Crone Ch. 04: Winter Drear

In the morning he first checked on his charge - the shoat sleeping in the straw, unconcerned about it's change of situation.

Stretching, his arms had quickly recovered from yesterday's strain. It had not been more work than chopping wood really. Just lasting for hours, it had made him sore.

He thought less fondly of that cart, now. If he made one it would certainly need to be balanced. Which meant at least two wheels side-by-side.

Which would make it heavier. So much to think about.

Exiting to do his chores, he checked himself, went back and changed into his cloth suit.

It seemed wrong to work in those clothes, so much finer than any he'd known. But it was the mistress' desire, so it would be.

The green stuff needed additions as it had yesterday. The slow day had resulted in less chaff in the fodder bucket.

His three strange charges were weasels today! They wriggled and squirmed as weasels do, yet made no more progress across the paddock than usual.

Petting the smallest one, it made a sort of chirrupping noise, very un-weasel-like!

Carrying water was no different. Hauling up the bucket and carrying it to the cistern was as usual.

But once he began to swing the axe the shoulders of his shirt began to chafe. This wouldn't do!

He shucked out of the shirt, laid it out carefully on the well cover out of harm's way.

Naked to the waist he finished the wood splitting and stacking. Just as well; this kept the shirt from bark dusk and sweat.

Drawing another bucket he washed himself before resuming the shirt, determined to keep it clean.

He'd have to figure out how one washed linen. Too much scrubbing would ruin the weave! It would probably have to be soaked.

Re-donning the shirt he returned to the front yard. There were already customers waiting. The festival day had created new troubles for the villagers, apparently!

Spirits ran high on such days. It was no wonder folks would find fault with one another. Faults they hoped his Mistress could address.

He got more than one head swiveling to watch him go by. His new suit was a sensation among the clients, young and old.

Gathering a few acorns from the woods behind his paddock, he went to toss them into the stall where his piglet dwelt.

It was up and about, and ignored the nuts he threw among the straw. It grunted plaintively at him, clearly wanting out.

He took the lead from where it sat on the shelf, fastened it to his shoat. Out they went, like a small parade.

Another sensation among the ladies; the pig was a surprise to everyone.

Taking it to his ruined enclosure he coaxed it over the fallen stones to an oak tree just beyond the wall.

Fastening the lead to a branch he left it to happily root among the drifted leaves.

Fetching his prybar he set to loosening stones and restacking them beside the wall.

He'd sort them, dress those that were irregular or broken, and once the wall path was clear he'd rebuild it.

His piglet was content as long as it could see him working. Whenever he disappeared for a moment, to get a drink or fetch a tool, it would make alarmed sounds.

He found that by calling to it, he could calm it with the sound of his voice.

"Hey! Piggy! Piggy! Hey there! You're all right! I'm just here!"

All morning he toiled, prying up stones, stacking them loosely by size and shape. By lunchtime he'd progressed barely a rod. This was going to take time!

When Mistress came out with the tray, all the customers dispatched, he decided he'd have to bring the shoat or they'd not be able to hear themselves think for the squealing.

Coming around the house, lead in hand, an improvised stake in the other, she cackled!

"You are a sight! Father and son! Out for a Sunday stroll!"

He smiled, not concerned at the ribbing. Like he and his father used to do, when he was just a lad.

That memory stung a little, so he put it out of his mind.

"We're to have company for lunch! He's a little uncertain of his new home, and he has to know where I am to be happy."

The Crone was pleased as she found little boar entertaining. That could become a problem later when it came time for ham, chops and sausage. But they'd cross that bridge when they came to it.

Eating their bread and jam with some kind of cheesy herb spread, lunch was a time of relaxation and reflection.

"How's the stonework, mason? Will it be done by first snowfall?"

He considered around a bite of crusty loaf.

"A rod today; the pen is two-three rod up and back, at least a rod across. That's what? 7 or 8 rod."

"That should take not even a fortnight!"

"Whoa! Thats just demolition, removing the stones and sorting them. After, there's mason's work of trimming, leveling, then finally building the wall."

"Ah. So maybe not by first snowfall."

"It would take less time, if the pen were smaller. Say a rod square. This little shoat would need no more. Then we'd have a good shot at finishing within the month."

"But later, it'd need re-doing?"

"Some of it. Well, half of it. If I place two sides where they stand now, the other two would cut across where the pen was.

"Later that part'd have to be removed to the original dimensions."

"So you have planning to do."

She was wonderful that way, leaving his work to him, and not pretending to decide every little thing.

"I think it's that or nothing. With the shed forming one side, it's three rod of work now.

Removing two later to complete six is not that onerous."

She nodded, not sure what all that meant but confident he knew.

They ate contentedly, as the pig contentedly picked among the grass as far as it's lead would allow.

He'd had a thought overnight, and decided to speak up.

"Do the clients see me as I am?"

She was watching the shoat, and didn't look up.

"Hm? What do you mean?"

He spoke carefully.

"The spell over the glen..." She smiled at that wording.

"The spell is limited to the house and grounds? See, the pets are affected too.

"Does it extend to the pig, for instance? To me?"

He didn't say it, but they both understood he meant "Does it extend to you, Mistress?"

She broke off more bread, smeared it with jam, took a bite and chewed before answering.

"The 'spell of the glen' is an old one. I did not set it; it was set ages ago by another practitioner.

"The pets, that was me. It amuses me to alarm the clients, impress them with our bravery and cunning to see such wild things under our control."

He nodded, that made sense.

"You appear just as you are. I have not, and would not, change that without your consent."

He felt relieved for some reason.

He didn't press the issue. He'd learned more than he felt he deserved to know. It was not his place to question, and she'd answered his only real concern.

Yet she continued.

"There are other spells. On the path, the gloom extends in both directions some distance. That was a simple thing, to a practitioner anyway.

"A few stones placed here and there, some intention left imprinted on them, and travelers are inclined to feel a quietness, a stillness when they pass.

It helps keep out those that just want to peer at us; it discourages mischief makers without keeping sincere customers away."

He was impressed. Her skills were broad, and her cleverness deep.

She made a decision.

"You really want to know, is my appearance true? Is that right?"

"Mistress, I have no right to ask, and you have no obligation to say."

She was pleased with this. His heart was good, and his compassion true. She liked him more.

"I'll tell you. I say because we are a sort of partnership in this. You've shown me so much; I do owe you the courtesy of sharing what I can."

He was going to protest again, but she shushed him.

"I am not exactly as you see me. I've... added here and there to complete the illusion of a wise woman.

"My health is better than it appears to be. My aspect has been altered a little. For the same reason as the stones on the road.

"To keep mischief makers at bay, but not those determined to have my help."

He could see that. It only made sense.

"I'm almost as old as I seem. Yes, our kind can live a little longer than most. Quite a little. And in good health, of course, as we can heal ourselves and one another."

This was enlightening! It should have occurred to him, if he'd followed the logic of it. Now he felt a little silly.

"I am quite fit, as you may have noticed from my activities."

He nodded.

"Yet I am frail in other ways.

"I've seen so much, I shrink from too much contact with villagers.

"To live among so many people, much as the moonlight makes the world 'noisy', so do the thoughts and emotions of people, all the teeming multitude, all the time.

"I live out here to keep my sanity. I treasure my solitude, and invite only those who's minds are... peaceful. People such as you."

He protested.

"But I am not of peaceful mind! I have my troubles. My concerns."

She smiled gently somehow with her broken teeth and withered lips.

"Your concerns are all for others, all of empathy and kindness. You, like me, are loath to feel people in pain.

"I feel you as I feel my kindred, other healers. We are of a kind, Jordan."

He was about to object when she continued,

"Oh no! You are not a healer. You are quite mortal and quite connected to the world as it is, as it seems. Fear nothing on that account.

"But we are of a kind, in our responses to the world as it is. Thus I find you to be a congenial companion in my solitude.

"You have concerns, but they are healthy concerns born of a desire for peace. We can work together on them some day. That day has not yet come."

He had a lot to think about. For a time they just sat, fiddling with the bread crust. She pulled off bits, tossed them to the shoat who gobbled them happily.

"Well! Enough of that for now! You have a wall to build, and I have to prepare for winter! "

He looked quizzical.

"Yes! In winter people's ailments are different from the other seasons.

"No I don't mean physiks for sore stomachs.

"I mean depression, resentment, dull endurance take their toll.

"The cures I need next, are for these things."

"Let me know what you need! I will be glad to fetch whatever is required!"

She was all business.

"I'll draw up a list. I have nothing left from last year to show you; it was a hard winter if you recall.

"I'll accompany you to the places I know for the herbs I need. After that you'll be on your own."

He was only too glad to be able to help. She felt that, and was warmed by it.

They were a good team.

The shoat was taken to his tree to root happily. Jordan went back to his stones, also to root happily.

As he pried stone out of the ground, he had time to think.

Now that he knew something more of the environs, his home, he felt connected as he hadn't before.

This place was special, it made sense now, and it was all for the good!

The afternoon went uneventfully. Getting as far as the old cornerstone to the wall, he decided to call it a day on that effort.

Fitting a smooth stout branch to his mason's steel on the bench, he soon had a serviceable tool.

Taking his new hammer to the pile of broken and discarded stone, he began to experiment with various blows.

In a short time he felt he could shape a stone as he wished, at least most of the time. The hammer was quite adequate for his need.

Definitely the wall would be shorter; there wasn't enough stone to complete the entire boundary. So much was broken or irretrievable embedded in the soil.

How big should he make it?

Taking some of his cord and some makeshift stakes he sighted along the old wall line. Placed a stake, stretched his new cord, scratched a straight line in the ground under the string.

Turning at right angles from this new corner, he did the same for the crossing wall.

Running back from that corner he found the wall returning to the cow shed was further back that it had been out. The cord wouldn't reach!

Was something out of square?

Well, certainly that was possible. It was all old, and erected long ago before folks worried much about that sort of thing.

He surrendered to the inevitable, moved his corner state to shorten the return. The pig would likely not care.

Now he'd marked a pen one rod on a side, the length of his cord.

If he was only to erect this much new wall, he wouldn't have to scavenge all the old stone. He had half enough already! More!

That would save days.

If the first hard freeze would take it's time getting here, he might finish!

The next fortnight went well. His days were much of a kind.

He spent some time every morning collecting a days' worth of herb as directed by Mistress.

It wasn't far and didn't take much effort so herb-collecting became a sort of respite in his day. Just pottering around a meadow filling a basket.

The fodder for the 'pets' was plentiful! So much to process! He imagined her at the table from early to late.

He wasn't sure but the pets seemed to be growing.

His pig had no trouble with fodder so long as he staked him out under a different tree every other day. Acorns, roots, berries were all it took to have a happy shoat.

His skill with the hammer grew steadily, until he could tell at a glance what stone was worth saving, what would yield something useful with a little attention, and what needed no trimming at all.

He only kept the best as he had far more than he'd need for his small paddock. The pile of 'not worth using, yet' grew.

His wall-building was underway. The first side and the turn were completed.

There was some trouble with a washout that took a lot of forking up sod and hauling of dirt, but he persevered and hoped the weather would hold.

He saw no more of his strange young lady with the active sex urges. He hadn't left the farmstead, he didn't even know where she lived so he'd have had no opportunity.

Anyway he lay in his straw at night completely exhausted from the toil and slept like the dead.

It didn't keep him from dreaming of her, and waking with a slimy mess on his groin.

Every night it got colder; every day the sky was clear but the light a little less. The summer was clearly coming to a close.

He saw the occasional wagon of produce, hay or grain pass on the trail. Usually the drover hurrying a little as they felt the influence of the 'uneasiness stones'.

Mistress said there'd be a pause in business as everyone was occupied with harvest, laying up firewood, curing meat and suchlike.

But once folks became housebound by cold and snow, then every day the path was clear there would be a line of young married wives who'd had enough of their loved ones' company.

Lunchtime was brief as they both were working against the weather. Just bread and cheese most days, as Mistress had no time to cook.

Today he set his hammer on the wall and walked to the bench as he heard the front door open.

He was tired, hungry, cold and fairly depressed. The work seemed endless and life had gotten monotonous.

Mistress was sitting and chewing, having not waited for him. He tore off a hunk of bread and a piece of the yellow cheese and sat heavily.

Just staring into space, not yet eating, he noticed Mistress looking at him.

"Not hungry?" she asked, certain that couldn't be true.

He gave her a half smile, bit into the cheese, chewed mechanically.

She suggested "It's been a hard fortnight since Crispin's day. Work, cold, fading light and a dreary sameness. It can wear down the spirit."

He didn't respond, as there was nothing to add.

She ventured "At home, did you have events, celebrations to mark the seasons?"

She was fishing for something they might do to break up the toil.

He shook his head. "We were enough for each other. We worked together in the byre, in the field, in the cottage.

"We talked and laughed and spent evenings with a fire and stories.

"Well, we did until..."

He left it unsaid. She knew of mother's death, father's despair.

She thought a bit, then made a proposal.

"I have not the skills nor strength to help you at your wall-building. But you do have the talent to help me at my work.

"Could you spend some of the dark evening hours at my table, helping prepare our harvest for the clients?

"I know it would simply be more work for you, for little recompense. But we could also tell stories, perhaps find reason to laugh again?"

He bit, chewed, took his time answering.

"It wouldn't delay the wall, as I cannot work when the light grows too dim."

She added "And it's warmer in the house, than the shed! You would sleep better having been warmed and rested each night!"

He was reluctant, as it would presume on her time and patience, to have a dirty farm laborer in her workroom. He said as much.

"Posh! I too feel the isolation and the dark pressing in. Your company would be a welcome change."

They finished lunch in silence, each to their own thoughts.

"If you decide to accept my offer, please knock after dark. I will be at table, working late."

He nodded, made no promise. But he thought about it all that afternoon.

While prying up the far cornerstones to make the next corner he convinced himself it was no use, as it would change nothing.

As he trimmed stone and piled them to use, he thought it would be interesting to hear more stories from the Crone.

As he trued and stacked stone to form the base of the next section of wall, he despaired of finishing in time and would have to work long past dark.

When surveying another section complete he felt he deserved a break from this toil.

Three times he convinced himself it was no use, it would not help.

Three times he reconsidered, remembering evenings with his family.

In the end hope and optimism won out. As dusk was closing it's clammy hand over the farmstead he stood on the stoop and knocked.

She opened the door immediately, as if she'd been waiting for him.

"Come in! You're shivering!"

He was unaware, but indeed his hands were shaking. Perhaps more from nervousness than cold.

The room was warm; the fire burned brightly. The usual frugality was abandoned tonight it seemed.

"I know, the fire is making more work for you. Yet I hoped tonight we could have some small comforts."

He contradicted her!

"Not more work; I must return to woodcutting soon. In the deep cold it will be impossible to split wood.

"I must bring in a cord soon or we will suffer later. A few sticks will matter little."

She nodded, accepting all that as his domain.

"See! I am toiling within as you toil without. My task is large, as enough must be done before snowfall when the herbs become hidden.

"I'll want months worth of cures, all crafted in the next days!"

He could see she had fallen behind. His daily forage was stacked on the table in bulky piles, sorted roughly but much yet to do.

Her slop bucket already was overflowing, another untidy pile under the table.

Her fund of completed cures looked paltry, but he imagined she had more stored elsewhere.

"What shall I do!" he said with forced enthusiasm.

She looked serious, began to instruct him without embellishment. She could read his mood, and responded by being matter-of-fact.

"Strip the branches of withered buds. Keep stems and buds but discard the leaves, which have lost potency.

"Two wooden bowls to hold each, the leaves discarded below."

He saw her layout, had one question.

"Must the buds be treated particularly?"

"Not this time. Grab them firmly, as they are toughened now, and separate with all necessary force.

"We're making a tea so crushed, desiccated matter is to be preferred.

"Strip the leaves with abandon! Let them fly as they will.

"Crushed stems are fine, as I'll be putting all under the mortar."