Summer Solstice Again

One of my least favorite days of the year. The most sunlight pours down on the land, announcing the start of the hottest time of the year. Blargh.

Growing up and living in North America, in the modern world, the longest, warmest days are not as joyful as they are in more northern climes. At least, not for a redhead who has a relatively low heat tolerance (I don’t shed heat as well as normal people). Rather than it being the “turning of the year,” Sommerwende, it is the start of “Alma hides between 0630-2100.”

However, a few summers in Germany, one in Scotland, explained why the summer solstice was so celebrated. Cool summers and a rather short growing season mean that the turning of the year is the start of a race. Can you get crops in, fruit and nuts harvested and stored, livestock raised, and everything else done before it grows too cold to farm and too dark to work? Light and heat are expensive. Summer is for work, for marriage, for fun, for taking advantage of what is fresh and edible and that won’t keep (strawberry season, cherry season, asparagus, et al). The long days improve the spirits. A cold, damp summer is NOT fun. One summer, Germany stayed chilly well into July, and the Bavarians were deeply morose – no one was going to the Biergärten. The rivers ran high because of rain, and crops … did not thrive. Famine used to come from cold and wet far more than from hot and dry.

So today is the longest day in the Northern Hemisphere. The White Nights of the Arctic and far northern Europe and Canada. And when those of us in more southerly climes gird our loins, find our coolest street-legal clothes, and stock up on cool drinks and sunscreen.

On the Road

I’m on the way to LibertyCon, so posting will be light until next week.

Tuesday Tidbit: Daily Life and Subcontractors

Harald sheds the apprentices and learns more about the waters.

“Four?” Master Leofric looked from the letter to Harald, then reread the letter, lips moving. “Ceol owes me. He said more than one, but that usually means two.” He set the scrap of parchment on the scuffed and battered workbench and shrugged. “I’ll find space and tasks for them. Ceol says that you’ll need a master to oversee the work on the mill?”

“Aye. I’ve a journeyman, and we can turn our hands to most wood, but we’re not so good as to build it all ourselves. Have you a wax— Thank ye.” Leofric slid a large wax tablet across the workbench. Harald drew a rough outline of what he needed, adding numbers. “This for the outside, don’t know exact location or measures until I find the place. Inside, two floors, and the gears and water wheel.” He pointed to himself with his thumb. “I’ll select the woods, you confirm before they’re cut.”

Leofric’s eyes narrowed. “Huh. Never done a mill like this before.” He walked to the end of the shop and back. Part of him moved constantly, not nervous but excess heat in his nature, perhaps? “And you have the contract already?”

“Aye, on file with Korvaal’s temple here. Wood’ll be eich, castana, alm, bech, white needle leaf, and mayhap hard sendal, mayhap not. Some iron work as well, plus stone for the channel and the grinding stones.”

Leofric rubbed under the small yellow beard on his chin, then nodded once. “I’ll do it. I’ve got journeymen who can finish the other work we’re contracted for, and who are good for basic house building and the like. Be good to learn summat’ new, aye?”

“Aye.”

They shook, and Harald gave Leofric a token earnest coin. “Don’t worry about the formal contract until you have a site and materials. Tomorrow, send the boys over. They green or seasoned?” Leofric drummed his fingers on the workbench.

Harald watched one of the journeymen as he considered. The short, squat man handled a heavy smoothing plane as long as his forearm as if it weighted nothing at all. “Part seasoned. They all four worked on the last mill, Mak and Gaddy from the start, Jal and San from mid-spring on. Mak’s senior, in his fifth year?” Harald tried to recall what Ceol had said. “No, late in his fourth. He was called back to his father’s village because of an inheritance dispute among the other sons and lost almost a quarter year.”

Several of the journeymen and Leofric all winced or groaned. Leofric shook his head. “Ugh. Korvaal my witness, that sort of thing almost makes me glad my father left nothing for us. No kin strife if there’s nothin’ to fight over.”

“Aye that! ‘Lessen someone finds summat anyway.” His own father …

A passing apprentice nodded so hard his cap almost fell off. He caught it and hurried on before someone found an extra task for him.

Leofric folded his arms. “Send ’em tomorrow, and tell me when you have a site and wood selected.”

“I’ll do that. Korvaal bless your work and may it flourish.”

“Radmar turn His Wheel in your favor.” They touched palms, then went their ways.

Toglos was taking the boys to the temples and making them known to the watch, since they’d be here longer than three nights. Harald considered matters, then nodded once. He needed to learn more about the place claimed by Donwah and the Scavenger. Jormund had not observed anything worth mentioning, had he? Harald strolled toward the main market square, trying to recall. No, he didn’t remember Jormund describing god-sign on any of the streams. The millwright snorted to himself once more. A fixed mill on the Gheel. Truly, Count Ealdred had not thought about waters and their ways.

“I got it, I got it!” Harald jumped up into an open doorway as four boys, a girl, and a hoop raced past.

“Watch yer way!” a portly man called to the children, shaking a fleshy and well-gloved fist at them. “Scavenger take them, the brats.” Harald stayed in the doorway until the man stomped past. He wore a silver trade master’s chain.

A woman sighed from behind him. “Radik will be in for a surprise when m’lord Scavenger comes for him, one of these days.”

Harald turned and inclined to her. “My thanks for shelter from both storms.”

She chuckled and half-smiled. “You are welcome, sir.” She came closer and extended her right hand. “Mistress Osbruga, spice seller and grinder. If you need common healing herbs, I have those as well. Not from the same cabinet.” Her smile invited a smile in return.

He pressed palms with her. “Harald Tolson, millwright. Well met. I might need your wares, come winter.”

“Mistress, Goodwife Hulda’s comin’ with nuts,” a boy called from the doorway. Harald inclined toward the spicer once again then hurried out of the way. Interrupting trade never won friends unless the building was afire. He continued up the street, memorizing the way and which lanes and alleys might lead to trouble.

The street opened up to a market square. No one did business there on this day, giving him a clear view of three temples, once each for Gember, Korvaal, and Yoorst. He blinked and glanced left and right. The sound of squeaking, like an ungreased wheel or pulley, caught his ear, and he followed it into a narrow, short alley that ended in a well. The building behind the well sported a pattern of waves. He nodded and walked around the well and the servant woman filling two buckets. To his right, he found the temple of the Scavenger. Radmar’s chapel and the Silver Pestle, an apothecary, filled in the space to his left. Harald paid his respects to Radmar, then stepped into Donwah’s place.

The sanctuary smelled of fresh waters and mist. He bowed to the veiled figure behind the altar. “All honor to the Lady of Waters, and thanks for Her gifts.” He stepped a little farther into the dimness and knelt. “Gracious Lady, give me clear sight and guide me that I do not trespass on what You have claimed.” He stood and bowed once more.

“A wise request, and one that will be granted, if you have ears to hear,” a rich, age-darkened voice murmured in the stillness. Halting steps approached, and he bowed to the limping, slightly stooped woman who approached him. “Thank you.” He stood, and saw light glint on the wave and fish pendant on the silver chain around her neck. Donwah’s Daughter drew closer. “Know you more of what you seek, Master …?” she asked.

“I am Harald called Halfpaw, born to Donwah and Radmar both, born for Korvaal, honored Daughter. I seek a place on a steady stream to build a grist mill, a place acceptable to the Lady of Waters. The sponsor suggested the Gheel, but I was told that the Lady did not approve of such. I do not either, not a fixed mill.”

The lips below the dark blue half-veil frowned. “No. The Gheel is too free and frisky for aught save a floating mill.” The lips pursed and he waited. “Speak with Famrik of our brother Korvaal.”

“Famrik of Korvaal, yes, honored Daughter.”

Something flowed around them, and he went to one knee. “What my brother and I claim will be clear to one who seeks truly. Go and blessings flow over you, Harald son of Tol.”

He bowed until his forehead touched his knee. “My thanks, gracious and generous Lady.” He waited until the uneven steps faded away, then got to his feet and bowed low once more. He wanted beer or something stronger, much stronger. Instead, hands shaking along with the rest of him, he turned his steps toward the temple of Korvaal.

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

What’s That on the Bench?!?

There are several things you don’t want to see when you are working on machinery of any kind. Metal shavings where none should be, wires that lead to nowhere, hydraulic fluid in places no deity or designer intended for fluid to be, and the dreaded “extra part.”

I’ve observed that the more complicated the thing you are reassmebling, and the more carefully you try to account for all the bits and pieces, the more likely you are to discover you have N+1 parts after you finish putting the thing back together. This isn’t the discarded bit, which should be segregated from the good bits and marked, or just moved well away from the usable stuff. No, this is, oh, a gasket that should have been installed at step two, or a lock washer, or a little O-ring that goes on a little fitting that you can’t get to now without undoing an hour or so of work.

If someone puts one there as a prank, no jury of mechanics, plumbers, steam-fitters, or others will convict you if you apply percussive counseling to said jerk.

It’s happened to me twice. In both cases, it “only” required undoing two or three engine accessories in order to open something up and put in the part. The original diagrams for the engines didn’t include the part, because it was a later required addition for remanufactured engines of that make and model. The shop boss got caught as well, so I didn’t feel as bad, but it was still a pain in the [anatomical part] to put it mildly.

Then there’s the related rule that when you need N+1 number of washers, lock nuts, o-rings, gaskets, special spark plugs, ounces of hydraulic fluid, there will be N in stock, and the thing will either be back-ordered, or can’t be shipped other than Turtle Express Ground Transport, so you will get it in 10-50 business days, not counting holidays.

Slapout, Halfway, and Greater Idalou

Place names are fascinating. They tell you about history, local characters, the frustrations of the government saying, “Nope, can’t do that, second choice is taken, and you must be grammatically correct in a foreign language.*”

Descriptive place names include Plainview (which is very flat and had no trees), Pampa (“plains”), Amarillo, (yellow dirt exposed in one of the creek valleys), Vega (fertile meadow), Seneca (originally “cieneguilla del burro,” or small swampy place where the burro got stuck), Black Mesa (volcanic remnant with dark stone lurks near the town), North Platte (guess which branch of the river it’s on?), and Halfway, which is a road intersection and school equidistant between county seats. It is also home to one of my favorite churches, the Halfway Baptist Church. Related to that is Dalhart, which straddles the Dallam and Hartley county lines. Nueces had pecan trees, still does. You can guess what was memorable about the site of the town of Cactus.

Some places are named for the reason the town exists or existed. Acme, Texas was home to a gypsum and sheetrock plant. Today it is where Orvan Taurus picks up deliveries, and a small sign by the highway. Phillips was a company town for an oil refinery and associated industries run by Phillips 66. Four Way is a four way intersection. Cactus also took its name from an armaments factory that was there, or perhaps the factory was named for the flora. Sources differ.

Place names can also tell you about who was in the area, Omaha, Papillion and Belleview and Fontanelle, Council Bluffs … Indians, then the French, then Anglo-American appeared and left traces on the land. Sometimes place names are translations, like Red River instead of Rito Colorado or La Rouge. Chillicothe is a Shawnee tribal clan name, designating the location of the head of the clan of the chieftains. Thus where you find that as a place name, you would have found Shawnee-speaking peoples.

History is also caught in names. Crazy Woman Creek in Wyoming is named for an insane women who lived there. Why she went mad is not clearly known, but her presence was described by both Indians and fur trappers. Stonewall, Lubbock, Houston, Denver, all named for political leaders or military figures.

Idalou? Named for two sisters of the town founder. According to local legend, Slapout, OK got its name from the founder’s sister, who proclaimed the town store to be “slap out” of whatever customers came to get.

*San Angelo was supposed to be San Angela, after the wife of the founder of the civilian settlement. The USPS threw a fit, because in Spanish, you can’t have a masculine descriptor with a feminine noun. So San Angelo it became [pronounced S’nANjello, all one word].

Tropical Rains

This past Monday, we had backwards weather. No, tornadoes didn’t drop houses from the sky. No, we had rain that moved from southeast to northwest, and fell straight down. For those of you my readers who live in places with normal weather, where rain falls instead of blowing, this would generate a shrug and a murmur of something along the lines of, “Well, of course it would rain on Monday.” Here, we call it passing strange.

The weather guessers had been wildly optimistic about our chances of rain. My rule of thumb is if the National Weather Service and local guys all call for more than 50% chance, we will get nothing, or at best two drops and a lick of lightning. They jinx it when they get so optimistic. So Sunday came and went with lovely clouds and three drops, more or less, and those well away from RedQuarters. Rain would have been nice, but it was cooler than the two previous days, and might be cooler yet on Monday. Coolth this time of year is something to be treasured, with or without rain. And the wheat farmers would prefer not to get rained on until harvest finishes.

(I should mention that I live in a heat island that kills rainstorms. From the time I moved here, everyone called it the “Vega Effect.” Storms made it as far east as Vega and collapsed, or divided, went around Bushland and Amarillo, then drenched the eastern half of the area. Or they got to the hospital on the north side of town and died. So not getting rain in town is not new.)

Monday morning came, and it was 59F out. I went for a lovely, cool stroll under cloudy skies – redhead weather indeed. The air had enough moisture to do something, but they were still calling for 90% chance. As I’d guessed, everything formed south and east of my corner of the world. No rain, sayonara, adios, bye. Except … When I looked at the radar again, the rain was coming from southeast to northwest. I rewound the radar and watched again. No, the weather was indeed moving backwards. In fact, most of the weather north of I-20 was moving east to west. What in the name of little green apples? Monday.

I was able to keep the house open all day, as cool as the day remained. It got up to 72 before the rain moved in. Slow, steady, vertical rain without any wind at all dropped straight down. It was heavy and steady, what we call a tropical rain, like they get on the Gulf Coast and places like that. The world stayed twilight grey, great napping weather if you don’t have things to do. I worked on writing and house stuff, and just watched it. Around four a break came, so I ventured out again and trotted a bit more. Chilly weather in June is too good to waste. More rain came, this with a little grumble of thunder but nothing impressive. Then we got a double rainbow at sunset, with lightning in the background.

RedQuarters ended up with an inch and a half. The canyon south and east of us got over three inches, one of those inches in fifteen minutes, leading to trail closures and some high-water removals from campgrounds. The river there is “flashy” in the extreme, going from dry to “Wasn’t there a water crossing sign there ten minutes ago?” in a quarter hour or so.

More rain came on Tuesday. It wasn’t as chilly, but still lovely, and very nice for June. The weather continued moving bass-akwards, thanks to a low-pressure system well to the south of the area. Thursday came before things reverted to regional normal.

A Grand Old Flag

June 14 is Flag Day in the US. The period from Memorial Day to July Fourth is what I consider “US patriotism and history month,” since there are several commemorations, holidays, and so on, all centered on US history.

Flags and banners go a very, very long way back in time. You needed to be able to identify who was “us” and who was “them,” ideally from a distance. And once tribal bands became armies, being able to find who was where and get messages to them grew in importance. Standards, banners, colored drapes over ordinary clothes to mark “with me” and “bad guys over there,” were adopted by many groups. Flags and standards also had other meanings, religious in some cases, or as reminders of past accomplishments by a specific regiment or army. To capture someone’s flag or standard meant you had defeated them, or at the very least slapped them in the face and dishonored them. Flags took on a lot more meaning than just “We’re all bunched up over here.”

When the thirteen British colonies finally decided to separate from the mother country, they needed a banner to unite them, and to show who was whom. If you look at the different banners used at the time, many have both symbol and text on them, like the heraldic crests from Europe and Britain. The navy jack is probably the best known (Don’t Tread on Me) with its nod to older, Scottish and European mottoes (“Noli me Tangere” Don’t touch me, or “Touch Not the Cat but with a Glove”). On June 14, 1777, the Continental Congress approved funds for a very simple design, no text, but something with symbolism and that did NOT incorporate parts of the Union Jack or English flag*. Thirteen stripes of alternating red and white, and thirteen white stars on a blue field.

A rather well-dressed version of the creation of the Betsy Ross flag. Creative Commons Fair use: https://www.mylifetime.com/she-did-that/june-14-1777-the-betsy-ross-flag-was-officially-adopted-as-the-national-flag

It wasn’t until 1877 that Flag Day became something to commemorate, in part because it was a way to bridge the yawning chasm between the different states. Reconstruction was ending, for good or for ill, and this was one way to remind everyone of a shared belief and heritage. However, it didn’t catch on as a national event sponsored by the US government until WWI [sound familiar], and then was designated as an annual celebration by Congress in 1949.

Today it is a day to fly the flag, to argue over the meaning(s), and to brace for the July 4th sales ads that are about to inundate us.

*They are different. The English flag is part of the Union Jack, as is the Scottish flag.

Too Much of Nothing?

Some time ago, Peter, Paul, and Mary did a song entitled “Too Much of Nothing.” Bob Dylan originally recorded it, and there are some small differences in the lyrics.

One of the lines that bubbled up from the memory banks this week was “Too much of nothing makes a man feel ill at ease. One man’s temper might rise, and another man’s temper might freeze.” The song is a bit of a nonsense piece, but it got me thinking about the nihilism that’s been “cool” and “hip” among certain circles since the lat 1800s, and seems to have spread out into society at large.

Back in the late 1800s, proclaiming one’s rejection of all causes and faith was shocking and seen as a sign of radicalism. Being cool, detached, and “above politics” struck most people as a way to avoid one’s duties, or a rejection of proper morals and authority. In some cases it was, in others it was a pose, like so many young people do as they try on identities and beliefs (if they can, and if society allows it.) Along came WWI, and it became “cool” to gesture to the meaninglessness of authority, art, literature, and so on. Dada surged briefly in Europe, meaningless art for a meaningless time. Most of the nihilists of that generation found causes of some kind, or had causes imposed on them by the totalitarian regimes that steered so much of the later 1930s and early 1940s.

Nihilism of the popular sort bubbled up a few times after that. Existentialism of the French sort, as interpreted by American intellectuals (often self-proclaimed) seemed to focus on the lack of meaning, the pointlessness of life. Why not do it all, indulge in all vices, or none at all, since there was no point to life and all authority was hollow and junk? No, not all philosophers wandered down that dark alley, but enough, and they seem to have concentrated in corners of academia and the art scene, to leave traces in culture.

Now, we have chunks of two generations in the US, Canada, Britain, and Europe who are flailing about in search of a Cause, or who have dropped out of life and numb themselves into “the waters of oblivion” as the song put it. Nothing has a meaning, nothing has a purpose, so why bother with anything but pleasure on your own? Or conversely, find a Great Cause™ and loudly espouse it, especially if it means shocking the bourgeois and destroying the symbols of the hollow, corrupt past. Nothingness, emptiness, no higher cause than “saving the planet” or “Saving the animals” or “speaking truth to power and tearing down oppression”. The rejection of old structures dumped people into nothing, and they grab anything to fill that hollow. Or they revel in the nothing and slide into hedonism, but alone, numbing themselves without taking pleasure from the company around them. (Think of the groups of heroin users in the 1980s, all strung out in the same room but each on his or her own trip with his own drugs.)

“Believe in something or you’ll fall for anything” people used to say. Now there’s also the risk of diving into nothingness and not emerging.

It’s an amusing song, and I like the harmonies in the chorus as done by Peter, Paul, and Mary. But it strikes me that western society is suffering from “too much of nothing” and the long-term effects of nihilism as a life choice. It’s a luxury belief, like a lot of things causing problems right now (radical environmentalism, some aspects of modern civil rights movements).

Wednesday Wee-Bit: Hunter, Suitor, Sensitive, Shy?

The Lestrangs have an unexpected caller. Late April of the year following Preternaturally Familiar.

On Tuesday evening, Lelia felt pressure against the shields around the duplex. Not an attack, but someone brushing against them and stopping. She set the now-dry dish down on the combination island and table in the kitchen and went to look out the front window.

A young-looking, sturdy, black clad man with dark eyes and fair hair stood on the sidewalk. A mildly-scuffed, pale pickup lurked behind André’s brown truck. The young man seemed to be considering the front walk. Lelia returned to the kitchen as André came down the steps from his office. “Love, were you expecting a Hunter? Ladislu is standing just outside the shield.”

He frowned. “No. Were you?”

“No. I wonder.” She hung the towel on the rack and brushed off the front of her skirt. “Ladislu is Rendor’s youngest nephew. He’s the one who was intently not-watching Deborah on July fourth and at the harvest party.”

A somewhat predatory smile bloomed on her husband’s face. “Ah. Rendor was indirectly asking about dowry versus bride price back last fall, now that I think about it. Let him in, please.”

Lelia reached with her magic, lowering the house shield, as André went into the main room and settled into his chair. Rodney and Tay, their Familiars, scampered in and plopped themselves into nest and window-hammock respectively.

The young Hunter came up the brick walk to the door. He hesitated at the steps, then gathered himself and climbed onto the front porch. He’s got guts, I’ll give him that, to come here on his own. But how did he get our address?

The doorbell rang. André smiled, then sobered and nodded. Lelia answered the door. “Good evening. Be welcome to our home.”

Ladislu bowed. “Thank you.” He started to add something, caught himself, and came in. He glanced left and right, then turned and inclined toward André.

“Welcome. Please, be seated,” André commanded. Ladislu settled with excessive care onto the reproduction fainting couch as Lelia ducked into the kitchen. The book she’d read about Hunter clan traditions said that serious business had to be preceded by tea, something her son Hiram had confirmed with weary vehemence. She did her best not to obviously listen as André and Ladislu discussed commonplaces such as the Hunt, weather, and farming. I’d die of boredom. She knew the reason for the delay and the show of hospitality, but she rolled her eyes anyway. This isn’t the barbarian frontier, sheesh! Well, their neighborhood wasn’t. The doorway to the children’s area at her church was a different story, some days.

She found the fancy cookies she’d been saving for a treat, and arranged everything on the antique silver tea tray. Ladislu’s eyes opened wide with surprise as she carried it into the living room and set it on the coffee table. He recovered quickly, showing no sign of having noticed as she fixed a cup for orange-cinnamon herbal tea for André before getting out of the way. André drank and gestured toward Ladislu, making the clan’s sign for “your turn.” Ladislu did as told. Did any Hunter accept food he hadn’t watched being made, unless he knew the cook? They must not eat out much. Or had they picked it up from Arthur, while he led the Hunters? After Ladislu served himself, Lelia poured her own tea, and gave André his choice of cookies. All duties tended to, she sat in her sewing chair.

Two cups of tea later, Ladislu gathered himself. “Master Lestrang, Mistress Lestrang, with the agreement of my parents and Master Saldovado, I wish to ask your permission to court Mistress Deborah, and to ask for her hand in honorable marriage.” He took a deep breath. “I offer half the income of my machine shop, a share in the family farm, and one beef a year in bride price.”

Lelia bit her tongue as André gave his Familiar, Rodney the kit fox, a preemptive glare. Rodney sat up and rested one paw on his chest, as if asking “Who, me?” I know who will claim the beef, and no, we do not have freezer room!

“Is this to be paid to Miss Deborah, or to her mother and I?”

“To whomever you prefer, sir.”

“To Deborah.” André made a little beckoning gesture, and Lelia stood, then moved to stand at his right shoulder, just behind his chair. “I give you permission to court my daughter, Deborah.” Before the Hunter relaxed too much, he added, “Did she give you her permission to court and marry her?”

“Sir?” Pure confusion distilled into one syllable. Lelia bit her tongue to keep from giggling at the pole-axed expression on Ladislu’s face. Oh dear. Didn’t think about that, did we? And I wager Deborah’s bunicot didn’t bother to warn him, either. Mean Familiar snickers rose from hammock and nest.

André managed to hide his own mirth, but she felt his muscles trembling under her hand. “I repeat, do you have Deborah’s permission? Because I will not order her to wed if she does not care to.”

Ladislu gathered himself. “No, I do not, not yet, sir.”

Points for honesty and for not pushing it. Ladislu had not become the leader of the Hunters through stupidity. Lelia said, “Then I suggest that you approach Miss Deborah yourself and inquire as to her thoughts on the matter.”

“I give you permission to court my daughter, and my approval should she agree.” André flowed, moving faster than fast to stand an inch from Ladislu, a shadow ball in his hand. “And if she does not, and you think to force the issue, I have second claim on you.”

The young Hunter twitched, then said, voice calm, “Claim after Master Saldovado?”

Lelia’s fighting blade appeared in her hand. “After me. What we leave belongs to Master Saldovado, should he wish to bother himself with so minor a matter.” Don’t call my bluff. You won’t like what you find.

Tay coughed, drawing the Hunter’s eye. “They are not joking, young man,” Tay warned, his disapproval clear. “And remember this. Miss Deborah has been taught the skills of the Hunt as well as healing.”

Ladislu inhaled. “Master Lestrang, Mistress Lestrang, I was taught to respect when a young lady says ‘no,’ and to cease disturbing her. If Mistress Deborah refuses my suit, then I will not impose myself on her against her wishes.” His hand shook the tiniest bit despite his steady demeanor.

“Good choice,” Rodney said.

Lelia slid her knife back into the sheath as André reaffirmed his consent. “You do need to know that Deborah brings with her over fifty acres of land inside the city, including her house and consulting building, the in-town herb garden, and a nature reserve.”

Now Ladislu gulped. “Ah, I was not aware of the size of her bride portion, sir, ma’am. Thank you.” He looked down at the floor, then nodded. “Ah, thank you,” he repeated.

“That does not change the appropriate bride price, since part of the property is hers as guardian and not for use,” Lelia explained. “Should she sell the land, that section will become a state-owned and controlled nature reserve.”

“Ah.” Relief almost dripped from the young man. No, not that young, Lelia realized, just young by clan standards. Well, Deborah knew what she was getting into, if she chose to marry into the clan.

André raised his right hand. “Go with my blessing, Ladislu, and should Miss Deborah agree to your suit, then I welcome you into the family.”

“Thank you sir,” he bowed to André, then to Lelia. “Ma’am.” Lelia saw him out.

A thirty second silence, then the Familiars burst out laughing. “The look on his face! Har har har,” Tay guffawed as Rodney howled, rolling back and forth across the floor. And shedding silver-white fur all over, of course.

Lelia checked the level of tea left in the pot. Not enough for a full cup. She shrugged and poured it into her cup, then drank as André chuckled. “Are you going to warn her?” he inquired with a slightly evil grin.

She shook her head. “No. I suspect she knows that he’s interested. I don’t think he’d have asked Arthur’s permission without having checked Deborah’s interest level first.”

“He wouldn’t,” Tay said, now serious. “Arthur’s a little concerned about the other unmarried Hunters pushing things, but not that worried. Ladislu can hold his own. He now Hunts with the Senior Hunter, him or Ianku.”

Lelia made a face as she gathered the tea things to take to the kitchen to wash. “I wonder if Arthur was a little relieved to give up that job.”

“Probably, but he might not admit it even to himself.” André got to his feet, then stretched as best he could.

#

Two weeks later, Deborah appeared on the steps of the duplex just after supper. André let her in as Lelia finished cramming the leftovers into the fridge. They needed to go through and sort out which of his condiments needed to go, preferably into orbit beyond Pluto. A half-eaten package of something had snarled at her when she got the cheese out of the cheese drawer.

The door opened and closed. She heard murmurs, then, “Dad, what did you threaten Ladislu with?”

Lelia listened hard as silence stretched, then her husband admitted, “Sic’ing your mother on him.”

“Daaaaad! That was mean.” Lelia doubled over, shaking as she tried not to laugh aloud at the outrage in her daughter’s voice. “He’s terrified now. I finally had to ask him flat out if he wanted to marry me, he hemmed and hawed so much.”

Lelia managed to get herself under control and stepped into the main room. “And his answer was?” André inquired.

“He said yes, so I said yes.” Deborah extended her left hand, showing a rose-gold ring with a cabochon blue stone. “Ah, we were thinking a January wedding, since June is too soon and I’ll be up to my elbows in work, Art and Maria called first dibs on next April, and getting married during harvest wouldn’t be popular.”

“Nope!” Rodney agreed from beside the back door. “Unless you had a little church wedding then, only sixty or so guests, and the reception later, so there is time to organize the music and processional order, and menu, and—”

“Enough,” André and Deborah chorused. “Jinx. Thank you, Uncle Rodney, but this isn’t a royal wedding or corporate merger. And I shudder to imagine what my brothers would do if asked to give a toast.”

“A toast!” Tay called, standing on his hind legs and pretending to hold up a piece of bread. Lelia covered her eyes. Of course he’d quote that movie.

After several moments, Deborah glanced toward the front window, then eased closer. Lelia went on alert. “Um, have you heard anything about attacks on weaker magic workers? Nothing serious, but harassing stuff, intimidation, that kind of thing?”

“Not yet, but I haven’t asked, either,” Lelia said. She glanced at André. His eyes had hardened, and a bit of predator showed in his intent posture.

Deborah glanced out again, then made one of the clan’s gestures for uncertainty of some kind. “Three of my clients have mentioned little things, one witch called them imps, like Elementals but not that tried to interrupt her work. A second client had to stop doing pattern magic for several weeks because a pair of shielded birds would dive at her and try to break her concentration when she worked outdoors. It stopped just after the Equinox.” She shook her head. “I haven’t been bothered, neither have Ashtan, Phillip, or Art.”

“F.X. hasn’t mentioned anything,” Lelia said, thinking through the list of magic workers in town who she knew well. “Nor have either of the weekday covens.”

André pursed his lips, then shook his head once. “My Devon County student hasn’t mentioned it, but his being present might chase off anything that considered pestering that coven.”

“It probably has,” Rodney said, as Tay nodded. “He’s so paranoid, he probably stings anything that gets close, then asks for ID.”

“He’s not quite that bad. Quite,” Rodney’s mage said. He raised a cautionary finger. “We’re warned, Deborah, and I’ll ask him if he’s noticed anything more than the usual messes.”

She rolled her eyes. “Like the stupid charm war that started in Central High? And over books about a witch, not the usual TV or internet stuff. Sheesh.”

Lelia bit her tongue a little to keep from smiling or rolling her eyes as well. Her least favorite author had gotten sued into the poorhouse after including detailed instructions for casting an especially nasty spell in one of her bad-boy-warlock novels. Were they the teen-mage books, or the coven soap opera ones? Arthur had opted not to stock either series, for different reasons. Not the mage ones—the magic in those is so dumb it’s harmless. Lelia shrugged. Not her problem unless someone made it her problem.

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

Tuesday Tidbit: Jerwood Town

Harald and his charges arrive at the next job.

Before they departed the temple, Harald sought out the temple’s record keeper. “Does the Lady of Light have any wood claim north or east of Jerwood?”

The priest clerk tapped her nose, then held up the finger. She disappeared between shelves, one leg dragging. He heard rustling, and she returned with a rolled, tanned hide. He held one side as she unrolled it on the table, then set four heavy leather bags on the ends. Her right arm and hand moved as awkwardly as her leg. She met his eyes and tapped two red-shaded places. He leaned close and studied the map.

Jerwood sat on a small hill with forest on three sides. Grey marked the lands belonging to the Scavenger’s temple, red for Rella, solid light green for Korvaal and dotted green well to the east and north marked the boundary of Valdher’s lands. All cultivated fields fell under Gember’s hand, and Donwah owned the waters. Besides the Gheel, well south of the town, he saw four streams that flowed into the main river. Hills began east of the woods and flowed off the edge of the map. He memorized the rough locations, then studied one little area. “Ma’am, might I have a little more light?”

She smiled with half her face and bright a mage-light closer. “Thank you.” Both Donwah and the Scavenger claimed a spot not far from where Jormund had described a possible mill site. Harald frowned to himself. Salt spring? Or something less good? He would have to ask. Count Ealdred had not studied the maps properly. Or was he one who planned to violate the laws and then pay forfeit later while claiming ignorance?

Harald straightened up, trying not to twitch as his lower back reminded him of age and lifting one heavy beam too many. “Thank you. That answers many questions.” She smiled once more, again only half her face moving, then rolled the hide and returned it to the shelves. He left another small offering and departed.

The Lamp had crossed the peak of the sky when Toglos asked, “Did you learn what you sought, sir?”

“Aye. Our employer overestimated how much land is his alone. And there is a place on the stream Jormund recommended that has claims from both m’ Lord Scavenger and the Lady of Waters.”

The journeyman stared at the way ahead of them. After they rounded a bend in the road, he asked, “Spring, sir?”

“Don’t know. The map keeper is god-struck, has understanding but not speech.”

Toglos made Korvaal’s sign. “Ah.”

They reached Jerwood with a hand of light left before the gates closed. A low wooden wall or high fence marked the edge of the town, with a much sturdier and elaborate red and grey gate of stone and baked stone where a branch of the road entered the town. Toglos urged the four boys into a line of sorts as they and a few others waited for a small group of schaef and two great hauler carts to depart. The gate did not allow for passage both ways at the same time. Why not? Harald saved the question for later. Perhaps the builder had run out of materials or funds, and preferred a smaller but more ornate entry than a large, plain one. He’d seen houses and shops like that.

One of the guards, a man past middle age and slightly stoop-shouldered, beckoned. Harald gestured to Toglos and the others as he pulled his seal out of its pouch. “Master Harald Tolson, called Halfpaw, here under contract to build a new grist mill for Count Ealdred. With my journeyman Toglos Ahlson, and apprentices for Leofric.”

The guard took Harald’s seal and studied it. A second man in slightly finer clothes joined him. The seal glowed for a moment, then faded. The scribe nodded twice and bustled back to inspecting a seal imprint on what looked like a very small bale of fleeces. The guard returned the seal. “Enter, Master Harald. I’d recommend staying at the Green Vulpen or the Paired Wheels for now. We,” he waved at the other guards, all busy doing their jobs, “will inform Lord Ealdred that you are here. Master Leofric’s workshop is outside the town, but he keeps space on Well Street, two doors east of the Golden Plane.”

“Green Vulpen or Paired Wheels, and Wall Street near the Golden Plane. Thank ye, and Marsdaam smooth yer road.”

“Radmar turn His Wheel in yer favor.” He gestured for them to pass, and Harald and Toglos guided the quartet of apprentices through the gateway and down a street almost as broad as the road they had just left.

Everything looked almost new, the wood only a few years weathered, paint still bright on signs and walls. All the heavy building beams hid behind plaster, and at least one building in each cluster sported a roof of baked clay or grey plate stone. He nodded. Wise to start thus, limiting the spread of fire if anything of man could. Scents of cooking, spilled wine and beer, a whiff of earth coal, wood smoke, and a bit of dung reached his nose, the smells of a town. Tanners must be well away from the place, since it lacked flowing water within the borders. Or had the count and temples ordered that no tanning be done yet? It wasn’t his problem unless it made leather and boot repair too dear.

“That must be the Green Vulpen, sir,” Toglos said, chuckling as he pointed with the top of his staff to the wall painting on white plaster over a door.

“Aye.” The creature, dog-like but heavier and with longer claws, bore a coat the green of a good schaef meadow in late spring. A brilliant red tongue hung from jaws filled with bright white fangs. “We stay here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Harald went in through the open door of the inn. He waited for his eyes to settle in the dimmer light. “Aye? Ye want ale, ale and food, or just a doss for the night?” a man asked from off to the right. Harald turned that way, and saw a man so thin that Harald’s own travel staff carried more flesh.

“Small beer for four, ale for two, food, and space this night and the next, perhaps longer for two.” He’d need to find sleeping space closer to the work site, once work truly began. He could not walk so far when the Dancers came to him.

The man tapped beside his nose, then nodded once. “Can do. Got space up the stairs, not usin’ it for storage now. Back of the chimney makes one wall. You got bedding and blankets?”

“Aye.”

“Maude!” the man called, looking over his shoulder. A young woman almost as thin as the man emerged from behind a half-door. “Six for upstairs. Show ’em the space, and the washin’ place.”

“Yes, Father.” Toglos and the boys had come in, and they all followed Maude up the stairs. She unlocked a door and opened it. He could just see a small room, clean and plain. “We store bedding and some food here in the summer, when we have fewer guests,” she said.

Harald nodded, and the boys happily shed packs and cloaks. It wasn’t truly warm, but it wasn’t as cold as night in the open had been.

“The wash buckets are here,” she said, pointing to four in the corner. “I’ll fill them now, so you have them later. Town rules are don’t toss water out the window. It goes in the gutter when fires are uncovered. The night soil boxes are there,” a corner with worn-out blankets around it. “A collector will get them when you leave in the morning. There’s also jakes in the courtyard for evenin’ and mornin’, before the doors lock at cover-the-fire time.”

“Thank you. Do guests have fire duty in the walls?”

“Only after a week’s stay, once you learn the place. Until then, if there’s a call of fire, stay here, out of the way, unless the fire’s within two buildings distance of the inn, please, sir.”

That was different, but sounded sensible. Harald nodded. “We’ll do that. Thank ye, and may Marsdaam smooth yer path.”

“Radmar turn the Wheel in your favor, sir, and food will be ready in the common room soon.” Maud dropped a small curtsy and hurried off.

Harald and Toglos let the boys pick their places. They all set their packs as close to the wide stone chimney as possible, well away from the door. Bedding followed. By right, he should have claimed the warmest spot, but Harald preferred to be between apprentices and the exit. Not that any of them had shown signs of seeking out trouble, but some habits were best preserved. Toglos knew better than to wander, especially in a strange town at the start of winter. He’d heard about Ceol’s fellow journeyman, back in the day. The watch tended to thump first, then ask strangers their business and why they were not indoors like proper men.

As he’d hoped, once the boys ate and had two tankards of small beer, they began yawning and trying to fall asleep at the table. Harald made sure they got to the chamber, then had a second tankard of ale. The ale wife had added something warming, perhaps a bit of ground spice root, to the batch. Harald watched without watching the men coming and going around him. They all wore the clothes of craftsmen in the trades, although none wore a master’s chain. He shrugged and sipped. He didn’t wear one, either. He wasn’t one of the trade lords of the northern cities. Several of the men gave him curious glances, but no one spoke or scowled in his direction. He drank the rest of his ale, left a quarter silver for Maude, and visited the jakes before going to bed.

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