Mostly a story of medieval peasant life, a little sex.
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Jordan walked the forest path. He had to get away for a while, from the farm he shared with his father.
Since mother died his father would not work, would not speak, and rarely even ate. The atmosphere at home was oppressive.
For a year he'd left his father to mourn, but it seemed the mourning would not end! Sure Jordan missed his mother, a lot at first. But time healed the wound, and he got back to his life in time.
Not so father, and that was a problem. Jordan was a man now and wanted to make his own way, find a wife and a trade.
But he couldn't leave father like this!
Returning across the farmyard, his walk at an end, there was of course no smoke from the chimney and the hogs were squalling for their supper.
Father had done nothing all day.
He gathered a peck of slops from the bin and poured it into the trough, which served to quiet the farm considerably. Now to start supper.
When he reached the door it opened and father stood there, blocking his way.
"Dad! You're up! Can I get you something? Some food?"
He didn't respond, but just looked at Jordan with hurt in his eyes. After a time he spoke.
"Son, you have to leave."
"What? I can't leave! You need me!"
"You need your own life. I'm no use to you; the farm is no use to you. Your path is elsewhere.
"And with you here, I am reminded of what I've lost every minute of every day!"
That hurt. Jordan knew he looked a lot like his mother.
"What will you do? Who will cook? Who will split wood when autumn comes?"
"I may find a farm boy to come by.
"Not your concern, Jordan! I want you out tomorrow. So I can mourn alone!
"And so you can get on with your life. Y]We both know you will not leave, unless I force you."
He turned and reentered the house. Jordan followed.
A little angry, he determined to leave immediately instead of waiting until tomorrow.
Gathering his pack, putting in a Johnny-cake from yesterday, a wineskin of last year's press. Casting around he spied a cake of salt, and put that in too.
Going to the door he looked back at his father, who sat by the fire looking blankly at the ashes.
"Where will you go?" father asked.
Jordan considered.
"There's an old Crone in the woods who could use a strong young back. I'll try there."
His father nodded, continued to look away. Jordan went out the door and closed it.
The farmyard seemed pathetic now - mud and straw and stone. Quiet, the sound of a bird, the hogs snuffling, that was all.
He set out without looking back.
At sunset he reached the edge of the moor.
The moon was full which helped until he got fully into the wood. Then only a bare moonbeam here and there would pick out the path, the dense canopy shrouding everything in velvet black.
Half the night was gone when he spied a clearing ahead. The cold seemed to close in; the air became dank.
A broken stone wall paralleled his way thru the gap in the forest, the stones thick with moss and stained black by age.
It separated the path from a derelict house with a crooked chimney. Black smoke rose from that, the only sign of habitation.
The yard had flowerbeds but the flowers were blacked stumps. What might be a house yard contained grave markers with blank faces where names should be.
Through a grimy window he saw flickering light! Someone was there.
He vaulted the wall which felt strangely smooth on his hand, approached the door, knocked, waited.
The door creaked open, the hinges shrieking from age and neglect. The Crone poked her head out, peered at him in the dark.
In a reedy voice she spoke.
"You are here to help? Yes? I saw that you would come."
He was confused, then remembered rumors about her skills. They said she was a witch, could conjure and foretell the future.
Without waiting for his answer, she raised a bony arm and pointed with a black fingernail.
"You may sleep in the cow shed. I will show you your duties in the daylight!"
She slammed the door.
Interview over! Well, he guessed he had the job.
Picking his way between old broken headstones, he found the cow shed under the shade at the forest edge. Old oaks loomed over it, and the wood shingles were mossy and broken.
Peering inside he saw a lumpy floor of ancient cow manure, some stalls in the back. He found one with a working door and a relatively clean floor.
Piling some straw to make a bed, he sat. Fooling with his pack he withdrew the Johnny-cake and nibbled, sipped at his wineskin.
The shed was gloomy, but no light shone through the roof - rain would not bother him in any case!
Hearing some scuffling outside his stall he worried some devilish vermin might invade his slumbers.
Remembering old stories he scraped some salt from his cake and spread it under the stall door. That would repel small evils.
Using his pack for a pillow he settled in for the night.
Sleep did not come quickly.
Considering the Crone, he remembered her reputation. A witch!
But he didn't fear witches. They were often helpful, and only did you harm if you offended them.
Like anybody else he supposed.
He decided daylight would answer his questions. There was nothing to learn by spinning his mind.
Briefly worrying about father, concerned the man might not have eaten today, he drifted into uneasy slumbers.
He awoke in a dim dawn. Slightly less gloomy that the night, still not bright daylight.
Stretching and stumbling out of the shed he saw the house more clearly under the grey light.
It looked perhaps worse!
The siding was streaked with rusty stains. The roof was incomplete, and could not possibly keep out the rain. The chimney tilted at an alarming angle!
As he stood considering, his hands on his hips, wondering where to begin the front door opened.
The Crone staggered out, a slop bucket in one hand.
