are a good lad! A good lad!" His vocabulary exhausted, he subsided into a happy smile.

"And I owe you 6p, do I remember right?"

Gregor seemed about to forgive the debt, but Jordan was already pushing the cash into his hand.

"You'll need this to buy favors for Candice!"

With a smile he fetched his bundles from under the bench and stowed them in the crock.

Gregor waved him off with a smile as he hefted it onto his shoulder and took his leave.

Arriving at the cart-man he saw the arrangements to leave were underway.

"Glad to see you back! Stow that in the box while I prepare the cover."

Setting the crock in the box, careful not to crush the rolls and loaves within, Jordan helped close the lid. It was on simple leather hinges and fitted closely. A cord around a ring held it shut.

"Hold the cart upright while I fold the legs! Careful! It'll want to roll!"

Jordan seized the handles and tried the weight - heavy but not too much to handle. He helped rock the cart this way and that to loosen the legs and allow them to be folded into place.

Once all four were stowed the cart-man came back to stand by him.

"It steers from the back, so you'll have to figure that out. Try moving forward. Slowly!"

He was right; Jordan's first impulse when it veered right was to turn the wrong way. But by trial and error he soon had navigation figured out.

"All right! Let's head out! You can take the first half-mile? Good."

A little wobbly at first but with increasing confidence, they crossed the green and found the path south. It was deserted as everyone was at the fair.

The cart-man proved to be an amiable companion. He told simple stories of his travels, of the people he'd met and the weather he'd endured on the road.

But today was clear and fine; they'd have no problems.

The cart was no problem to push, the wheels rolling easily and the iron rims rolling over simple obstacles without harm. But every time he lost his attention for a moment, it would wobble and he'd have to wrestle it upright before he spill all!

After a half-mile his arms were aching and his back sore from the unaccustomed twisting. He was more than willing to offer the job to his companion.

But looking at the man he saw now his greying hair, his slight stoop. The way he favored one leg. And he kept quiet, and listened to the stories. And accepted the strain as just compensation for not having to carry his crock.

The miles did not go quickly; it seemed an age before they topped the final rise down into the village.

As they approached, some children ran to greet them with a happy cry. The cart-man lit up, greeted the youngsters by name.

Bidding Jordan take care, they went more slowly into the village, surrounded by chatty children with endless questions.

"Where have you been! Did you cross the mighty Cosus river! Did you brave the cat'raks!" They had clearly heard some of his stories before.

He answered kindly, listening to each child carefully and responding with good humor.

Once they reached the green they spied the tent set up for the evening's event. Jordan steered the cart there, and stood patient as an ox while the cart-man deployed the struts.

Children had to be shoo'd from harms' way, shown how the mechanisms worked, given patient explanations for the workings. All while Jordan held the cart steady, his back aching, his arms ready to fall from his frame.

Once the lid was deployed each child was given half a raisin bun and sent to fetch the mayor, to tell him the cart-man had come. They ran off in a happy gaggle, like the geese that morning, noisy and rambunctious.

"You have the patience of a saint!" Jordan said when his burden was finally safe, every brace in place and the shelving secure.

"And you my friend, the strength of an ox! Don't think I didn't notice, you taking every turn on yourself. This old man thanks you, from the bottom of my soul!"

That warmed Jordan in a way he hadn't expected. It'd been a long time since his father had said any kind of praise or thanks. He hadn't known how he missed that.

Once the thrumming ache in his arms had passed, Jordan hefted his crock out of the box onto his shoulder.

"I thank you, cart-man, for the gift of the burden relieved. I would have been no better off carrying this, than pushing the cart!

"And I've had the benefit of your tales and remembrances!"

The cart-man nodded, glad to have been of any small service.

Taking his leave Jordan remembered his last two chores: retrieve the pipkin from the baker, and some cordage from the shoemaker.

Both shops were open; the baker's first. Behind the counter was a pretty local lass, something like his earlier companion but grown into her frame.

"I've come for my pipkin!"

She nodded, went into the back and fetched it out.

He examined it - properly formed, the handle hollow which was a boon. The legs securely fused to the body. The volume, sufficient.

It was indeed a rough pot, with neither glaze nor the shining fiery finish it would have had at a potters' kiln. But it would do.

"Tuppence was the price?" he asked to make sure.

She nodded, took his two pennies, put them in a box on the shelf behind the counter.

Next: the shoemaker.

This was a small quiet women, fingers stained from the shoe-black, clothes finer than most but not showy. She smiled kindly when he entered.

"You'll be wanting boots? I have fine boots for a workman such as yourself."

He shook his head apologetically.

"Not this day; perhaps the next time I visit! My resources will extend as far as some cordage."

She fetched a wooden spool with coarse woven cord, three yarns braided without a core. He examined it, nodded, asked for a rod.

Three farthings were all she required, leaving him a farthing in reserve.

Stowing all that in his crock and fitting the lid tightly, he shouldered it and went to the well on the green.

Now, his young charge had promised to meet him at noon. That had come and gone some hour ago.

How was he to proceed? Would the shoat have to wait for another day?

Somehow she must have sensed his presence, for as he dwelt there uncertainly she came from behind the bakery with his piglet on a lead!

It wandered this way and that, but restrained by a twine around it's neck she kept it mostly on course.

In due time she'd traced a zig-zagged path across the green, pig in tow or towing her as it happened.

"You're late! I've been twice to the brewers' for fodder for your shoat! He likes the cast-off hops."

Smiling he took the lead from the girl, tied it to the post by the well.

"You have a price for this fine beast?" he inquired, treating her as he would any shopkeeper.

She considered.

"Well of course 3p for the animal. And for the tending, the feed, the lead, the watering and my time...1 farthing more!"

She said it confidently, sure of her right to demand the price.

"Hm. Seems a little steep. How about we make a bargain? I'll give you a penny, for all that and a lead from the tanner.

"You make your best deal with the tanner, you'll have your farthing and perhaps more!"

She considered, held out her hand, slapped his when he offered it.

"Deal!"

Demanding the penny up front, "For the tanner won't give my anything for just a promise!".

Once procured she shot off in the direction of the tanner, leaving him with his new charge.

"Well young shoat, you look a fine beast! What a boar you will grow into in time! Shall I name you? Perhaps Ham! Or Chop!"

The little animal looked at him, grunted, content with whatever he should decide.

She returned in quite a short time, a lead in hand. He took it gravely, examined it carefully, approved.

"You drove a good bargain I hope?"

She smiled. "He wanted his full penny, which I knew he would.

"But I have naming privilege on his hound's next litter, which should run to four or five pups easy!"

She seemed very content with the deal. Naming was an important event for her, it was clear.

"I'll be careful when bargaining with you in future! Lest you end up naming my children!"

She grinned hugely, bent to pet the pig, then shot off in her usual fashion, this time into the bakery.

"Spreading the good news I imagine!"

He supposed her sister worked at the bakery, given they had the same hair, the same rangy build, the same nose.

But who knew, in these villages? Cousin or aunt was just as likely.

Fastening the lead around the little pig's neck, he fastened the other end to his belt. Both hands would be needed for his load.

He stripped off the twine, discarding it now that the shoat was restrained.

It took a little learning, but the pig soon learned to follow meekly. As long as he let it stop and sniff from time to time, it was content to allow him to take charge the rest of the time.

In any case he needed to set the crock down frequently, rub his sore shoulders, stretch his arms. It took far longer than it should have in this start-stop way, to go the last half-mile to the farmstead.

When he arrived the Crone was already sitting out front, smoking a pipe!

He set down his crock, hefted the shoat over the wall, took his crock and stepped across himself.

Arriving at the doorstep he set the crock down for the final time. She smiled her crooked-toothed smile.

"You're glad to see the backside of that, I'm certain!"

He nodded, sat heavily on the bench beside her.

They sat in silence for a time, the shoat poking around their feet, wandering as far as the lead would permit.

He remembered the money, fished it out.

"I have some change for you! The mason's hammer was cheaper, due to services I made to the Smith."

She waved it away. "You worked for it? Then it's yours."

He didn't know what to say. All his life, cash money was valued more than anything. This casual attitude was strange to him.

She inquired about his purchases, so he unpacked the crock. Showed the cordage, the hammer head, the cloth, the pipkin. Each item was commented on as appropriate, appreciated.

The bundle that contained his new suit was unrolled and exclaimed over.

"You shall look the proper manservant in this! A step up for our business!" she exclaimed.

He found her use of 'our business' curious but withheld comment.

"Shall I wear it in the mornings, as the customers pass through?"

She considered. "It would be good to do that. And perhaps save it by wearing your hide shirt afternoons."

Her motivation in deciding that had less to do with the linen, that with the way he looked in his brief hide shirt. She kept that to herself.

"Well, show me! I paid a good shilling for that suit! I want to see you wear it!"

"Now? Um, sure."

He detached the shoat and handed her the lead, which she took tentatively. Never having managed animals, she was intrigued by the little boar.

Shucking off the shirt, he soon had the linen on and the ties fastened. Turning this way and that, she exclaimed at the tailoring.

"The sleeves are very neat! Aligned with the hem! The length is suitable for a man of your station!"

He was glad she approved. It had seemed adequate to him, but he knew little of such things.

"Well? The pants?"

He colored, but turned his back and dropped his pants. Taking the duck cloth he stepped carefully into them, struggled them up over his butt and hips. She watched attentively.

Taking the bundle cord from her, he fastened it in place of his rope belt.

She'd unashamedly admired his butt, his thighs, his strong legs the entire time he was undressing and redressing, under the guise of admiring the new clothes.

"Yes, they'll do. Sturdy as befitting a mason or carpenter, with a neat fit. The hem is properly done, I admire the tailor's skill!"

"It was a young lad, barely a man, with a shop behind a butchers'".

He told the whole story, with exaggerated emphasis on the bargaining and fitting and his naivete. She laughed at all the right places.

Her pipe finished, she handed him back the lead.

"You'll want to bed him down somewhere?"

"Oh any stall but mine will suit him I'm sure. I'll cast a few acorns about to keep him busy rooting among the straw."

She nodded, sure he knew what he was saying but profoundly ignorant of pigs and their habits.

The evenings were cooler now, and the light shorter. A breeze picked up and began blowing bits of grass about. His cloth pants fluttered with the wind, which was a feeling unfamiliar to him. Hide pants were stiff and form-fitting.

Her skirts did likewise. Wrapped around her bony frame, the cloth wrapped over on one hip.

The wind gusted, and her skirt flew wide for a moment.

In that moment he spied her legs. Embarrassed at the indignity, he looked away politely.

But in the moment it happened he had seen not bony, blue veined legs as expected. But legs strong and shapely, with clear skin and graceful ankles!

What illusion was this! Part of the spell of the glen? Working to make the cottage and ground humble and sinister, did it work oppositely on her?

He stood to go, excused himself as she patted her skirts back into place.

She watched him take his charge to the shed, thoughtful.

This had been a broadening day! For both of them!