Writing, Knitting & Opinions

“For goodness sake, go help Fiona deal with her loom and quit plaguing me.” Rafe’s sister stood before the anvil, maul pounding flakes of burned iron off a horse shoe. “Her husband is too poorly, or too drunk, to be of any use. You used to be best friends. Give her a hand. It will do you both good. I swear. I do not know how you’ll last the winter.”

Rafe left her sister’s forge and walked along the street, boots crunching through ice. It had been cold long enough that the water had receded leaving hollow frozen puddles. She should have waited until spring. Rafe had always tried to winter in the north where the sun stayed out and people didn’t have two homes, one above ground, and the other below. Here, in the far south, they said that since the sun pretty much disappeared there was no reason to risk cold as well as darkness.

Her grandmother used to have a quote for everything. This time of year it was, “Hollow puddle, we’ll go cuddle. Underground, safe and sound.”

Rafe used to look forward to that, as she had all her grandmother’s comforting epigrams, until the winter Rafe had contrived to escape top side and first saw the stars dancing in the bands of wavering color. Some said it was angels frolicking with the dead. It had been a real disappointment to learn that there were places in the world you couldn’t see the Angels’ Dance.

“This will be the first winter in I don’t know how long that I’ve spent below ground.” Rafe had met up with Fiona at the weaver’s house. Now, in each hand Rafe carried an end of each of the beam supports for Fiona’s loom.

“You used to hate it when we moved down at the start of winter.” Fiona balanced her ends of the beam supports against her hips. “You used to tell your Ma if the animals could breath cold air all winter, so could you.”

“And I did, too. For all the years I served with Graven’s Guard. It’s worse than living in a cave. And that is bad enough, what with the smoke, and chamber pots, and, you know, smells.”

Rafe looked around. It didn’t, in fact, smell as bad as she remembered. It didn’t smell exactly fresh, but more like walking through one of the unused wings in the Emperor’s palace, like dust, dead flowers, and waxed wood. Rafe couldn’t even smell the smoke from the oil lamps burning from the curved, hangers tipped with the little iron mouse her sister used as a signature. The flames were guttering a bit, as if in a breeze.

“Marlon felt the same,” Fiona told her. “Especially after he grew up hearing you complain. You knew he married Joan, just after you left?”

Rafe nodded and lay her end of the beams on the floor. Jenna had done a good job catching her up on who had gotten married to whom, and whose children visited the forge to flirt.

Rafe started to fit the loom together while Fiona kept talking. Not much had changed since they were kids, Rafe thought. She was still doing the work while Fiona kept a running commentary. “When he started digging the new room for him and Joan, he made what he called a venting pipe and laid it in the floor under the fire-pit. Your sister helped him build it, in fact.”

“I saw the jig at the forge.” Jenna had told her all about the pipe building project. At first they had built a pipe like the one used in the water pump. Then they realized that the just had to keep the earth from caving in, so a half pipe would do. It drew air from above ground and the fire warmed it. In the opposite corner they could use bamboo to suck out the stinky air and send it up.

“He was the talk of the Pig and Toad, let me tell you. The old guard said it was a waste of good metal. ‘New breed of mole, that’s wot we got ‘ere,’ is what they said,” continued Fiona. “Then came the winter and Marlon and Joan all cozy and sweet smelling. That changed their tune, you better believe it.”

They heaved the beams upright and placed the ends in the footing. “Shift it over toward you,” Fiona instructed Rafe. “I need to leave plenty of space for Molly Foal to set up her loom. She’s apprenticing with me this winter. Her ma says she can’t teach her a thing, so she’s asked me to take her in hand. Personally I think she’d be better off working with your sister in the forge, or with her uncle Marlon. But Vi, Molly’s ma, has plans that won’t budge. And then wonders where Molly gets her stubborn streak.

Rafe saw a tall girl, with a strong chin, and a smooth brow approaching with a bundle of rope and shorter loom pieces. She did not look like the kind of girl to give her mother trouble, but more like someone who would welcome you to tea whatever time you showed up.

Fiona pointed to a place near the wall.“We won’t need those until we start warping the looms. Come on. I’ll stake you to a drink of the Pig and Toad has set up in winter quarters. You, too, Molly. Then you’ll set your loom up over there.”

The Pig and Toad had already moved underground to its winter quarters right. Tables and benches were set up near the weavers’ area. Rafe remembered picking up stories from the old guard of their days on whatever front they fought. She, Fiona, and the girl found seats. Fiona made introductions. “Rafe, have you been introduced to Molly?”

“Oh, I know who she is,” Molly started and instantly stopped as Rafe arched an eyebrow in her direction.

“No. I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Rafiella, this is Molly Foal, my new apprentice. Molly, this is Rafiella Smith, Jole’s auntie.”

“They call you Ironsong, don’t they? Not Smith. I’ve heard all about you.” Rafe adjusted her first impression of the girl.

“In some circles, yes, they call me Ironsong. But not here.” Rafe sipped her ale, closing the conversation.

Only Molly paid no attention. “I heard a story about you and Grammy Heddle. Was that true?”

The girl would have to get a lot more subtle if she expected Rafe to fall for such a blatant trap. “I have no idea. People tell stories about anything.”

“Well, I heard that you’re not called Ironsong for no reason. I heard that one winter…” Rafe reached out with her fingers and touched the girl’s lips.

Rafe bent close. Her scowl became sincere. “A hunter doesn’t clatter through the forest announcing his presence, at least if she hopes to catch something.”

Molly sat back and did not reply, but neither did she leave. Rafe sat back, too, listening to Fiona catch her up, and did not forget the girl was there.

Jole poked the end of his gaff into the snow that now banked the river. This was his first year doing a man’s job. Old Farley had drilled pilot holes and declared the river frozen enough to start gathering ice. The cutters were out with their blades. Drovers had their sledges lined with hay and sawdust, ready to haul the blocks into the ice house.

Jole moved out onto the surface of the river. His job would be to snag the chunks as they flew into the air, pushed up by the water that filled in the gap as the blocks were released from the mass. “Hey! Watch out you kids!” Jole swung his gaff toward a group of kid who were creeping toward the men. He had, of course, done the same thing when he was a kid, seeing how close to the cut he could get. It was a dare that all kids did. But last year Mick Jakes’ little brother hadn’t dodged in time and that memory stuck.

The first knife was slid into the hole in the middle of the river. The serrated edge cut smoothly, parallel to the bank. The second side, opposite the first was finished. A team of men cut into the ice in a line perpendicular to the bank. They would finish together. Jole moved into position, his gaff ready. Mick was opposite him. They would pull the flying block forward as the cutters ducked an slid out of the way. Hale and Mose, at the cut in the middle of the river, would pull the ice forward, keeping pace with Jole and Mick. They braced to catch the ice.

When the sides of the hole were more than half finished there was a sound like the screel of the low strings on a violin played out of harmony. The ice cracked neatly along the marked lines and dropped out of sight. Thunk. Jole exchanged a glance with Mick, who shrugged. Where was the water?

The crowd on the bank murmured on the bank and Jole turned, locking eyes with his Auntie Rafe. Her scowl as she stalked onto the ice made her look less auntie-like than ever.

Jole skated on his feet with Mick and the rest of the men, up to the edge of the hole. Children dashed ahead. Inchy Foal’s sister slipped over the edge without a splash. There was a hollow sound as she seemed to hit bottom. They could hear the ice block rocking. The cutters gasped.

“There’s dead fish down here!” called Inchy Foal’s sister. “Froze solid.” Three fish, one after the other, came flying out of the hole to clunk on the ice. “And guess where Mare Fisher’s headpiece ended up!” A wedding crown came arching out of the hole and clunked on the ice as well. There at the bottom of the river, high and dry but well below the bottom of the ice, standing on the freshly cut block, was Inchy Foal’s sister. A fish, sticking out like flags, in each hand. “There’s all kinds of stuff down here,” she hollered.

A pool of bright light surrounded the girl. Mottled shadows surrounded her as the sun bounced off thickened places in the ice. Toward the ford the river floor sloped up, nearly touching the bottom of the ice. In the other direction the floor sank away into the ice-imposed dusk.

In the words of Monty Python, “Now for something completely different.”

Rafe stood on the bluff, hand resting on the well carved oak. How many years had it been? Twenty-five? Twenty-seven? She pulled out her knife and began cleaning out the grooves that made up her own mark on the tree.

“Waaaaaaa!” The screaming face bowled her over. She grabbed the drawn fist and flipped the lad neatly, pinning him down with a knee to his hip and an arm across his throat.

“What do you think you are doing?” Rafe demanded. She narrowed her eyes to focus on the too close face. She could see he was not quite a boy. He had enough heft to knock her down, after all. But he was dressed like a minstrel, for god’s-sake. And he had a flute still clutched in the hand that was trying to punch her in the head.

“What do you think you were doing, yourself? That is my Aunty’s mark. You got no business!”

Rafe squinted at her captive, drawing her head back to get a better view of his face. Twin creases shot up from the base of his nose between two bushy eyebrows. His mouth, however, would have been her own if Wardren’s axe had not realigned her face at the Battle of Mardge. Bloody, swampy place.

“Hey!” The lad’s voice recalled her to the present. “I asked you what you thought you were doing with my Aunty’s mark.”

“You’ve got balls, boy, that’s for sure. And your mother’s nose and your father’s eyebrows.” That clearly brought him up short. “Gods! Jenna was just courting the last time I was here. And look at you! All grown up.” Rafe released him and helped him to his feet. “What’s your name, boy?”

He stared at her and scowled, deepening his brow crease. It would have been more effective if the hair on either side hadn’t wriggled like woolly caterpillars. “You can’t be my Aunty. She’s a soldier and probably dead.”

“Jenna told you that, did she?”

“Everybody says so. Even the old warriors at the pub.”

“Take a look, lad. And use your brain. I didn’t choke you so hard that you should be addled.” Rafe knew what he was see. She had cleaned up at the inn at Wingate and had only been on the road a day since then. Her nearly white hair was tightly braided and held to the back of her neck in a gold clip. Her hazel and gold eyes, a nose that listed to the right before being pulled left where the nostril had been slit when an enemy had torn her nose ring out. A faint scar leading from her right hear turned her natural scowl into almost a half smile. The leather jerkin supported a knife belt and the strap of her scabbard; the hasp of her sword looming over her right shoulder. Scarred and tattooed arms crossed in front of her chest. She was wearing the riding pants favored by her troop, leather fastened at the waist, knee, and ankle, covering inner legs, seat, and groin, revealed shade colored cotton beneath. Heal-less boots laced below her knees.

“Jenna?” The boy’s eyebrow quirked up, just like his dad’s. “Oh, Ma! But you’re not, are you? Dead? You’re Aunty Rafe.”

“Yes, boy, I am. Although I admit it sounds odd.” Rafe turned back to the tree and started cleaning out her mark. “And your name?”

“They call you ‘Ironsong’.”

“Your name.”

“Wilf. After my grandfather. Did you know him?”
“Of course, I knew him. How could I be your aunt and not know my own father. Are you dim boy? I thought you looked brighter than that.”