Tuesday Tidbit: The First Grind

The time has come. Harald is not nervous. No. Not at all.

Water trickled, then splashed down onto the millwheel. Wood and metal groaned as the half-wet wood started to turn. More groans and the sound of scraping came from within the mill proper. They’d greased the gears, but they always complained even so. Mak leaned out the small window above the water wheel and waved—all seemed well. The journeyman carpenter watching the imperial gear and drum gears from below hurried out of the pit access, wet to the knees, and followed Harald and the priestess of Donwah. Toglos stayed, watching the water wheel and that part of the main shaft. He had a whistle to blow if something went wrong.

Harald and the priestess went inside the mill. Ceol and the other workmen stayed well clear as priests of Korvaal, Gember, Rella, and the Scavenger watched Wulfgar. At his gestures, Mak poured a stream of wheat into the bin atop the grinding wheels. The tapered sides of the wooden box guided grain into the top of the first stone. For now, it matched the movement of the seconds stone, so the grain dropped straight through.

The sound changed, and Harald held his breath. As Wulfgar moved around, everyone saw brownish-white appearing between the bed stone and the grinding stone, the first flour. It could not be eaten without a great deal of sifting, so it went to the Scavenger. Indeed, the black-cloaked and masked priest stepped forward, a bag in black-gloved hands. Wulfgar guided the flour into the sack. Gember’s priestess followed, taking the next sack-full. Wulfgar reached into the box that held the flour and tested it between thumb and forefinger. He frowned, perhaps, and moved something. The grinding noise changed a little, or did it? The stone cutter checked the flour once more and plunged both hands into the bin, then held them up and smiled. All within the mill cheered.

Harald waited until Wulfgar had ground the dinkel as well, then joined the others as they feasted out in the clear air. Jormund handed him a tankard, and a chunk of bread smeared with spiced great hauler sausage. Harald ate, then tasted the beer. “Ah!” Strong and touched with something, perhaps a bit of apple? The scout winked. Apple, spirits of apple. Harald finished the rest of the bread before drinking more. He didn’t dare overindulge until the mill had run a night and a day without surprises. “Now, if the town will accept the grind,” he grumbled.

Ceol had heard him. The carpenter leaned back and said, “They won’t. They’ll grumble, and we’ll have to redo half the storage bins and a pulley will crack the first time their miller touches the rope, and he’s probably the off-blanket son of the mayor anyway and not a true miller.” He made the Horns.

Jormund and Harald both made the Wheel in reply. “Probably. And then a new water claim will come up and throw everything off,” Harald sighed. That had happened in Yartal, back when he was a journeyman. Donwah and Radmar be thanked that the noble had accepted the mill before the farmer appeared at the temple with witnesses and a sheet of parchment. Harald and his master had left Yartal and not looked back.

Two days later, Harald and Jormund borrowed part of the carpenters’ workshop and compared notes about a possible site for Lord Ealdred’s mill. The local town council had sent members to watch the flour being run and to test the results. Harald preferred not to be there. Wulfgar knew better than he did what to do.

“Still don’t watch the acceptance grind?” Jormund asked.

“Nae. What I don’t hear I won’t challenge or lose my temper over.” He studied the charcoal on old parchment sketch. “You said that the farmer says the water flow drops after harvest?”

“Good reason to stay away, and yes. It becomes a winter burn just after harvest. That won’t work, unless you have more than one pond, or draw two streams.”

“No temple will allow that.” Jormund nodded agreement, and Harald tapped a different stream. “This the one with the drop and year-round flow?”

“Aye. Easy ‘nough to run a trail from there to th’ town.” He patted a different part of the drawing. “Far enough to be left alone, not so far as to be a problem. Town woods between.”

Harald stood straight and stared at the wall. People would be using the wood, so they could see if trouble like fire started and call for help faster than if the miller sent someone to town. The distance would discourage people from loitering at the mill and getting in the way. “Sounds good, if the temples agree and if there’s no other claims.”

Jormund straightened as well, then paced the room twice. “I don’t like the pollard, if that’s what I saw. Korvaal be kind, mayhap it was just mistel.” He made the Wheel.

“Master Harald,” Mak called from outside the door. Jormund flashed a smirking grin as Harald pinched his nose, then grabbed his hat and stepped outside. The councilors stood with a priestess of Gember. Wulfgar lurked off to the side, scowling. The councilors seemed deep in a heated and unhappy discussion. Harald eased around them and approached the green and tan clad priestess, Mak trailing behind.

“Honored Speaker for the Lady of Grain,” Harald said.

“I have tested the flour and find it good, both wheat and dinkel,” she declared in a loud voice. The councilors turned toward her and the butcher started to speak. His fellows shushed him as the priestess continued, “All is to contract, and the Lady of the Harvest affirms this.” She thumped the ground with her staff.

The money lender frowned, but said, “We accept the grain. Here is the final payment on the contract.” The words came slowly, as if drawn from a distaff to a drop spindle. He held out a sack.

Harald took the heavy sack. “I accept payment. The mill is yours.” He’d go to town tomorrow or the next day and leave word with the notaries.

“Seen and witnessed,” Jormund called.

The priestess replied, “Seen and witnessed.”

Just as Rella’s Lamp drew close to the western horizon, Her Dancers appeared in Harald’s vision. Jormund and Wulfgar helped him stagger to his room and fall onto the bed. He would go to town the day following. “Guard our pay,” he whispered before pain drove words away.

(C) 2024 Alma T. C. Boykin All Rights Reserved.