My Work – Page 51 – Joseph Carrabis, Author Blog

Tag – Part II Forgeron the Tinker – Chapter 7

The Tag saga continues with the introduction of a new character, Hasel the Potter

Read Tag…One More Time – Part I Verduan of Nant – Chapter 1.
Read Tag – Part I Verduan of Nant – Chapter 2.
Read Tag – Part I Verduan of Nant – Chapter 3.
Read Tag – Part II Forgeron the Tinker – Chapter 4.
Read Tag – Part II Forgeron the Tinker – Chapter 5.
Read Tag – Part II Forgeron the Tinker – Chapter 6.

Tag – Part II Forgeron the Tinker – Chapter 7

Forgeron pulled his cart down a lane. He followed a sweet voice singing until he stood outside a cottage needing thatching. A pile of wood stood to the left of the door, to the right, on a crude bench, pots, plates, and mugs, each beautifully painted, waited to be picked up.

The singing paused and Forgeron called out. “Hello to Hasel the Potter.”

A svelte young woman, her eyes white from cataracts, her sleeves rolled up revealing muscular forearms and her hands reddened with mason’s clay, opened the door. She held a cane in her left hand and reached out with her white. “That’s a new voice. Who calls me?”

“Forgeron, Lady of the Clays. A tinker, a metalworker. Perhaps the wheels of your stone need smoothing? Perhaps an axe for your wood needs sharpening? Your roof’s letting light through. Perhaps rain and soon snow? I can thatch if there’s no metalwork to be done. I – ”

“Enough, Tinker Forgeron. What is your price?”

“A copper for each deed done and something to drink or eat. A silver if there’s no food or drink to be had. Good conversation always brings the price down. A tinker often walks alone. Pleasant talk with a pretty lady is valued highly.”

She moved towards his voice and held her right hand out. “Come here. Let me see you.”

“M’lady?”

“I want to see your face. With my hands. You can tell a lot from a man’s breath on your palm, the width and straightness of the nose tells you if they’ve lived a life of pain. A cut in the ear, perhaps covered by a hat, tells you they’re someone’s servant run away. The creases of the face tell if the person laughs more than cries, and often why. A strong smile, good health. A weak smile, illness, perhaps someone to keep at a distance. The – ”

“Enough, M’lady. Enough. You see well for one without eyes.”

“Will you let me see your face?”

Forgeron lifted his cart handles. “I’d rather not, M’lady. I bear too many scars. My features would wound your delicate hands.”

She held her cane in both hands, diagonally crossing her body, and planted her feet firmly. She moved her head slightly to let each ear hear the sounds he made. “Then move on, please.”

Forgeron turned his cart back down the lane. “As you wish, M’lady Potter.”

When he reached the corner where the Potter’s lane met Nant’s main road, he stopped to consider his next direction.

Hasel the Potter called out. “Move on, Tinker. Either direction, I don’t care. But don’t tarry here, don’t tarry near me.”

Forgeron turned his cart south and whispered, “Yes, M’lady. Yes.”

Greetings! I’m your friendly, neighborhood Threshold Guardian. This is a protected post. Protected posts in the My Work, Marketing, and StoryCrafting categories require a subscription (starting at 1$US/month) to access. Protected posts outside those categories require a General (free) membership.
Members and Subscribers can LogIn. Non members can join. Non-protected posts (there are several) are available to everyone.
Want to learn more about why I use a subscription model? Read More ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes Enjoy!

Tag – Part II Forgeron the Tinker – Chapter 6

Yeah…well…I restructured the plot line during the past month. I’m some where around chapter 30 now, give or take a few edits.

Fortunately, nothing much up to this point got changed.

Lucky you, huh?

Tag – Part II Forgeron the Tinker – Chapter 6

Julia watched her mother shape two loaves of bread. “Take these to Zevke. Here’s a copper for his oven.”

Julia put the two loaves on a handled, wooden tray, placed a cloth over them, and walked to her family’s gate. She stopped, her hand on the latch, at the sounds of rich baritone singing and a metal jangling.

Forgeron came around the corner. Tools hung from the sides of his cart and bumped and jostled each other like busy neighbors on a fairground. “Hello, Good Woman of the House.”

Julia blushed. “I am not the Woman of the House.”

“Don’t fool an old man, Good Woman. Someone of your beauty, your wisdom, your delicious loaves of bread.”

“They’re not baked yet.”

“Two loaves of soon to be delicious bread.”

“You’re funny.”

“So if you’re not the Woman of the House, may a humble Traveler know your name?”

“Julia Atraea. My mother’s inside. Do you want me to fetch her?”

“Oh, please. But first, you’re Eric’s friend?”

Julia blushed again. “Yes.”

“Oh, I think there’s more than friendship there. No hope for a lonesome Traveler, then?”

“You’re funny.”

Julia’s mother opened the door. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“He knows Eric, Mother.”

“I breakfasted with Verduan and did some work for him. You would be Ide? He said you might have some pots needed mending.”

Ide moved between Julia and the gate and crossed her arms over an ample bosom. “And what’s your price?”

Forgeron laughed. “Good Mother, I’m too old to care about such things.”

“No man is that old.”

Forgeron raised his hand in protest. “Madam, I mean no harm. Work comes easier when I make people smile and laugh, that’s all. My price is a meal and some coppers. If not both, a silver will do. If I trouble, you, I’ll walk on and we’ll both be the wiser.”

“Bring those loaves to the baker, girl.”

Julia hurried past Forgeron, her eyes focused on the road before her. She didn’t hide a smile as she walked past him.

Forgeron watched her go. “So Zevke’s the village baker? Might he need some metalsmithing? Perhaps a bellows for his ovens? Maybe – ”

“Eyes forward, Master Tinker.”

Forgeron’s head turned slowly until his eyes rested on Ide. He smiled. “Only following her path so I’ll know where the baker lies.”

“I have two pots that’ve seen better days. There’s potatoes and mutton for cooking. One copper.”

“Can you spare some conversation while I work as well? Surely there’s no charge for conversation?”

Ide went back into her house and came out with two pots needing hammering and rebrazing. “I have work to do, but I’ll talk a bit to suit you.”

Tag – Part II Forgeron the Tinker – Chapter 5

More unexplored territory! Chapter 5! This boy’s still a’ writin’!

Tag – Part II Forgeron the Tinker – Chapter 5

Forgeron stood at the rim of the hollow, adjusted a small axe in his belt, and watched Father Baillott. The priest, oblivious of his approach, held his face close to the hand shaped growth on the witch’s oak Forgeron couldn’t tell if Baillot kissed it, sniffed it, or cursed it. He turned an ear towards the priest and stopped breathing.

Baillot whispered and Crossed himself, whispered and Crossed himself, whispered and Crossed himself. Forgeron remained silent until Baillot stood back from the tree.

Forgeron put his weight on a dried twig until it cracked.

Baillot spun, falling back against the tree, holding himself up by sliding his hands down the trunk behind him as if hiding a lover.

“Are you talking to the oak, Father?”

“Who are you? What do you want here?”

Forgeron loosened a cord keeping a wineskin close to his side. “My name is Forgeron, a Traveler, a metal-worker by trade, looking for hickory to replenish my stock.” He held it out towards Baillot. “It’s a hot day, Father. Would you care to replenish yourself?”

Baillot smoothed the folds of his cassock, straightened his Crucifix and saturno. He walked up the rim and past Forgeron without looking at him. “There’s a hickory grove the other side of the village. Replenish your stock there.”

“Thank you, Father.”

Forgeron watched Baillot walk away, hurrying without hurrying, his steps nervous, articulated, an almost mechanical gait. The priest’s voice came and went with the wind. When Forgeron could no longer hear him, he walked down the rim and inspected the oak. “What is it you hold so dear, Good Father?”

Tag – Part II Forgeron the Tinker – Chapter 4

More unexplored territory! Chapter 4! Oh, this boy he’s a writin’ now!

Read Tag…One More Time – Part I Verduan of Nant – Chapter 1.
Read Tag – Part I Verduan of Nant – Chapter 2.
Read Tag – Part I Verduan of Nant – Chapter 3.

Tag – Part II Forgeron the Tinker – Chapter 4

Forgeron pulled his two wheeled handcart behind him. Pots, pans, knives, kitchen utensils, and tools swung on cords and made a jingling clatter as he walked. His green felt hat’s broad brim flopped over his eyes with each step like a puppy dog’s ears. He turned the pullshafts. Legs dropped from them and he lowered the shafts until the legs touched the ground. Finally he took off his hat, frowned, and scratched his unruly beard. Breakfast smells came on the wind as he wiped sweat from his brow and his frown turned into a smile.

“Metal working!” he called out as he neared some cottages.

No doors opened, no shutters moved. “Smithing, Repairs to any and all.” He passed one house with chickens roosting in its thatched roof and shook his head. “They’ll lose their eggs that way.” He raised his voice in song, “Blades sharpened, knives and axes all, test them on some good sausage to prove their edge.”

Laughter came from the next cottage.

Tag – Part I Verduan of Nant – Chapter 3

And now we’re in unexplored territory! Chapter 3! Yeeha!

Read Tag…One More Time – Part I Verduan of Nant – Chapter 1.
Read Tag – Part I Verduan of Nant – Chapter 2.

Tag – Part I Verduan of Nant – Chapter 3

Patreo looked up from his herbs and mortar when Verduan finished his story. “Why come to me?”

Verduan peeked into Patreo’s mortar. He stared at the tools, medicines, powders, herbs, stones, phials, flasks, and decanters cluttering Patreo’s workbench. “Are you an herbalist, Father?”

Patreo chuckled. “Do you know Greek? Apothe¦ke¦? Storehouse? More storehouse than anything else.”

Verduan pointed to the three small mounds under the muslin. “What are those?”

“Are you always so inquisitive when seeking help, Verduan of Nant?”

“A little knowledge avoids much trouble, don’t you think?”

Patreo smiled. “I do.” He nodded towards the cloth. “Have you ever heard of Greek Fire?”

Verduan shook his head.

Patreo removed the cloth, took a pinch from the bluest pile, and placed it in front of Verduan. He took a smoldering ember from under one of the vessels on his workbench and touched the pinch. The pinch disappeared with a shshshing sound as a cloud of bluish smoke rose rapidly from where it lay. He took a pinch from the yellow pile, dabbed some water on it, and touched the ember to it.

It crackled and popped like fat-soaked tinder. A darker smoke rose and smelled of rotten eggs. Finally, the yellow pinch burned and floated. The water didn’t put it out.

Patreo returned the muslin cloth to its place.

“What about the gray pile?”

“It’s not ready yet. It may never be.” He opened the book on his workbench and pointed at the leather strip marking a passage there. “This book is a translation of a translation, the original language lost or forgotten. So I experiment and go slowly. No errors that way.” Patreo closed the book. “Any other questions, Verduan of Nant?”

Verduan sat back and shook his head.

“Then my question remains; why come to me?”

Verduan sipped his wine. “Our priest is new to us. We…some of us…we…”

“Nant has a new priest? I thought Father Verrett served Nant and the villages around.”

“Father Verrett served our village and others for more than fifty years. You knew him?”

“How long has the new priest been with you?”

Patreo squinted into the distance. “Knowledgeable on doctrine? Ecclesiastics? That him?”

Verduan shrugged. “It is not difficult to be more knowledgeable than simple farmers.”

“Even the inquisitive ones?”

“I’m sure Father Baillot wishes I asked fewer questions.”

“We sought someone…with a broader knowledge.” Verduan waited until Patreo looked him eye-to-eye. “A knoweldge of oak and ash as well as line and verse.”

“You traveled alone five hard days through woods and mountains, come to my door, and now wonder if my knowledge is greater than you care to know.”

“I traveled five hard days from Nant to Tomeka because in Nant I heard of a priest with knowledge of The Old Ways on this side of the Kashel. In each village along the way I asked if any knew of such a priest. That eventually got me to Catiorec where they mentioned a Father Patreo in Tomeka. Here I asked about you and they said you knew the ways of herbs and roots, metals and waters. Outside, the Burger on the cart said yes, this was Father Patreo’s cottage, and that you cured his son.”

“You are a tracker, Verduan of Nant?”

“A herdsman. With fields and orchards.”

“You are wise.”

“I am old.”

“Not so old to travel here alone in five days time!”

“I did not travel alone.” Verduan let go a piercing whistle and Patreo covered his ears at the sound. A great white and black shape leapt his gate and cleared the window in two bounds.

Patreo laughed. “A horse? No, a dog.” The dog lumbered over, lapped Patreo’s offered hand, and rested its head on Patreo’s lap. Patreo patted its head and scratched the heavily furred ears. “And who is this – ” he leaned over and looked between the dog’s legs ” – handsome fellow? Your familiar?”

Verduan patted his thigh. “Buco, here.”

The big dog sat licking Patreo hand.

“If he’s a familiar you’re the witch. He never takes to people like that. He’s still wary of Father Baillot and has known him a year at least. How did you get him to take to you so?”

“I heard you talk quietly outside. Once stilled the shying horse, the other before you entered. I guessed you had a companion and not a child. No one leaves a child unguarded in a new village and you don’t seem the type to take a child on the trek from Nant to here. Only a fool would drive a herd that far, so a dog, and its scent is fresh on your clothes, so it was close by. As for why it favors me…” Patreo chuckled. “I greased the back of my hand with pig tallow when you tippd back your wine.”

Verduan’s hand slapped the workbench and he bellowed with laughter. He drained his cup and rose. “Have I come to the wrong man, Father?”

Patreo motioned Verduan back onto the stool. He lifted a roped bucket. “Water from my own well. Boiled and cooled. May Buco drink?”

“Why boiled and cooled?”

“Something learned in my travels in Muslim lands. An easy precaution against dark spirits in the water.”

Verduan’s brow rose as he looked at the water in the bucket. “Thirsty, Buco?”

The dog wagged its tail. Patreo placed the water beside Verduan and the dog lapped. They both watched the dog drink its fill.

Patreo took his stool on the far side of his workbench. “Tell me, does this witch have a name?”

“We know her as Sullya. Sullya the Witch.”

Patreo frowned. “Sullya? My mother told stories of Sullya the Witch when I was a child, something to keep me quiet at night. This can’t be the same Sullya. She’d be ancient now.”

“Do witches truly die?”

“Is there more to your story?”

Verduan stared into his empty cup. “Is there more wine on your shelf?”

Patreo placed the pitcher on the workbench in front of Verduan who refilled his goblet. Buco pawed some straw together, circled, lay down, closed his eyes and slept.

Verduan smiled at his dog and continued his tale.