Jordan continues to service the Crone, the Lass.
__________
In the morning the swill was again standing outside the front door.
He'd been up late finishing his table. The lantern had been invaluable, even though it cast but little light.
Curious what the 'pets' would manifest as today he approached the trough confidently, called "Hey! Hey! Pig pig pig!" without trepidation.
The mist revealed three bobcats! Small, familiar, but somehow not familiar.
They didn't move as bobcats! Come to think of it, the wolves hadn't moved as wolves.
Instead of athletic sinuous stalking, these 'bobcats' capered forward stiff-legged.
It seemed familiar, but he couldn't remember where he'd seen that gait. Anyway they ate as usual.
Cautiously he rubbed the head of one, ruffling it behind the ears.
It stopped eating, looked at him, preened against his hand! Not like a bobcat at all!
Smiling he took his bucket back to the stoop.
The water he dispatched quickly. The woodpile was ample, still he split another spool and left one for wood projects.
What to do next?
A basket outside the back door answered that. A dried herb, an example he concluded, was it in.
Off to the herb patch!
This one was easier to find. No flower; serrated leaves, fuzzy on the back, branching in pairs.
It was common, and he soon had the basket overflowing. Smelled nice too!
Maybe he could learn the names; learn the purposes. But to what end? He had no talent, could not make use of them except as pot herbs.
Returning, he sat the basket outside the back door. Went around to the front.
A woman sat on the bench, pensive. She saw him, hailed him.
"Boy! Yes, you! Is the witch in today?" she demanded.
He turned respectfully, "yes ma'am, my mistress is in."
"Well I've been waiting this half hour! I need satisfaction!"
He marveled at her, so impatient. She'd walked what, an hour? and waited a few minutes.
Her troubles must have made her owly.
"I'm sure it'll not be long ma'am. She's with another customer." He didn't know that but it was likely.
"Hrmmmf." She was not mollified. "Don't know why I came at all. Dealing with a witch is probably a sin!"
Jordan was stunned. He'd not regarded her as a witch really; an herbalist, sure!
"I'm sure mistress can help you; she has helped so many. And it can't be a sin, to help people!"
That seemed to confuse her. Jordan elaborated.
"It's not a sin, to want an end to troubles. It's the natural state of people, to have troubles and want help."
She seemed to be mulling that over.
"I think, ma'am, it might be a sin to stay in misery, when help is close at hand!"
The door opened, sparing him any more conversation. A senior woman came out, holding a sheaf of paper.
It clearly contained something; she held it close. She walked off without making eye contact.
The crone appeared, beckoned to the woman.
She stood, undecided, looking between Jordan and the Crone. She made her decision, went in the door, brushed past the Crone.
Jordan got a quizzical smile? He shrugged, nodded, turned to go.
"Talk to me after, Jordan." She seemed serious, and he turned back, showed he had understood.
He waited on the bench, nervous, unsure if he'd stepped over any lines. It seemed to take an age for the owly woman to emerge, stride off with her own charm in hand.
He stood as the Crone came out.
"What did you say to that customer? Before I came to fetch her?"
He stuttered.
"I..I..I just said...I said it wasn't a sin, to help people or to ask for help."
She nodded, tilted her head, looked at him.
Satisfied, she went back into her hovel, closed the door gently.
He didn't know to be relieved or more worried!
In future, he resolved to keep his mouth shut.
...
What to make next? Cart, spit, plow? Split some rails for fencing? Another table, for storage in the cellar?
The cart would take more planning. A wheel required iron, or a hard leather band, or something. To keep it from splitting on the road; to keep it from being shaken apart.
He knew that wheels could be made of a hub and spokes, but he was no wheelwright. His would have to be a simple round of wood, bored through for an axel.
And the axel! Hardwood for sure, with oiled leather bearings.
No, a cart was too ambitious. Perhaps a barrow would be easier, with only one wheel, but the same problems still. And he didn't fancy trundling a barrow the three miles to the smith.
Fencing was not needed yet. No garden; no livestock.
Back on the farm he split fence rails all year, to replace them as they rotted.
They would have no such need, as any fence would be short and new. No, he'd split rails as needed and not before.
The plow intrigued him. He had no plowshare, an iron wedge used to break the hard soil. But that could come later.
And no draft animal! He didn't think the 'pets' counted.
A plow as he knew it, would have an animal to pull and a man behind. Two people, if the draft animal was him.
He didn't think the Crone should be wrangling a plow. It was hard, rough work. She was likely not capable.
What then? A mattock? It could be used to break sod.
A mattock was essentially a strange flat-bladed axe, sometimes with a prong on the other side. All that was needed, save the iron, was an axe handle.
He didn't want to sacrifice his own axe for the handle. Which meant finding an ash tree, selecting a proper limb, carving it and finishing it.
That he could do!
Hefting his saw, he headed out into the forest. Ash trees were fairly common, but they liked plenty of water. He'd just follow the creek and see what he found.
The first ash was too young - barely taller than him and no branches long enough nor thick enough. No matter; the day was young.
The second was brushy and plagued by bugs - the ground too wet for ash here. The limbs would be riddled and full of knots.
Ranging further from the creek to better-drained ground, he walked parallel but upriver all the same.
This was more like it! Standing alone on the top of a low rise with long limbs, infrequent branching and some as thick as his arm!
Putting the saw frame around one shoulder he pulled himself into the lower branches. These were too large - a handspan and more through.
He climbed higher.
Here the branches bent under his weight which was encouraging. He didn't want dead dry wood, which would crack and splinter.
Selecting one that extended from the trunk as far as his arm before branching, with a satisfying curve and reasonable girth, he quickly parted it from the tree with his saw.
It fell nearly to the ground, hanging in the lower branches, held tangled by the brushy end. He climbed down.
From the ground he could reach the sawn end, so grabbed it and heaved! It resisted but finally pulled loose and he had it on the grass.
Trimming it with the saw, he quickly had a usable length cut free with no knots nor too much curve.
Shouldering that he returned to, well, 'home' was probably what he should call it? to finishing shaping it with tools in the cowshed.
A mattock didn't have much curve to the handle. It wasn't swung like an axe, but held head-down and used to chop sideways at the earth.
It also had either a wide end at the head and a narrower handle, or narrow at head end and wider at handle. It depended on the socket the smith preferred.
A through-hole required the narrow shaft be thrust through the hole, and the wide end keeping it from coming completely through. It would then be wedged in place.
A socket head required quite a narrow end, either pinned or soaked so the wood swelled to hold it fast.
He contented himself with shaving the bark, trimming the spots where twigs erupted and polishing it with his rag and some lamp oil.
Putting the prepared handle on his tool shelf, he found himself again at a loss.
He was saved from idleness by a call for lunch!
Hefting his little round table, he carried it to the front stoop where his mistress waited with a platter.
Her old seamed face lit up at the sight of his creation. He set it down by the bench, looked at it proudly.
"Won't that be a salvation! A place convenient for the platter, for the cups! For I have some summer wine today, to share."
Indeed the platter contained not only bread and cheese, but a skin and two clay cups.
She poured while he broke bread and cheese. Holding their cups up in salute, they each took a careful sip.
He looked quizzical. "What fruit is this? A berry I think?"
She was pleased. "Rowanberry! I know, usually reserved for jellies. But cooked it sweetens, and I prefer it for wine!"
He smiled, drained half his portion and began on the bread.
Between mouthfuls he asked "Where around here do you find the berry?"
"Oh it's nowhere you've been. The other direction! The bush prefers higher ground."
The forest to the south, across the clearing, sloped upward for miles. That made sense.
"If we established some here, perhaps at the back of the paddock, it could be convenient."
He said that matter-of-factly, which caused her to stop chewing and stare at him.
Finishing and swallowing, she said "You are nothing but surprises. A farm lad, a journeyman carpenter, and now a fruitier as well!"
He colored.
"No, not really ma'am. It's just that the seeds are simple to sprout, in a little manure worked into sandy soil. It would take three years to see fruit..."
He stopped, aware of her gaze, embarrassed a little.
Why did this old Crone's opinion of him, matter to him at all? He was nothing to her, really, and she was just his employer.
Still, he was secretly pleased at her praise.
They finished lunch in quiet companionship. When their beakers were empty she refilled them, leaned back against the house with her own cradled in her lap.
