Joseph Carrabis, Author Blog – Page 98 – Quite the Life (and all in Times New Roman 10pt!)

Tag – Part II Forgeron the Tinker – Chapter 8

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.
Read Tag – Part II Forgeron the Tinker – Chapter 7.

Tag – Part II Forgeron the Tinker – Chapter 8

Finding Zevke the Baker required little effort. The smell of fresh loaves and rising smoke made the path obvious through the village streets.

Forgeron pulled his cart up to a clay house with ovens like large honey hives on either side and facing the street. A heavy man in dark boots, dark blue linen pants, shirtless but with an apron running from hair covered chest to the top of his boots and tied in back, moved back and forth between the ovens.

Norry came out of the house with a piece of fresh bread in his hand. Zevke handed him a dried block of wood and pointed to a fire at the bottom of an oven. “Careful, Norry. Place the wood, be gentle and quick.”

Norry shoved the bread into his mouth, did as he was told, then wandered off down the lane.

Saida came out of the Baker’s house carrying a basket of loaves fresh from the ovens. She smiled at Zevke then noticed Forgeron and quickly covered her head. She bowed and walked hurriedly away. Forgeron’s eyes followed. He turned back to the Baker and smiled.

Zevke scowled at him. “My wife, Saida.”

“A noble woman.”

“A taken woman.”

“Friend Baker, I admire beauty. I do not covet it nor am I jealous of those who have it.”

“You’re the Tinker’s making his way through Nant?”

Forgeron walked over to the house’s door, his eyes fixed on some small marks, unique but hidden among many scratches on the lintel. He kissed his fingers then touched them to the scratch.

Zevke’s eyes narrowed. “You are not a common tinker.”

“I have traveled some. Do you need any metalworking done? A bellows repaired, perhaps? An axe sharpened to better cut wood? A maul reshaped? Some wedges cleaved?”

“And what’s your price for such work?”

“The lad thinks highly of your bread. Perhaps a loaf and some coppers? And conversation, if you’re willing.”

Zevke gazed in the direction Norry went. “He’s a good lad, that one. Simple. Some say cursed, a halfling for those who believe such things.”

“He has no family?”

“An old woman, Nant’s midwife and herbalist, Dire by name, cares for him.”

“And Good Woman Dire doesn’t believe him cursed?”

Zevke nodded at the lintel. “She’s traveled some, too.” His eyes turned back to Forgeron. “And she’s too old to care about curses.”

“She cares well for the lad?”

“She found him on her doorstep on her return from midwifing Ide Altrea. Ide had enough milk for two and nursing the child would be payment enough. But that was years ago. Now Dire is too old. Her ears betray her and her eyes sometimes dim, but she’s still quick when there’s a need, and what she can not do the good people of Nant do for her, as far as Norry goes.”

“You gave him bread for throwing some wood on your fire. You see to his needs?”

“A helpful lad, but you have to watch him. He can’t remember fire burns.” The baker shrugged massive shoulders. “Come. Set your wheel turning. We can start with my axe.”

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The Hawk

Behold a young hawk, as yet unnamed (still learning Hawkish. I can do it, it just sounds like a human making fun of a hawk and, as I don’t wish to insult, I practice until I’m more eloquent).

This hawk is more or less resting. Taking in the view. Perhaps checking things out for a return.

Funny thing about The Wild, prey know when a nearby predator is on the hunt versus just stopping by for a look-see.

For one, the prey scatter. Those who do stick around are quick to take cover.

Otherwise, nothing. It reminds me of a Warner Brothers’ cartoon about coyotes and sheepdogs. The cartoon starts with the two of them talking cordially, each walking on their hind legs towards a tree. There’s a timeclock on the tree. On top of the timeclock is steam whistle.

Both coyote and sheepdog punch in. They continue to chat about what’s going on back at their den and doghouse, respectively.

The whistle on top of the timeclock goes off. The coyote runs to grab a sheep. The sheepdog intercepts him, stops him, and trounces him.

The coyote gets up, devises a plan to get a sheep.

The sheepdog thwarts his plan.

This continue until the afternoon when the whistle blows again. They both walk up to the timeclock, punch out, and wish each other a pleasant, quiet, and restful evening, ending with “See you tomorrow” and “Yep, see you tomorrow.”

Watch the next time you’re in The Wild.

Meanwhile, I gotta get me one of the timeclocks.

Things to Bring Back in Books – Maps

Jennifer “The Editress” Day sent me the above graphic from a Facebook group she’s in. She asked if I agreed with the list provided.

That set off a wonderful exploration of my thinking on these topics and caused me to defend my opinions for my own benefit (which I now share with you).

I’ll be posting one a week and started with Chapter Titles.
Next came Backcover Synopses.
Here I consider Maps.

My first response to this as a whole is No, if the list is meant to apply universally to all books. The story and the writer’s ability to tell the story (the former, storytelling, the latter, storycrafting) determine what should go in a book.

Maps

Tag – Part II Forgeron the Tinker – Chapter 7

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

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.”

Little Climbing Raccoon

Youngsters at play.

Or escape.

You never know, scary Two-Legger that I am.

Getting high in a tree is a natural defense for raccoons, one of many.

The Wild, The Old Ones only fight when there are no other options available.

Even then, it’s rarely open aggression. More often it’s defense. Yes, there’s predation and only those preparing to pass over are hunted. Unlike humans, ego plays no part in survival. No wolf or fox or coyote or bear or mountain cat takes down the healthiest, most robust buck and shows off their kill to others of their kind. Nothing in The Wild brags about killing because they only kill when there’s a need (“only” meaning “under normal circumstances”).

Boastful behavior doesn’t exist in aboriginal societies, either. At least not that I’ve seen. Often, when some group prepares to hunt, they make supplications to the Old One they wish to take down. They ask The First of whatever they hunt to give them one ready to go home so as not to offend.

Also to keep the greater numbers of the hunted kind safe. Aborigines know there will be other hunts on other days. Taking out the most fit means numbers diminish and until the numbers are zero.

Should you ever wish to learn the Mathematics of Life, spend time with aborigines. They know it well.