Orin The Great Ch. 04

The Scandal At Tooker's Ferry

Tooker's Ferry was established, naturally, by a man of several generations past named Tooker. The Drowning River running past the ferry had a current high and swift enough to drag both men and pack animals into its clutches, most of them to their doom. It was twice as wide as a man could throw a weight of one stone. At first, other greedier men with small to medium boats took travelers across the Drowning River, gouging the poor and giving the wealthy free passage, if only to curry their political favor later.

When Tooker arrived at the narrowest point between the two banks, he and his kin were outraged at what they saw going on there. Tooker's family had come from the far south, a place that was then and still was now much wilder and more savage than the tamer lands to the north of the Drowning River. Tooker hated leaving his homeland behind, but he could not hope for a good future for his relatives or his progeny if they stayed there. In other words, he knew he had to leave, but he didn't want to go so far away that he could never return, if conditions to the south suddenly improved.

The crafty man found a happy medium upon reaching the river. You see, Tooker was a craftsman; this explains his craftiness you understand, and good with the working of wood. Tooker and those that came with him felled a few trees and carved out of them enough planks for a small raft. It took several attempts, while using a very long amount of rope, mind you, before Tooker finally made landfall on the other end. There you have it, thought Tooker, now I can bring my family across and not have to lose a single farthing to the unscrupulous boat owners monopolizing the crossing.

"Will you take us across also, man?" Quite a few fellow migrants asked him.

Tooker stood there, scratching his head, his nose and his arse as he rumbled several competing thoughts in his head. Yes, he did want to get his family across the river. Yes, he did want to leave the turmoil of the southern lands behind.

But hold the reins, Tooker! These other people want to get across as urgently as you did, and what's more, they don't have the ingenuity to build a nice little raft as you have done. There will be trouble from the boat owners, undoubtedly, but that lot was largely unorganized and could be fended off with a few good whacks from a stick, which Tooker could also craft because, as mentioned already, he was a craftsman. With the competition either chased away or undercut, there was a good chance that he and his family could very quickly rise to prominence. He would be to the north of the Drowning River and away from the tumult, but close enough to the south to catch any and all news coming from the homeland.

This is how Tooker's Ferry was first established as a settlement. At the beginning, Tooker was not even charging coin to bring the travelers across the river. That was part of the undercutting process he'd envisioned. He simply asked his customers to leave a small amount of food so his family would not have to forage in the woods. Tooker knew these hapless refugees of war and religious persecution and whatnot were as poor as he was, so gouging them for what little they had was, in his view, the same as gouging his own family members.

God in Heaven must have approved, as Tooker was finding his efforts blessed in ways he never expected. Oh, he wasn't making a thriving business from each individual group he ferried across the river. However, since he and his brothers, uncles and sons were sturdy sorts, they were able to keep the ferry going all day, every day. The family began accepting small goods and services in lieu of the usual payment of food. The goods very quickly accumulated into a heap, and later into a small mountain of merchandise. It was enough that Tooker's next project was to establish a market square where people could barter and trade with his family. He built a larger ferry, and later, an even larger one, and he also built an inn and tavern where weary travelers could rest before they pushed on. Tooker and his kin were not rich, but they were becoming rich rather quickly, and they traded their clothing and belongings up and up for fancier threads and nicer knickknacks so much that they actually began to look rich.

The real boon to the success of Tooker's Ferry, however, came when a band of wicked gypsies appeared at the southern bank. At least, it was assumed they were wicked people according to most, and that they worshiped a heathen god with red Devil's horns. At any rate, there were over twenty of them, including the old ones and the young ones and a number of regular adults. Due to their fearsome reputation, Tooker decided to get them across the river right away, before they hexed him and brought some calamity down on his head and his family's.

Tooker actually got into an argument with their clan leader, over the cost of getting them onto the northern bank. He was willing to do the job for free, but the stubborn clan leader slapped his hands together and refused. The gypsies were accused of having no honor, the leader said, when these people did have it and what they really wanted was to be treated fairly just like everyone else.

"Fine." Tooker said, perturbed and eying the various metal goods the gypsies carried with them. Perhaps he could get a good cooking pot from the deal. "What do you have to trade for the crossing?"

Imagine the man's surprise when the gypsies brought from their number a young woman. Her name was Mariana.

"This one." The clan leader nodded. "She is a basket full of thorns to us. She does not cook, she does not sew and she does not brew. All she wants to do is sing and dance her life away. And she fights, she always fights with the other women."

Tooker was taken aback. He was being offered a woman to get the gypsies across the river. Already, his kin were telling him not to accept the wildcat. Tooker himself saw the woman's eyes filled with resent and anger. Mariana wasn't beautiful; she was homely in fact, as ugly as a knot on a tree.

Tooker's wife set her hand on her husband's shoulder. Tooker valued his wife's say as much as he valued those of his brothers, despite that she was only a woman. It was Tooker's wife who reached out for the girl's wrist and pulled her away from the gypsies. His wife bathed the girl and cut her hair, and dressed her into finer clothing than she'd ever worn before. Once they had cleaned her up, both husband and wife knew, they both knew, that Mariana should stay with them.

It was secretly rumored that Tooker married Mariana as his second wife, but none can attest to the validity of this rumor. Certainly the church would have frowned upon that, had they known. What can be said was that Mariana sang like a bird in the tavern, and she danced with any man who stood before her until that man's legs tired out, only to go to the next man and start all over. Tooker had his many affairs in the town he founded, and as the story goes, his two wives did the same with whomever man they took a fancy to. Despite this, the three of them were very happy together. Tooker's Ferry prospered and has grown into what you see there today, a small spot of peace and bliss in an otherwise turbulent and increasingly uncaring world.

"Do you hear that, Bartram?" Orin excitedly exclaimed. "That was a grand tale! That is the sort of tale I want the bards to recount over who I am, and what I have done! That sort of tale will grow its own wings and fly forever!"

Sitting on the same rounded, wooden table with the exuberant young man were his two companions, the seasoned archer Bartram and the mature sorceress Sundri. The dark-haired serving man who'd brought them their food was also a storyteller, and a very good one in Orin's point of view. They travelers had just eaten a dish called Viande De Cyprus. This consisted of chopped chicken boiled in almond milk and rice, and topped off with fried almonds. For two pennies each, the trio of travelers had partaken of a good meal and a full pitcher of beer.

"I agree with my friend Orin." Bartram grinned. "Your story was well worth the two extra pennies we've traded away in order to hear it. Tooker's Ferry, then, was established as a place of trade from the start?"

"It was." The server nodded. "At first in foodstuffs and as the time progressed in hard goods. After the acceptance of our Lady Mariana, a few of my kin were comfortable enough to settle here. My relatives excel in working copper and tin, as well as in iron for producing weaponry."

"Are you a gypsy?" Orin blurted out. "I've never seen one before! Are you as vile as all that is rumored? Do you pray to the god with red horns?"

"You must excuse the lad." Bartram cut in. "Truly, he means no insult to you. It's only that he's hardly been on the road in his young life. He's only seen about a cup full of the world in his few travels."

Orin chuckled. "I'm only teasing you, server. I don't believe you are vile at all. Why is it that so many people say you worship a red god?"

"Oh, that is the fault of the church." The server made an annoyed face. "You see, many gypsies take to living in the woods, in small camps that are moved around as need be, or due to the changing of the seasons. My people will settle near a body of water for the hot summer, or in caves during the cold of winter. This tendency to move around is a thorn for the church, as their tax collectors have difficulty in finding us, counting us and of course taxing us. According to the tax collectors, gypsies must come from the Devil's wicked armpit, or from under the hairy portion of his wicked balls."

Proudly, Orin pointed at his chest. "I was once the Devil's Arse."

The server gave the young man an odd look. "Really now?"

"It's true!"

"We'll tell you the entire story for two pennies." Bartram jested.

"If it is a worthy story, perhaps you could tell it at the pub tonight." The server started.

"Take us to a gypsy village." Orin left his seat. "I've never seen one before. It is just as my friend has said; I have hardly been anywhere in my life! All I know about gypsies is the demeaning rumors I've heard. Will you take us?"

Dubiously, the server gazed back at him.

"Orin, you don't understand." Bartram interjected again. "Gypsies are a very private sort of people. They chase strangers away from their camps. Don't they, server?"

"Are gypsies cannibals?" Orin asked. "Are they fornicators with goats?"

"We are not that!" The server denied. "If there is one thing I would like to dispel, it is all these false rumors that people carry in their heads over what most gypsies are like. Of course, there are bad apples among us, the same as with any other sort of men, but for the most part we are a peaceful people. We are as good and honorable as any others..."

"Take us there, will you?" Orin pleaded, digging into his small leather purse. "I want to see a gypsy village with my own eyes. What good is it to take another man's word for what the world is like, if one can have a look for their selves? Is it true that gypsy women have more hair on their chest than the men?"

"It is not!" The server protested. "Very well, I have listened to enough of these insults about my kin. My people do not come from under the Devil's balls, and we are not cannibals, and our women are not hairier than our men! I am unable to take you myself, but I will find someone who will. Stay here while I fetch someone!"

Orin was sorting the few coins in his possession. "How much will it cost?"

"No, no cost! I will find someone to take you!"

"Will someone truly be taking us?" Bartram sat there flabbergasted. "Into a real gypsy camp?"

"Yes." The man nodded vigorously. "Your young man here will see that all the falsehoods about my people are only that: falsehoods! The camp is not so far from here. It is a place where the original boatmen were situated, the men who crossed travelers back in the time before Tooker arrived to build his ferry. Give me but a moment's time and I will fetch a guide for you!"

As the server strode off, Bartram turned to Orin. "What have you done, Orin? You've put us into a pickle! I dare say that many of the rumors about the gypsies being robbers and cutthroats are true! Sundri, what do you say about all this?"

"I've never been to a gypsy camp either."

"Sundri!"

"What do you want from me? Look, there across the way is a tailor's shop. Your clothes are in tatters. I've grown tired of looking at them, Bartram, because they remind me of what my bedraggled clothing at the Devil's Crag looked like. Let me purchase an outfit more becoming for you, while I see about getting a new pair of shoes for myself."

"You mean you want to visit the gypsy camp?"

"Well, of course. I've been cooped up in a crag for three years. Why not? I'm sure there are exotic men out there for me, and exotic women for the two of you."

"I hope the women aren't too hairy." Orin kidded.

"You've both gone soft in the head." Bartram grumbled.

Outfitted as moderately well to do frontiersmen, and with Sundri dressed in a modest peasant kirtle, the three adventurers made their way along a narrow trail near the river. Accompanying them came a handful of gypsy youths, ranging in age from ten to sixteen, roughly. The youths would frequently run errands between the secluded camp and the ferry. Today they were carrying extra berries and nuts in small baskets, which they would trade to the villagers for any excess goods produced there.

The settlement was much like any fishing village Orin could have imagined. A dozen huts were in view, with others scattered further away in the woods. Each hut was built identical to the next, made of wattle and daub walls and ceilings of canvas and small logs. The doorways were covered over with tapestries or hides, which gave each hut its unique appearance, along with red ochre and black charcoal drawings along the sides. On the shore, Orin could see the drag marks from small canoes, with the tiny fleet all out on the river somewhere, and hopefully not being swept away by the swift current.

What attracted Orin's attention the most were the gypsy people. They were thin and lanky, with darker skin than he was used to seeing. Their hair was dark as pitch, as were most of their eyes. The men were hairy, with scraggly black bushels on their heads and whiskers all over their faces. The men also had hairy forearms and legs, as well as wiry tufts on their chests. The women had their raven locks going down to the small of their backs, and yes, it was true, they had hairy forearms and legs as well.

The chests of the women, however, were remarkably clear of hair. Orin could see this plainly because neither man nor woman wore anything above their waists in that village. The children were all running around naked, without a care in the world about it.

Many heads had turned upon the approach of the gypsy messengers that came with them. When they spotted the three newcomers with fairer skin arriving behind the young gypsies, those heads became transfixed on them. Men mending fishing nets and carving lengths of wood to make furniture stopped what they were doing. Women gutting fish and sewing clothing also stopped. The only gypsies still moving around were from the mob of younger, naked children, who went to surround the newcomers with undisguised wonder.

Luckily, the server in town had the forethought to provide Sundri with a basket of candy bits. This was brittle made from honey and pine nuts. By passing the candy out to the naked urchins, the old woman instantly became a welcome sight.

Bartram held Orin's arm, preventing the curious young man from walking any further into the village. "We must make sure these people are well with us being here."

"Let us go and introduce ourselves then." Orin decided.

"No, that is not the way things are done." Bartram held him fast. "We must wait until one of them comes to greet us properly."

The introductions didn't take too long. The messengers went further into the camp, finding and asking for whoever was in authority. At length, two men and two women walked out to stand before them.

"Brittle?" Sundri held her basket out.

The treat was too good to pass up, Orin noticed, as each of the gypsy adults took a piece. He was distracted, however, by the sight of the women's chests. One had breasts the size of oranges, while the others were sweet melons.

"You close your mouth." One of the men warned him. "And you shouldn't look at our women like that!"

"Forgive him." Bartram said. "He is young and very excitable."

The archer gave the gypsies their names.

"I am Marek." The man said. "The young ones say you have come to see how we live. Have you seen enough? What else do you want from us?"

"I have many questions I want to ask." Orin said. "I want to know everything I can about your people."

Marek grimaced. "For what purpose?"

"I've only lived in my one little village all of my life." Orin explained. "It is recently, just in these last few weeks, that I've gone out to explore the rest of the world. I've never seen a gypsy before today, and all I've heard is foul rumors about your people. I only want to have a time to talk and ask questions to dispel the myths."

"Bah!" Marek scoffed. "We have no time to waste with your questions. We are busy here. All of us are busy. Go talk to the trees if you must have something to talk to."

"Have another piece of candy." Sundri offered out her basket. "It will help remove your bitterness."

Marek made a face at her, but the sorceress only cocked her head to one side and grinned back. She even batted her eyes prettily.

Relenting, Marek said, "Talking is not allowed if it pulls any of us away from our work. If you must talk, you must talk only while you are working. Do you agree to this?"

"I agree." Orin nodded.

"We have much to do." Marek explained. "Many from our village work in town during the day. This causes us to become shorthanded here. Talk all you want, but keep your hands busy. You know what they say about idle hands and the Devil's work. Fifi, Jaelle, I will leave them to you."

With that, Marek patted the other man's arm, prompting them both to walk off. This left the two bare-chested women and the gaggle of children around the visitors.

"Your name is Fifi?" Bartram asked.

"Fifika." The woman admitted. "It means God grant me sons."

Orin looked to the other woman with the larger breasts. "And your name? What does it mean?

"Mountain goat." Jaelle frowned. "I did not choose that name."

"Certainly you're no goat!" Orin flirted. "If you were, you would be the most attractive goat I've ever seen!"

The woman was so flustered and taken aback by the compliment, that she quickly excused herself from her companion. "I must return to preparing the fish!"

"Jaelle." Fifi called out, to no avail. The woman kept striding away quickly. She tried again. "Jaelle!"

Fifi uttered something in her native language, before she spoke in the tongue the travelers recognized. "You have come to stir the pot, haven't you? A pot that doesn't need to be stirred! I have my tasks to do, so I cannot watch over you any longer. Do as Marek has said. No work, no talk. If you work, only then can you talk. And tell that one to stop staring at our breasts!"

Orin watched the woman swivel in her bare feet, before she walked off as rapidly as the last one. He couldn't help but notice the way her long hair bounced on her back, or the way her cloth wrap clung to her hips. He turned to his companions. "I wasn't staring, I promise I wasn't!"

Bartram grinned back. "Of course you weren't. Here, I'll go over to the men fixing up the nets. I expect that sooner or later, Orin, you'll want to get back to your quest for adventure. If anyone knows where to find it, I'm sure the local fishermen will have a better idea than most. Sundri, it will be up to you to keep our lad out of trouble."