Boots Chapter 5

Boots spent two days lying abed and wandering the confines of the cottage. The day he had spoken to Burig, Boots had been burning too hot with anger and resentment for the shock of his injury to settle in. Now, in the calm after the storm, the extent of the damage had sunk him into a depression that he had little intention of breaking. In all honesty, he was not sure how it could be broken, with nothing to distract him from his thoughts. He could not farm, whittle, fix anything, or help his mother in any useful manner. He alternated between long stretches of self-pity and brief flashes of anger. He entertained revenge fantasies in which he called lord Narosh any number of names and bested him in combat or competition. And when Boots imagined the glory and triumph of his victory, he had a glimmering of recovery. 

His mother came and went. He could hear her discussing with another woman, he recognized the voice as Jayna, the healer. They spoke in murmured tones on two different topics which were bound to distress him. The blight that Balert had spoken of had, indeed, been found in a few fields in Holding, even this early in the season. They also discussed treating Boots’ injury to the best advantage with so little details of the axe that had done the deed. 

Knowing the sources of an ill was greatly beneficial in treatment. The type of wood used in the handle, where the head had been forged, even the stone that sharpened the edge were all pieces of the injury; and to negate these directly would expedite and benefit treatment. But they no more knew the source of the axe that had severed Boots’ fingers then they knew the source of the blight that threatened the crops. And so, both women, used to the confidence of their combined knowledge, were frustrated and apprehensive. 

Twice, Colin had tried to visit, bringing with him enticing foods from his mother’s kitchen. But Boots had made it clear to his mother that he had no interest in seeing anyone. He felt ashamed and embarrassed, he was less than he had been and felt it keenly. He also did not think that he could withstand his best friend looking on him with pity instead of the affection and respect he was used to. 

At the end of the second day, Boots announced, “I think I should look at the damage.” 

“Are you sure?” his mother asked. 

Unable to answer in a steady voice, Boots nodded. 

“Very well, hold out your arm,” she said. 

Previously, Boots had looked away when the bandages were changed, staring at the wall, trying to keep his mind blank. But since overhearing his mother and Jayna discuss the blight he could not stop thinking about his fields. About the new shoots needing tending, the spring growth needing harvesting and the mysterious blight creeping up the stalks. He could not sit idly while fields turned to rot in the soil instead of coin in his pocket. 

Very gently, Meranin unwrapped the bandages, separating the bloodied pieces of cloth from flesh. Boots watched, trying to be detached, imagining his arm as a piece of corn being husked. His resolve wavered when he saw the edge if his hand. The skin was white and wrinkled, like a hand that had been in water all day. Where his pinky finger had been there was nothing beyond the knuckle. He took a deep breath as the rest was peeled away. 

His mother had told him he had lost three fingers, but that wasn’t quite true. The finger next to the littlest finger was cut off at the middle knuckle, it was still half a finger. Compared to empty space that was his little finger, it was almost a relief. His middle finger was the most whole of the three damaged digits, but no less painful to look at. It was swollen all around, the flesh mottled with bruising, blood and strips of white. Stitches tried to contain and neaten the lumpy edges of flesh. It was hideous. 

The finger-stumps twitched grotesquely when he tried to wiggle what had once been there. 

“It was almost cut right off,” his mother said, seeing where his gaze rested on the end of the middle finger. “I have stitched together what I can and hope to keep the bones in line. This here is turning to dead flesh; it will have to be cut away. See how the end is discoloured? You may lose more of it yet, but I am hopeful.” 

Boots said nothing but looked at his remaining whole fingers. Had he ever really appreciated how marvelous they were? The sensitivity of his fingertips, the angle of his knuckles, the ease with which they were manipulated to make a fist, shake a hand, grasp a tool or weave a net. Did the gods above know how they had gifted their children with such miraculous tools? And here Boots was, with one hand still completely whole. 

He thought all this over while his mother applied numbwort paste to ease the pain and wrapped fresh bandages. 

“Mother,” he said softly, “It may be some time before I can make a new ladle for the well. I hope you don’t mind waiting.” 

She smiled; tears dotted her lashes. She leaned forward, careful of his injured hand, and hugged him warmly. 

“Of course not. You just take your time.” 

And from then on Boots felt his spirit and body matched in their quest for recovery. He still had moments where he felt angry and miserable in turn, but he set his mind to small tasks. During the day he helped his mother in the garden, learning how to be adept at using his left hand and the crook of his right arm and paying no mind to how slowly he went. He attempted to carve with his left hand while securing the piece of wood between his knees. This was more an exercise to pass the time than any true endeavour. The end results resembled nothing useful and provided some levity to the long hours he spent at home. 

A handful of days after the trial, Boots came around to the front of the house with a basket of pickings to see a figure standing in the distance. From the height and the stance, it was obvious that it was Colin. This time, Boots lifted his bandaged arm in a wave, signalling Colin to come. He didn’t have to see Colin’s face to know that he grinned happily as he loped up the hill to meet Boots. 

“Soon you’ll be wearing a wide-brimmed hat and one of your mother’s aprons,” Colin said, taking in the basket. 

“I can safely say that wide-brimmed hats are an important part of any gardener’s outfit. My mother is making me one as we speak.” Boots smiled and put the basket down. A cloud passed in front of the sun, putting a somber shadow between them, then it moved on and lit the garden once more. Colin’s smile slipped. 

“I tried to come and see you earlier,” he said, sounding apologetic. 

“I know. But I was sleeping, tired you know.” 

“Yeah. I know.” 

Although he didn’t know, but it was a silence that needed filling before Colin could move on to his next thought. “Tafner and Siggu feel terrible, Boots. They wanted me to tell you.” 

“I’m sure I feel worse,” Boots said, uncharitably. Colin allowed him the moment of bitterness without judgment. 

“I also tried to see you when…when it happened. But my father wouldn’t let me leave the house. He really wouldn’t let me.” 

Something about the way Colin spoke made Boots take a closer look. He noticed the fading bruise along the side of Colin’s face. It had been a long time since Tale had cause to strike his oldest son to make him obey. Strangely enough, it eased some of Boots’ bitterness. He was warmed by the fact that Colin would fight to help him, but relieved that Tale would go to such lengths to keep Colin safe. 

“It was better that you stayed away. I was dumb to speak up in the first place. Not that I wish this on Siggu, but things could have ended differently, maybe more in my favour,” Boots said. 

Boots watched Colin’s face change from thoughtful, to sad, to earnest. Before he could say something about being sorry Boots hastily asked, “did you tell him what really happened? Your dad, does he know?” 

“Yeah. I told him.” Was the quiet answer, and then he said no more. 

Boots wondered if the fading bruise actually had something to do with that conversation. For a few moments the friends avoided each other’s eyes. Finally, Colin changed the topic and broke the silence, although maybe not for the better. 

“There has been some blight found in a few fields. But not many. Yuggen is sending word to Alfwoldom to inquire after any help that the new king might be willing to send. But my father and Balert – of all people – are concerned about doing that.” 

“Why would they worry about that?” Boots asked. 

“Because of the new king’s ideas about lords and lands and stuff. My father and Balert worry that any help will come with some claim on the land. Like maybe if we accept help then they might demand such and such percent of the harvest, or maybe increase our taxes by a certain amount.” Colin shrugged and tried to sound blithe as he continued on, “I mean, I don’t know why everyone is so worried. The spring crop is fine. And the new shoots have just started coming in. Who’s to say this will be a problem beyond this moon cycle?” 

The blithe tone was for Boots’ benefit, since he had started to look tense at the dual threat of both the blight and Lord Narosh digging into his hard-earned land and profits. 

“Your field is still clean,” Colin said, further trying to ease Boots’ worries. “My father and I checked it for you, and the one you tend for Balert. And if you can’t make it in time to harvest the spring crop, we can harvest it for you. You…my dad said, and your mom…that you need to be able to rest. To…to get better.” 

Boots thanked Colin for checking on his field, the two talked a little longer but there was not much more to say that Boots cared to hear. Colin went on his way, stopping to turn and wave when he reached the bend in the path, the way he used to when they were younger. Boots waved back and watched him step around the corner to disappear behind the screen of trees. Then his gaze swept up over the treeline to look at the rest of Holding and the surrounding countryside and he thought about the new blight that seemed to be on everyone’s mind and wondered how far the worries spread. 

Sometimes, in Holding, farmers lost all or most of their field to some disease or vermin. Or the weather conditions would be hard on a particular crop and the yield would be scanty for everyone. But in these cases, the people of Holding looked out for one another, sharing what they had and trusting Yuggen, Tale and some others to plan how to store and parcel out food so that everyone would survive the winter. If this blight meant a lean winter, it would not be the first time it had happened, nor the last. Holding would survive. 

But the fact that Yuggen was already considering sending an envoy to the king’s court in Alfwoldom, and that Balert had raised the issue with Boots, gave the worries extra weight in Boots’ mind. Balert had said the blight was already a problem closer to the ocean, where the growing season started a little earlier. Not much earlier, but enough to notice a difference, apparently. 

Selfishly, Boots was a little relieved that the blight was in other places too. It meant that it was not something Boots was doing wrong. That Balert would not point the finger at Boots and take away the field he allowed him to work. Boots could afford to lose the food in the fields and still have enough to live. After all, he had lived most of his life with only his mother’s garden and a small share for helping with the harvest to survive on. And it had always been enough. 

It was the personal failure that he would feel more keenly. The loss of profit, of business and even respect. He picked up his basket and made his way back to the garden with fresh worries on his mind. His body could sustain a leaner existence than his pride. 

Colin visited daily after that, bringing tidings of the harvest and treats from concern villagers. Without drawing too much attention to his actions, Colin took it upon himself to make adjustments to Boots’ new situation. Tools would disappear and return newly sharpened, able to cut using less force and skill. Colin brought a new shovel handle and replaced the one they split for hiding the bow while he and Colin sat by the fire talking. Freshly cut stakes for mending fences and propping up plants in the back garden would appear in tidy piles. Little treats and hearty meals from various villagers were dropped off without any more than a few instructions. Boots felt cared for without feeling pitied, and that healed as much as time. 

Colin also helped Boots un-string his bows and store them up in the rafters of the cottage. It had taken a lot for Boots to ask, but he could not bear looking at them anymore. Colin responded to the request with a simple ‘yeah’ and did not say much more as he got on a chair and solemnly slipped them into the rafters as Boots handed up each one. The bows were stowed above the big cabinet against the wall, out of the way, where Boots would not have to look at them from his hammock. 

“Now the yew, over there,” Boots said. “Do you want it? Would your dad use it for anything?” 

Colin stepped off the chair and looked up at the long pieces of wood drying in the rafters over the fireplace. Boots had collected them last year, a great find in the woods. The pieces were long and straight, without any visible knots or bend, they would be perfect for bow making once they had aged up. A careful bowyer would be able to make three or four bows from the pieces. Boots had spent many hours in his hammock, staring up at those pieces of yew, planning just the place he would split the grain, thinking out where a knot might be, and where the back and belly of the bow would fit the heartwood and sapwood. 

“You should keep them,” Colin said. 

“I don’t want them.” Was the stubborn reply. 

“Boots, you have a plan,” Colin urged. “You don’t know that you won’t be able to shape them.” 

Boots looked up at the wood and chewed his lower lip. Despite having no formal training and little time to practice, Boots had become uncommonly skilled at making bows and arrows over the years. Enough so that he had begun to think of it as a something he could profit from. 

There was not much demand in Holding for bows, most villagers fashioned their own for hunting and the occasional sport. But last year Siggu had mentioned to Boots the possibility of bringing some bows to sell or trade on his travels, if Boots were able to make some. Boots had hoped to start work on them in the winter. He already spent some of the cold, long months fletching arrows that he traded and sold. 

Boots stared up at the pieces of wood and sighed against the sinking realization of another skill lost. How would he hold the feathers and twist the thread to fletch an arrow again? 

“I don’t -” Boots began, his voice heavy with emotion. 

“Just think about it, for a little bit,” Colin interrupted, “my grandad made wheels up until his dying day, and he mangled his fingers on one hand when he was around the same age my dad is now. It didn’t stop him.” 

Boots stared at the wood a little longer. He was average at woodworking in all other respects, but his skill with the bow gave him a sense of how the wood would perform as he shaped it. Villagers sought him out for his opinion on a piece of wood they were going to use, advice for shaping and tips for how to improve. It was a skill that had given Boots confidence, distinction even, making him feel like more than a poor farmer. And when Siggu had mentioned the possibility of bringing his bows for sale, and Balert had not immediately discounted the idea, Boots had started to hope he could turn his true skill into profit. 

It was a hope he had kept buried, not wanting to alert his mother to the ambition. He suspected that, much like archery competitions, it was not something she would want him to associate with. Well, he thought tugging the bandages on his hand into a more comfortable position, she would not have to worry about it anymore. 

Once Boots started to move around, he found it more difficult to lie about resting and feeling sorry for himself. He still tired easily, and had to be mindful of his hand, so he found simple tasks that did not require too much skill. Ones that could be completed with a degree of sloppiness and were not urgent.  

One such project was improving the condition of the lean-to where they kept animals. It was his mother that usually fed the geese and took them to the reedy waters down the path from the cottage. As Boots worked, the geese waddled around, eyeing the intruder suspiciously. Or perhaps, Boots thought, they are worried about my technique. 

Currently, he was trying to get a fresh stake in the ground to eventually expand the slanted roof and sheltered area. He had managed to dig a passable hole in the ground and had hacked the end of a length of wood into somewhat of a point. Now he had to overcome the dual problem of hammering with his left hand and bracing the post without using his right hand at all. 

After some unsuccessful attempts, and some rather judgmental looks from the geese, he managed to get the post in far enough to bite and stay upright. Then it was a matter of keeping it straight by bracing it with his leg and hammering away. The post in place, he stood up triumphantly to see Tafner and Siggu approaching uncertainly from the path. 

A handful of days ago, Boots had thought he would never want to see Siggu again. But Boots had always loved being among his friends, and it warmed his heart to see them now after so many long days of solitude. He smiled broadly and hailed them. 

“Tafner, Siggu, it’s good to see you.” 

They both broke into relieved grins and hastened forward at a quicker pace. Within two steps of Boots, they both decided to push forward and envelope him in a great hug. There was a tangle of arms as everyone tried to hug each other at once, Boots knocked his forehead against Siggu’s nose and Tafner gave a squeak as she was jostled into Siggu’s armpit. They all stepped back, laughing and smiling. But when no one knew what to do next a degree of awkwardness returned. Boots wanted to say something but just then he had a lump in his throat, and he did not want to blubber in front of the only other people he had seen other than Colin and his mother. 

He need not have worried, Tafner already had tears in her eyes. 

“I’m really sorry Boots. I can’t say how sorry I am.” 

“Me too,” Siggu broke in, “there’s no way I can repay you in all the years of my life.” 

“I brought some food,” Tafner said, proffering a basket. “Don’t worry, I didn’t cook it on my own. So it will be good.” 

“And if there’s anything I can do, at all, I will do it. Anything.” 

“Well,” Boots said slowly, “I have been meaning to make my own addition on the cottage.” 

Siggu and Tafner exchanged looks and nodded slowly. Boots’ teasing smile slipped. 

“I was joking,” he said. “I don’t really expect you to build an addition onto the old cottage.” 

“We would though,” Siggu said, his eyes serious. “We really would, if you needed it.” 

Boots looked from Siggu to Tafner, who nodded her head in agreement, eyes equally somber. Boots toed the post he had just pushed into the ground, avoiding their eyes. 

“In fact,” Siggu said, hesitantly, “I do have this.” 

Boots heard the muted sound of metal; he had a sinking feeling as he realized what it was. He glanced up enough to see Siggu’s hand holding out a small, cloth sac weighted down with small, heavy objects. 

“I don’t want your money,” Boots said, quietly. 

“Please take it,” Siggu said, pleadingly. 

“I don’t want it,” Boots repeated. 

“I thought about it a lot and it’s a fair sum, I think. Please Boots, I’d feel better if you did,” Siggu stepped forward, trying to hand Boots the bag. 

Boots tried to step away without appearing to cringe. 

“Siggu,” Tafner said softly, reaching out to grab his arm. 

They held the tableau in silence for a moment, then Boots spoke very softly, forcing the words through the tightness of his throat, “what makes you think that is what it would take to make me feel better?” 

Siggu’s hand dropped to his side, the money clinking in the sac as he did so. Tafner pulled him back. 

“I’m sorry Boots, it was just a thought. He only meant to help,” she said. Somehow Boots knew she understood how he felt. “We’ll go now. But we will come back, any time you ask. Because we are your friends and will help you any way that we can.” 

Boots nodded, still avoiding their eyes. He listened as they walked back towards the path, hearing their voices start up when they were at the edge of his hearing. He wondered what they would be saying, about him and his pitiful situation. He angrily kicked at the post he had just hammered into the ground and kept kicking it until it popped out in a small shower of fresh dirt. Then he looked around at the garden, the pitiful cottage with its outside in need of repair. He had always been vibrant, strong and capable enough to make up for his lack of material possessions. No one had ever thought of him as pitiful or poor. Poor Boots, he really was on the verge of being poor, and now he was a cripple too. 

It was a long day after Siggu and Tafner had visited before Boots would see Colin again. When he arrived, Colin did not mention Tafner and Siggu’s visit, neither did Boots. Colin arrived, bearing nothing more than a jug of ale and some dark brown bread. 

As Boots sat with Colin outside the cottage, watching the stars and sipping from the shared beer jug before a small fire pit, he realized that he couldn’t be exactly sure how many days he had spent around the cottage since his injury. He thought it may be close to ten, but it could be as few as seven, or as many as fourteen. 

Always he had marked his days with activities and plans, a balance of work and fun. He wiggled his fingers inside their bandage. They seldom split and bled these days, and his middle finger was healing well. He thought about getting back to his field. And that made him think about maybe having to go serve with Burig and wondering where he might even be this time next year. 

“I might have to go join the army, or something like that,” he blurted out. 

Colin looked over at him, Boots made an almost apologetic face. 

“I know,” Colin said, turning away to look at the sky again. “My dad, he mentioned it. I also kind of overheard some of the discussion.” Colin yanked at some long grasses, pulling them out of the ground, “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to talk about it or not. Or even if you knew yet.” 

“Yeah, I know. That captain, Burig, came and told me.” 

“Do you -” Colin snuck a look at Boots, as if to see if he was ok with the question, he seemed to be “- do you know what you will be doing, or when?” 

“Not really. It seems like maybe next summer.” 

“But not forever?” Colin said quickly. 

“I don’t think forever, I don’t think so,” Boots said, hoping that it was not. Tight lipped as his mother was about any details she may be hiding, he believed she would tell him if it was to be for the rest of his life. At least he thought she would. 

Colin had abandoned the ripped-up grass and was now digging small rocks out of the dry earth and tossing them down the slight hill. 

“Siggu has to go as well. Also in the summer,” Colin said. 

“He does?” Boots said, eyebrows knitting together, “He never mentioned it when I saw him.” 

“Well, I think he may have been thinking about other things,” Colin said, an eyebrow raised at Boots in mild amusement. 

But Boots did not notice. He was sorting through his feelings. Was he happy Siggu would be going along? Of course. Even though he was partially to blame, he was still one of Boots’ oldest friends, it would be good, when the time came, not to have to go alone. 

He wondered, then, how Balert might feel about Siggu leaving. And that made Boots think about how Balert might be feeling about Boots in general and if he was suited to tend his fields. 

“How far are we from spring harvest?” he asked Colin. 

“Soon, a few days, I would think,” Colin answered. 

“A few days,” Boots repeated to himself. He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach, he had been recuperating in his cottage longer than he had thought. “Why do you ask?” Colin wanted to know. 

“No reason,” Boots said with a shrug, trying to hide his disappointment. “Just a question.” 

The next morning Boots rose as early as he could and set to work. He checked his tools and wheeled out his cart, checking it over and making minor repairs. Because of his hand, he was forced to restart or abandon many of his tasks, and by the late afternoon he was discouraged by the slowness of his progress. His mother came to stand in the yard and watch him. 

“What are you doing Boots?” she asked. 

“I’m repairing this side for the harvest tomorrow,” he answered. Boots was holding a board in place with his right shoulder and trying to hammer a peg through with the hammer in his left hand. 

“I can help you,” she said, stepping forward. 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” he said, waving the hammer inexpertly, “you may lose a few fingers too.” 

“Boots!” she said, and for a moment he was as shocked as she was at what he’d said. Then he broke into a grin and his mother smiled in turn. 

“I’ll just go in and start dinner then,” she said. 

That night, Boots struggled with the shaft of his scythe, as he tried to alter the grip so it fit comfortably with his left hand and could be strapped to his right. His mother sat, watching him for a moment, then began to tell a story while he worked. 

She told the story of the great Vainamoinen, who came to earth disguised as a man named Rig. Rig fathered the first sons and daughters of each class of people in the world: the nobility, the peasants and the thralls. The thralls were ugly and stupid, but strong and determined; able to work steadily and unquestioningly under the heavy strictures of servitude and slavery. The peasants were trades people, working hard to make and mend, but living freely on the sweat of their brows. The nobility were fine and beautiful people, standing upright and clear eyed. Rig took the time to teach them thought, reason and measure. 

“The better to count their gold with,” Boots said wryly, but without real malice. 

His mother smiled and continued her story. 

“When Rig fathered the thralls, the children were named Roughneck and Lazybones and Fatty. Cruel names, but these children would grow up in a cruel world that would have few kind words for them. They would learn quickly that they lived to serve the whims of others. 

“The nobles were named Upright, Beautiful and Shinning. Lovely names, full of promise, but ultimately without purpose or use; baubles that will fetch gold coins and envious glances, but nothing more. 

“But the peasant class, ah, there is a class of wonderful names. Strongarm, Capable, Clever and Seamstress. Names full of purpose and ability. From Rig they learned to tend the land and work it with their hands. The cleverest and strongest peasants shaped tools from the bones of the earth, and the capable gathered and sowed the seeds of life.” 

Boots smiled at his mother. Perhaps she had chosen this story deliberately, or perhaps it was simply on her mind. But recalling that he was part of this worthy and useful class of people always stoked a quiet pride inside in his heart and made his burdens seem a little less. 

The following morning, Boots set out later than he had intended, finding it difficult to muster any real enthusiasm when he pictured the amount of work that awaited him. He had debated whether to begin with his field or Balert’s, but his mother had pointed out that his own field was closer, and that she would ‘discuss’ the situation with Balert. Boots needed no details beyond the tone of her voice to assume that the discussion would likely go in his favour. Balert was arrogant, but also savvy enough to know that it was better to curry favour with Meranin. 

As Boots walked along the path, the hand cart rattled against his sore fingers. Several times, he had to stop and adjust the cloth he had wrapped around the handle for extra padding. He checked the bandages frequently, remembering his mother’s warnings and instructions should they start to bleed. 

Stopping at one point to re-wrap the handle, he noticed a figure in the distance behind him on horseback. He did not recognize the horse, there were not that many horses in the village, but there was something familiar about the rider that he could not place. Boots squinted in the sunlight trying to look across the distance, the rider was just a hazy shape and the horse seemed to be cropping some grass. 

The rider was behind him much of the way, although always at a distance and never in a hurry, sometimes taking a little gallop off the road before showing up again. Boots paid little attention though, he was more focused on his own comfort and trying to keep his hand comfortable so as not to be in too much pain before he even arrived at his field. This isn’t so bad, he told himself after he adjusted his grip and padding again, I can get used to this, just like Colin’s grandpa. He didn’t truly believe it, but he knew there was no choice. 

As he drew closer to his field, he saw a handful of figures in the distance already working in a field close to his own. Boots thought about the work he would have to do to catch up, then to keep on track. He did not want to share the work, and then the yield, with anyone. But this season he may have to. His hand was already aching just from pushing the cart.  

He wondered if Fered, the man who farmed beside Balert’s field, would help him. Fered was older than Boots, but young enough that Boots remembered the man’s wedding celebration. He was a quiet and kind sort of man, with a growing family that needed feeding, so Fered was always happy to take on more work. But what was more, Boots liked working with the man. He was fair-minded and calm, but always worked hard. 

As Boots drew closer to his own field, he realized that the workers were already in his field and not someone else’s. And that their postures were all very familiar. 

“I see you realized the harvest wouldn’t grow legs and walk to you,” Colin called out to Boots as he came along the path. 

Colin was there, along with two of his brothers, and Siggu and Jove and some other friends from the village. Tafner was there too, her skirts tucked industriously around her legs to keep them out of her way. Tears filled Boots’ eyes as he looked at his friends. Colin threw an arm around Boots and gave him a rough embrace. “Don’t you start. Make us all into a bunch of weeping women.” 

“I heard that!” Tafner called irritably. 

Colin pulled back and they both laughed. 

It was a day that Boots would remember forever; surrounded by his friends in the warm light of early spring sunshine. The smell of earth and vegetation crushed underfoot, the sound of his friend’s laughter, the way no one commented on the awkward slowness with which he used his tools. Encouraged by their help he took his time trying to find ways to manage, to find a better grip, to use his other hand for leverage. He would learn. He would survive. 

Later in the afternoon, Fauna appeared with a basket of baked rolls, cold meat and some butter pressed with berries. They shared what was in Fauna’s basket, along with any food the rest of them had brought along, eating ravenously and drinking the cool water Colin’s younger brothers had drawn from the creek. Boots sat beside Fauna, enjoying how her cheeks glowed in the sunlight and wisps of hair escaped from her braids. She looked so lovely, Boots forgot that his hand was throbbing, right to the ends of his fingertips that no longer existed. 

Fauna picked at the floral stitching on her apron and smiled when someone directed a comment her way. She was too preoccupied to notice the people drifting away, or pulled away by the collar in the case of Colin’s youngest brother, until she and Boots were alone. Then she looked up, her light, blue eyes widened slightly, and she turned to look at Boots. He smiled. 

“Oh, what time is it?” she asked surprised. Boots smile widened; she was very pretty when she was confused too. 

“I’d say it’s not long since you’ve arrived,” Boots answered. 

“My mother said not to linger, as I would have to start soaking the wool,” she said. 

“Well, does that leave you much time?” 

“No, it doesn’t,” she answered, sounding apologetic. 

They sat in silence, Fauna picking at the stitching of pink and white lilies along the hem of her apron once more. For a moment, Boots’ vividly remembered the night of the festival, her lips inches from his own, her cheeks flushed with a cider that sweetened her breath. Then the image was lost in a cloud of the events that followed, darkening the memory and filling it with pain. 

“Boots, what’s wrong?” Fauna asked. 

He realized he had been staring into the distance, remembering. 

“Nothing, I was just thinking,” he said, with a sigh. “I was thinking about how long it will take to finish just this field and when I can start on Balert’s.” 

She tried not to, but her eyes dropped down to his bandaged right hand before she looked back at him. Boots held his breath. 

“Does it hurt?” she asked quietly, sounding as though she did not really want an answer. So he did not give her one. 

“Very little,” he lied. 

It seemed she did not know how to respond to this, and Boots was unsure of the conversational territory. When the silence verged towards awkward, she packed up her basket and left without even murmuring goodbye. Boots was still sitting where she had left him when Tafner came over and settled herself beside him. 

“Fauna just needs some time, Boots.” 

“She is ashamed to be with me,” he said flatly. 

“No!” Tafner said, sounding a little shocked. “That’s not it. It’s just, well, Fauna’s never stepped a toe over the line her entire life. She never questions the rules, she just follows them, probably likes to follow them.” 

“And she may not want to attach herself to a poor, crippled law-breaker like me,” Boots said. 

“I don’t think that’s it Boots,” Tafner said, quickly. She pursed her lips in thought. “Look at my mother. I love her and she loves me. But she doesn’t understand me very well. She knows I’ll break every rule I set eyes on, no matter what punishment she sets on me. She can guess what I might do, which is usually the opposite of what she would do. But she can never really understand why. Only that I will.” 

Boots sighed. He did understand what Tafner meant, but it also gave him pause. Was that good or bad? Was that something that could be repaired or overcome? He didn’t know, and he was beyond the ability to think about it. He was just going to be happy to have enough energy to make it home at the end of the day without his friends pushing him home in his cart. 

Boots was weary but satisfied when he made the final journey up the slight rise to his cottage and settled the cart out front. He stretched his back and shoulders, aware that he was grinning to himself but unable to stop. Seeing his friends today offering their help and support, he counted himself as very fortunate. They could have decided to shun him, he knew, although he thought it unlikely. But a few weeks ago, he would have thought it impossible that he would have been punished by royal edict – so there was always room for surprises. 

“Mother, I’m home,” he called towards the cottage window, seeing her shape moving around. She gave a brief answering greeting from within. 

Boots reluctantly eased the outer bandages off his right hand and his grin turned to a grimace of discomfort. Smears or fresh crimson and rust showed that his hand had been bleeding throughout the day. He peeked under the bandages and saw that the skin was puffy and red; and had split open again in some places. He made his way to the well to draw some water, knowing that a soak in water that had been boiled with purifying herbs would be ordered for him. 

Now that the glow of the day was fading with the sunset, and the tighter bandages his mother had tied on had been removed, the pain in his hand intensified. It seemed to pulse at the end of his arm like a second heart, and he tucked it against his body, feeling like the blood would drain away from it and give him a little relief.  

He was able to get the water out of the well with very little spilling and he grinned in triumph as he hooked the bucket over with a stick Colin had helped him fashioned for that purpose. He remembered the despair he had felt that first day, when he knocked the ladle down the well and cried. In that moment he had truly believed he would be useless for life. And now he was carrying a full bucket to the door, having barely spilled a drop. 

“I think I will need to soak my hand,” he said, as he shouldered his way through the door with the bucket. “But before you get angry know that it was a very good day and Gefion can have all the -” he broke off speaking as a strong odour tried to assail all of his senses at once “- mother, what is that smell!” 

She looked up from a book she was studying. The cottage was meticulously clean except for the book, fresh rushes were on the floor, the tabletop was scrubbed and maybe lightly sanded, the copper pots stacked and gleaming beside the fire, but the smell belied the cleanliness. Something had happened. 

“Oh that,” she said, “Jayna and I were trying something new.” 

“What, repelling bears? Raising the dead? Or maybe just digging them up?” 

“Don’t be so dramatic,” she said. “It isn’t that bad.” 

Boots stayed in the doorway with the door open, he had put the bucket down so he could cover his nose. 

“Yes it is! It’s very bad.” Boots’ eyes had started to water, the smell was putrid – like dying things and rot – his only thought was getting out of the cottage. “Let’s eat outside tonight. I’ll start up the fire in the pit. I just need a pot for my hand. And the cleaning herbs. Oh gods!” He ended as another whiff of the odour assailed his nostrils. 

He did not wait for an answer, just grabbed a few things he needed and withdrew. He turned toward the slight breeze and inhaled the freshness, then he found a large rock and kicked it over to prop the door open. He saw his mother had done the same thing on the other side. With any luck the breeze would pick up as night fell and air the place out. His mother detoured through the garden to fill a basket with a few extra things and met him out front. 

She gave him an apologetic smile as she settled on a log along the fire pit with a small basket of food. “Sorry Boots, I guess I did not realize how dreadful it was, having been in there all day I got used to it,” she said, as she unpacked the small basket. “But when I went out to the garden and came back in again…well, it really was dreadful in there. I did set a pot to boil for your hand, though.” 

Two little bread pies filled with stewed vegetables where in the basket, along with some cheese and cold meat and two wooden bowls to eat from. 

They ate, and Boots chatted about his day, his pleasure at seeing all his friends evident on his face. 

“There was a part of me,” he admitted, “that was not sure anyone would want to be friends with me after this.” 

Meranin reached out and patted him on the shoulder. “And well you might. But you should give more credit to yourself and your friends. And, might I add, any friend who saw you differently after this day is not truly a friend worth having,” she said, sternly. 

“I guess that’s true,” Boots said. “But I also do not think I would blame someone if they looked at me differently. I mean, I am different, aren’t I? Hasn’t everything changed a little?” 

He looked at his mother as he asked the question, it was an earnest one. He saw her face go from kind and encouraging to thoughtful and sad, then she rallied, and her face smoothed over. 

“I suppose things have changed a little, Boots. But things change, as they do,” she said. “It’s how we weather the changes that matters.” 

They finished their meal; the boiled herb concoction had been fetched and was cooling on the ground beside them. Boots went to the cart and retrieved some berry pies Tafner had given him before he left. He ate with one hand while soaking his injured hand in the pot, enjoying both the relief from pain and the full belly. 

A few small birds had collected in the branches of a nearby tree and were watching expectantly. Boots pinched the remainder of his crust to crumbs and tossed the offering into the grass. In a flutter of wings and bird chatter the feathered audience descended upon the feast, chirping and bobbing excitedly. Boots grinned and flicked some more crumbs out. Nearby his mother prepared the dressing for his hand and looked over at the birds. 

Boots saw the expression on her face, which was somewhere between amusement and irritation, and said brightly, “this only ever proves that you’re right. Little birds are terrible gossips.” 

Her mouth quirked up at one corner. Years ago, Boots had found a fallen nest and a baby bird. His mother, who had gone looking him, found Boots sitting beside the nest, watching over the little bird, offering it crushed up berries from a glossy green leaf. After some pleading, they brought the bird home and nursed it over the spring and summer until it was able to fly. 

Of course, the little bird returned often, and Boots always had some ready tidbit to share. Soon it brought friends. Then it seemed little groups of birds from all over Holding were flying out to their solitary cottage. Meranin had started shooing them away. She was annoyed to find them pecking in the garden and bothering her bees. She became angry when they started to swoop into the house to nest in the rafters. 

Boots remembered her shaking a besom at the birds who hopped teasingly away while scolding Boots. “Little beggars. They’re worse gossips than a pack of old women. You hear them twittering away all day? They aren’t singing, oh no, they’re saying come see this soft-hearted boy whose mother did not teach him any better. He’ll give you his last piece of bread and the roof over his head. They’ll devour my garden and leave nothing for the winter.” 

To placate his mother, he had tried to carve a raven to mount in her garden to scare the little birds away. He had found some dyes and done a clumsy job of painting it. It had not looked much like a raven, but she fastened it proudly to the fence and it had seemed to work. A few years later he had refined the carving put fresh dye on the wood and it still stood on the corner post of the garden lot. The little birds stayed out of the garden –for the most part – but they did still stop by for a visit. 

He gently opened and closed his hand as it soaked in the pot and watched the little flock dig the final morsels from between the blades of grass. Then, as if by some silent agreement, they took wing and disappeared into the forest. Probably going back to their nests to roost for the night, Boots thought. The sky was purpling towards dusk. He peered through the trees; glad he could give them a treat before nightfall. 

“Mother,” Boots said, “are you expecting anyone?” 

“No,” she said, “why.” 

“I think I see a rider in the trees,” Boots said, squinting between the trunks. “Seems to be sort of waiting around.” 

Now Meranin put down the cloth, stood up and walked closer to the tree line, hands on her hips. Something was moving in the trees, but it seemed to be moving away. From where he sat his mother obscured the figure a bit – but Boots was quite certain it was a horse and rider. When his mother turned around there was no one else to be seen, and her face was drawn. 

“Who was it?” Boots asked. 

“Not sure,” she muttered, “too far away to tell. But I guess not a visitor for us after all.” 

She finished with a cursory smile and ordered Boots to take his hand out of the pot. 

“It has had a rough day of things, to be sure,” she said as she examined his injury, “but what I am seeing is very encouraging. Although, if you intend to do this tomorrow I’m going to bind the one side more tightly with some sap to help it stick together, but for tonight just a light dressing to let it breathe. Only you must not do anything else, just rest.” 

She said it sternly, expecting Boots had some plan or project he was going to start. But he surprised her by agreeing. 

“I don’t think -” he paused to yawn, “- that will be a problem. Even if the cottage still smells like a den of dead bears, I’m ready for sleep.” 

They scrubbed out the bowls with sand and ash from the firepit and brought everything back into the cottage that had, indeed, been refreshed by the airing out. The smell was further improved by a handful of freshening herbs his mother had thrown on the fire. Boots heated himself a small bit of ale with willow bark for pain using some berry water and spices for taste in a pot to make a thick, warm drink that he consumed lazily in his hammock, a stool by his side to set the cup on so he did not have to get up. 

The drink sat thickly on his tongue and his eyes grew heavy. He was aware of his mother peeling rushes to make rushlights in front of the low burning fire, she was humming a tune to herself as she worked. The song of the birds as the sun set, and occasional breeze across his cheek, drifted in from the still-open doors. The pain in his hand was a distant buzzing, it felt like relief, like the feeling across your shoulders from a burden finally put down. He smiled as he fell asleep.