Crone Ch. 04: Winter Drear

He could see that now as well - her stone vessel was stained with use, half-full of unsorted buds and stems, the mortar encrusted with chaff.

He tried one plant slowly to get the sense of it, separating the parts as instructed.

Then when he knew there was nothing to confound him, he adjusted the bowls slightly for his reach and began in earnest.

Pluck! the buds, fling them in one bowl.

Strip! the leaves with one hand holding the root tightly, the other roughly run down the stem to the tip.

Tear the stems to manageable pieces, and drop in the other bowl.

When he had so many piled dead leaves as to interfere, he swept them with his arm onto the floor, brushed them into the discard pile with a foot.

She observed silently as she measured and ground.

It was gratifying to see a workman at work, his motions efficient, his effort measured, his strength controlled.

So unlike the sisters of the guild, who were by and large slight and agile but without the power of a farm laborer.

She found it satisfying to see him confident and serene. She felt his mind clear, his mood settle, his emotions flow into coherence with the room.

A companionable silence reigned for a time, neither finding words necessary.

Finding herself without tissue to wrap her tea, she went to the other room, returned with a sheaf.

Noticing him watch her, she broke the silence.

"I make this tissue in the spring! Pound Scythian, a plant somewhat like flax but finer, make a pulp. Soak it. Sieve the pulp in a basket lined with fine woven cloth, let it settle then peel it off as one leaf!

I press the leaf between two polished planks to make it opaque, then drape it over cord to dry."

He thought idly of that.

"It must look like washing-day at the inn! Leaves everywhere like drying linens!"

She laughed, agreed.

"To get enough I spend a fortnight collecting, a fortnight crushing, a fortnight sieving and pressing and drying."

"A chore?" he asked, thinking of the days just past.

"Oh no! I look forward to those days. I'm otherwise unoccupied as in spring few have need of my cures. Oh the occasional love potion."

He raised an eyebrow, and she grinned.

"That's really just winterberry tea! Excite the heart, get the blood flowing; folks generally take care of the love themselves."

He laughed, glad to know she wasn't complicit in enslaving suitors to a reluctant mate.

"And in spring, I enjoy the collecting. Everything in bloom!

"I grind the pulp in the garden so I'm also outside for that part during fine weather.

"When it's foul as it often is in spring, I do the papermaking. It's all quite peaceful and pleasant!"

"I'd like to see that I think. I think I could help."

She nodded, glad to share her interests with him. Hopeful he would still be there in spring.

They both found their spirits lifted, thinking of spring and it's pleasures.

"What did spring entail on the farm?" she asked, genuinely interested.

He thought, began to tell her.

Of piglets born, calves whelped, colts delivered and horses harnessed to the plow.

Winter wine decanted and carried to market.

Repairs to cottage and sheds. Roof shakes split and thatch prepared and applied.

Trees felled and fence rails split.

Grain sprouting in the fields. Rabbits snared and scarecrows erected.

In this way they spent an hour, then two. He easily outraced her efforts in grinding with his preparation of ingredients.

She offered him a turn at the mortar which was new to him. His strong arm initially tossed the buds around and spilled from the vessel.

But he soon learned to moderate his strength, exert even pressure and careful slow strokes.

She rubbed her sore shoulders as she watched him at work. His arms bulged in his shirt, the hair at the cuffs peeking out as he worked the pestle.

It was pleasant to watch, and she was glad to let him talk.

When he talked of his childhood she could feel his emotions swell, as his shoulders swelled under the shirt.

Finally she bade him stop, pronounced his efforts adequate. He was chuffed.

"And you have done enough, to supply me tomorrow!"

He looked momentarily crestfallen, as he'd hope to return tomorrow. She hurried to assure him.

"Oh, I'll need you again by evening. But with this lot..." she waved her arm to indicate the overfilled bowls

"I'll do more tomorrow afternoon than I have in days!"

Smiling again, it turned into a yawn. She noticed.

"I must have my manservant well-rested! Will you return to your stall to sleep the night?"

Seeing he was being dismissed, he assented, stood to go.

Preceding him around the table to the door, she paused before opening it.

"I am glad you consented to entertain me tonight! It was a joy to have company."

She stood on tiptoe, pressed her withered lips to his cheek. Put an arm around him and squeezed gently.

Coloring, he thanked her for the pleasant time, went out the open door and exited to the chill night air.

It closed behind him, Mistress hurrying to keep out the draft.

Walking through the relative gloom to his apartment, he barely felt the cold. The moon was full and provided enough light to avoid collision with the yard obstacles.

His mind full of thoughts of his childhood, thoughts of spring, he felt better than he had in a fortnight.

This was good! This way of life now seemed endurable. With the break at lunch and the respite in the evening, his days would be fine.

Enjoyable even, each task a welcome break from the others, all in rotation and each with its satisfaction.

Checking on the shoat (snoring), entering his stall quietly, shucking out of his clothes and burrowing into his straw bed, something occurred to him.

Her lips on his cheek had been soft and warm! Not leathery and cold as they might have been!

He tried to wonder on that, but instantly fell into sweet oblivion.

Another fortnight passed in a blink. No longer a dread march into winter, instead he welcomed the change of season and the demanding tasks.

He felled two more trees; cut, hauled and split them providing the cord of wood he knew they'd want.

His wall return to the cow shed was done faster than he thought possible. No longer trudging about the yard, he had a spring in his step and worked with a will.

Each evening was spent in a warm cottage, swapping stories and occasionally drinking wine.

Each night a warm peck on the cheek and a hug as he departed.

It was not the behavior a hired hand should receive from his Mistress, but she explained that his visits made her fall evenings bearable.

Which explained nothing really.

The shoat now lived in the completed pen during the day, glad each morning to get a share of the slops and a bucket of acorns, otherwise content to wander it's yard.

The pets in their rotation began to repeat, with the occasional surprise. Horses one day, and another mules.

And even once, great hulking beasts that appeared to stride about in dignity but somehow moved exactly as fast as always.

He began to consider what fodder would be required in the snowy months, and spent a happy morning scouting for hay sufficient to the need.

He found some in a meadow but it would require cutting, raking and hauling for which he had no means as of yet.

When questioned Mistress had no plan for winter fodder whatsoever! The pets were new additions to the farmstead, and this would be their first cold season.

That problem in the back of his mind, he accosted a passing Hayman one afternoon, enquired about the cost of a wagonload.

The farmer seemed nervous at first but warming to Jordan's easy manner and familiarity with rural tasks, quickly struck a bargain.

A half-shilling for a last (a wagonload) of hay seemed steep, but cut and delivered he figured it reasonable.

Mentioned to Mistress, she insisted on providing the wherewithal though Jordan had saved easily enough. He had no convenient way to spend his weekly shilling and now had a pouch that jingled!

Anyway he had no needs. His barn, his clothes, food each day was enough for him.

Three days later the farmer returned with the wagon heaped high. Together they pitched the hay over the wall into the yard, and he paid in silver.

The farmer was glad for the cash money, promised Jordan a pint when next they met in the village.

It took two days of occasional effort when he had the time, to get all the haystack by sled-loads into an empty stall.

It would fare better under cover, and not rot in the rain nor blow away.

He didn't use any as of yet, as Mistress still provided plenty of fodder from her cure crafting. He'd save it for lean times.

So the fortnight enjoyed instead of endured, he found himself with diminishing tasks upon the next new moon.

Animals cared for; herb collecting at an end; wall complete; clean straw collected and redoubled in the stalls.

That morning after water raised and wood split (for he would save his stored cord against the hard month) he found he had nothing to do!

No need for new projects, as there would be no animals to butcher and so no fat to make soap.

He didn't need to upgrade his fire tools or fetch a kettle.

No mattock was in the offing; he'd not need that until spring in any case.

No real reason to go into the village. It would likely be quiet, with everyone engaged in harvest storage and processing.

So no need yet for a cart.

Spending some time in the relative sunlight, sitting on a stump with his tools arrayed on his little table, he sharpened and polished. But this was quickly done. Restowing the tools in the cow shed, he was again idle.

Heading up the road with his pot, he found his marker and hiked up to the chestnut. He had to dig among the leaves and scree but eventually filled his pot with nuts.

The rodents had gotten the best of them but enough remained.

Returning to the homestead he knocked on the back door.

When she answered, "May I use the wash tub?" It was provided and he quickly filled it from the well.

Gathering a modicum of branches, bark and such from his axe yard he created a small fire.

Heating a bit of the water in his pot, he warmed the washtub by mixing the hot with the rest.

Hitting the nuts on a stump with his hammer he tossed them in, mixed some sudsy water.

First the hide clothes were given a desultory soak and wring, propped on sticks by the fire.

Stripping from his linen he gave the shirt and pants a careful soak. Waiting for the wash water to do its good work, he crouched near his fire.

Naked in the fall air was no joke - the wind was not kind to his exposed skin. Fortunately he was largely covered by his native fur.

Despite the chill his cock and balls continued to hang nearly to the ground as he crouched. They felt the cold keenly.

When he got too chilled he jumped up and down, jogged around his fire, working the muscles in his arms, legs, butt. Such activity kept the ache away, but put considerable strain on his dick as it flopped around.

Once he judged his linens were cleaner he swished them around in his tepid washtub, squeezed the water out carefully and laid them over more props.

The linens looked good, not too badly stretched nor wrinkled. He had been gentle.

The remaining water he quickly used to wash, dumping it liberally over his limbs and belly then stropping it off with his hands.

His dick he scrubbed last, pulling it to full length to wet it then stripping off what water he could. The extra friction caused it to extend to nearly it's full length.

It was not bad, the water being warmish. But the wind bit cruelly into his wet flesh.

His hide shirt was still slick and damp, but he put it on to cut the breeze.

The pants went on as well, with some difficulty as he had to stuff his erect member through the waistband and arrange himself in the tight confines. His legs didn't get chilled now and his body quickly warmed the clothes.

The job done he returned the tub to the back stoop, knocked to let the Mistress know he was done with it.

She answered the knock instantly, smiled at him with her brackish teeth in her creased face and took the tub without comment.

She didn't close the door immediately, but stood and watched him with the tub in her hand.

"Is there something I can do for you, Mistress?"

She started, then looked at the tub.

"You can carry this in for me. I find myself chilled and stiff today."

Glad to have something, anything to do he leapt the take the tub, waited for her to step back and let him in.

Leading him through the mud room to the great room, he closed the door and followed her with the tub.

"Hang it by the fire to dry." She pointed at an iron hook by the hearth at shoulder height.

Already hanging there were cups, pans, fireplace implements and some bundles of herbs.

He carefully placed it so it would not slip off the hook - the tub had no handles so the hook just caught the rim.

She smiled, reclined on a settle on the other side of the hearth. She indicated he should set there too.

Glad for the moment to relax in the warmth, and hoping for company and conversation he smiled and sat.

She scooted near so he was warmed both by the heat of the hearth, and her body heat. He moaned involuntarily, comforted by the warmth soaking into his bones.

She was observing him carefully. The flush to his face, the way his shoulders relaxed.

She had a kettle on the hod. Fetching a simple pottery cup, she absently took herbs from pots on a shelf, dropped in the cup, poured hot water.

"You are cold most of the day. Should you need some relief, I can allow you to come in the back door and rest here. After customers have gone!"

He was hesitant but gratified. The winter could be cruel. While he was used to the cold, he'd always had respite by the fire to make it bearable.

"There is no provision for a fire in my shed. It will be a comfort to have a moment of warmth in the deep winter evenings. Thank you, Mistress!"

"There is one condition I would ask."

He looked at her politely, waiting for her to continue. She seemed reluctant to go on.

Finally, she blurted "If you could wash each evening, and wear your linens? It would be more agreeable for the both of us."

He agreed immediately. "I have no wish to offend! And your company is deserving of my best clothes, to be sure. I can change now if you like?"

He stood as if to go back out, fetch the linens. She took his hand, gently bade him sit again.

"Tonight, you are fine as you are. The hides are clean and that makes them more agreeable in the warm closeness."

He sniffed his armpit, and finding little offense he settled back.

She deemed the herbs steeped sufficiently, poured out two beakers and topped them with more hot water. He got one; she kept the other.

They sipped in companionable silence for a time. The herbs were not bitter; in fact, they were sweet and floral.

"It is pleasant to taste of summer! This tea is something I've not had."

She smiled her grisly smile, nodded.

"I've kept back leaves for tea, dried and wrapped tight lest they lose their essence. It could last perhaps until spring if we husband it."

"Will it have particular effect?" He looked in the cup, imagining some magic dwelt there.

She smiled, indicated No!

"They are a pleasant soporific, not of my doing but the nature of the plant. It helps in the evening to relax, perhaps drowse in the long dark hours."

He did feel relaxed.

In fact, he felt dreamily relaxed. He found he could hear the crackling of the embers, loud to him. He could hear the flames! The ripple in the air as flame consumed fuel.

He shifted in his seat, sat up abruptly and felt he could hear the creak and shuffle of his hide clothes echo in the room. Even the beating of his own heart!

She took note of his sudden alertness.

"Is the tea not to your liking? I find it helps ground me in what is. Does it have a different effect on you?"

He didn't answer, but just stared at her.

Her faced seemed wrong. It wavered, seemed one moment the familiar greenish-blue snaggle-toothed wreck and the next...the next she was a confused image of other people.

The sexy wench girl, the baker, Candice. His mother?

It had to be the tea; he hadn't drunk but water all day. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, shook his head.

She took his tea from him, dashed it in the fire, set the beaker on the floor.

"I think you've had enough!"

He struggled to speak, but it was as if his will was gone. Not gone; somewhere else, doing something else.

"I...I'm seeing things! Mother?!" was all he got out.

She saw him tense and felt his confusion. Putting her hands on him as he sat, she tried to read whatever she could of his emotional state. It was indeed in motion.

His muscles under her hands were flexing, tensing and rippling as if in sudden response to a startling vision.

She tugged his shirt off his unresisting form, over his head. Then with surprisingly strong fingers began to massage the muscles in his neck, his shoulders.

He was tense everywhere. She worked the knots out, standing for better leverage, chasing them across his back, digging with her fingers to root out ropes and lumps.

Gradually his shoulders relaxed and his mental state quieted. In place of confusion was some kind of peace, of understanding.

She studied his aura. It was different now. Steady again, untroubled, clearly having reached some equilibrium. But not the same as when he'd come in this evening.

Not the same as he'd been since she knew him.

"Jordan! Can you hear me?"

"Oh! Sure! Sorry! I was just thinking, remembering."

She knew it was more than that. Looking at him, at all of him, she made a decision.

"I want you to stay here tonight."

He looked alarmed. "What? I'm fine in my shed ma'am. There's no need..."

She cut him off.

"I see a need. I dare say you are reacting to something in the tea. Something I didn't know could affect you like that."

"I think I'm just tired. It has been a long winter-coming. Or perhaps that old injury, still lingering..."

She raised an eyebrow; that could indeed be true.

Taking one arm, raising it over his head she bent to examine his side where the mark had been.

There was nothing. Thinking she was mistaken she dropped it, took the other arm, examined that side.

Nothing.

He rubbed his own side where the hurt had been, seemed surprised to find no trace.

"There was a mark on me...but now it's gone. Your healing is amazing!"

She shook her head. That had never happened. Her healing could banish corruption, but the body's reaction was its own, scars were beyond her skill.

"Let's sit a while longer, then find a place for you to sleep."

She watched him sit content, unchanged physically. On another plane it was as if a different person was occupying his frame.

"Who was your father?" She put it to him.

"But, you knew my father!"

She nodded, but still looked for an answer.

"He, he is a farmer down the lane past the meadow, a widower, only his pigs for company now."

"And where is your mother?" With a kind look, but tipping her head, certain she wanted to hear.

"She is with god! Her remains returned to the earth but her memory evergreen."

A nod. "Why are you here?"

That stung, the memory of his departure unhealed.

Stubbornly, "My father sent me away! Because I resembled my mother, kept his grief too fresh. Because he wanted to forget!"

He was near anger, upset she probed his open wound like this, hurt that she would hurt him.

An uncertainty left her; she leaned forward and took him in her bony arms. He stiffened.

"I'm sorry, I had to be sure. I will let that alone, not trouble you again."

It made no sense to him, so he was sure it was something to do with her talent. That made it seem less painful and he relaxed, accepted her consolation.