One
-
Woodwork
In
the shop
attached to Henry Vestin’s home, Henry and his journeyman, Brandol, worked
together on a headboard ordered by a wealthy nobleman from across the city. As
Brandol carved, the only other sounds were his ragged breathing and the gentle
ticking of the wooden clock mounted on the wall near the side door.
“Gently, Brandol, gently,” Henry urged. “Your hands are
shaking. That means you’re putting too much force on the wood.”
Brandol paused to wipe the dirt and sweat off his face
with his forearm, but only succeeded in smearing what was on his arm across his
face. Master Henry’s face and hair were just as bad. In fact, his master’s hair
often looked lighter than normal from all the wood dust. Most evenings, when
Miss Isabelle stopped by, she teased Master Henry that he smelled like
fresh-cut pine and oil.
“I thought I was goin’ gently. This wood ain’t nothin’ but
knots. Give me a start over.”
“No, no.” Master Henry pushed the fresh board that Brandol
had been eying out of reach. “If we start over every time you want, I’ll run
out of wood in three days. That’s bad for business. Close your eyes again and
carve, as we practiced before. Go by the feel of the grain. Think about what
you want to see on the wood and make it appear. You have the gift.”
Brandol hated the exercise, and his master knew that, but
he wouldn’t argue. It wasn’t proper, and even the journeyman knew that.
“Come on, trust that I know what I’m doing. Get yourself
calm so you can focus.”
“Give it here,” Brandol grumbled. The trembling in his
hands lessened. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the creation in his
mind. The nobleman said he liked fish, so Brandol wanted to carve a scene of
fish at sea with water splashing over rocks and a small boat. He waited for the
inevitable moment when the picture would crumble or fade to a muted color, but
so far it held strong in his mind’s eye. He began carving with simple strokes,
uncertain at first.
“I’ve seen you slip into a state of mind where your
abilities overcome your thinking,” Master Henry told him. His voice was subdued
enough that it didn’t distract Brandol, but encouraged him. “That’s where your
most exquisite work has been made.”
Brandol tried to wrap his mind around the word exquisite,
but doing so distracted him from the moment. Thick yellow paint seemed to fill
his mind, drowning out the scene of fish and rocks and boats. His hand slipped
on the wood, putting a noticeable scratch into it; his eyes flew open. Even now
everything still appeared more yellow. In Brandol’s experience, things would
stay this way probably for the rest of the day. The colors always faded slowly.
“See now, I done it—I scratched it even worse.” He looked
at his master, waiting for the disappointment to show on his face—the
bitterness to creep into his voice.
Master Henry smiled, showing his white teeth. “How many
times must I remind you that I’ve seen you do work that I doubt even I could
do?”
“Most of my work’s worse than your ‘prentices, and they
know it, too. Trust me.”
“You have more potential of brilliance than any of them,
even Darren, and I will coax that talent out of you.
Trust
me
. My
duty to develop your talent is equally important as the duty I have to give
people the quality of woodwork they expect from a Vestin. I send only the best
work out of here, and that includes you. Buried deep beneath inside cave of
doubt and self-loathing is a lake of potential, Brandol. What’s it going to
take for you to see what you have?”
Brandol looked down, shrugging weakly.
“Stop worrying so much. Let the work of carpentry absorb
you. The cares of the world should be fleeting compared to the art of creating
beauty from nature’s raw materials.”
A knock at the main door interrupted their conversation.
“Come in,” Master Henry announced.
The door opened, and in walked Master Henry’s friend,
Ruther. He was very tall with shaggy red hair that sat on his head like a mop.
His large gut wobbled in front of him as he entered the shop, waving at them
with his long, thin hands.
“Hello, Henry,” he announced cheerfully, “and Little
Henry,” he added when he saw Brandol.
Brandol hated that nickname. While he and his master had
similar facial features: brown hair, blue eyes, and a slender face, they didn’t
look
that
much alike. Brandol was about two inches shorter and slightly
stockier. Master Henry, on the other hand, had that rare gift from his father
that allowed his muscles to grow hard and strong while maintaining a nice, lean
look. These differences didn’t matter, Master Henry’s apprentices still teased
that Brandol was Henry’s little brother. Each time he was taunted, the shade of
the world around him changed in his mind. Sometimes it turned yellow, sometimes
blue, sometimes red or green or black, and that was how Brandol saw things, in
shades of colors.
Only a moment after Ruther’s comment, the main door to the
shop opened a second time, and Master Henry’s three apprentices came in carting
heavy loads of wood to restock the supply. When they saw Henry their jaws
dropped.
“Master Henry,” Darren, the oldest apprentice said, “What
are you still doing here?”
Master Henry glanced at his clock. “Where else should I
be?”
“It’s—we—we turned the clock back as a prank. We thought
Brandol saw us and would tell you. It was our way of saying good luck to you.”
Brandol’s heart thumped in his chest. “I didn’t see
nothing! I swear it, Master Henry. I’d have told you if I had.”
“Then what time is it really?”
Darren swallowed loud enough that Brandol could hear it.
“Nearly noon.”
Master Henry gasped and grabbed his hair; a cloud of wood
dust billowed from it. “Curse it!” Without another word, he ran up the shop
steps and through the side door leading into his house. “Curse it all!” he
yelled again.
“Well,” Ruther said as he watched his friend run off, “I’d
better go see what I can do to be of help.”
Two
-
Ruther & Henry
Henry
shut
the washroom door behind him and shed his work clothes so quickly that he tore
his shirt. He also began pumping water into the tub, furiously working the
lever, and causing it to squeak and squeal like a small pig. As soon as the tub
had enough water, Henry plunged himself in and scrubbed the dust and grime off
his body and out of his hair. Wasting no time, he jumped out and dried himself
as he ran back to his bedroom, stark naked.
“Hey, friend,” a deep voice called out.
Henry yelped and covered himself. “Good grief, Ruther!” he
exclaimed as he shut the door between them. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to wish you good luck. Now I can see how badly
you’ll need it.”
As soon as Henry was in his undergarments, he opened the
door for Ruther. “How was your trip?” he asked as he turned back to the clothes
his sister, Maggie, had laid on the bed for him to wear. He noticed Ruther
seemed to be gaining more weight, especially in his face. Ruther’s fat face was
almost always jovial, but, unfortunately, being fat in Blithmore had gone out
of style three years prior when King Germaine fell ill for six months and
reappeared at the baptism of his eldest granddaughter missing fifty pounds.
“It was a very fine excursion. I was well-received in every
town.” From under his vest, Ruther withdrew a small leather flask—no doubt
containing ale—and took a long draught. “Everyone loved me.”
“Isn’t it a little early for drinking, Ruther?” Henry asked
as he buttoned his shirt. When he reached the top button, he realized he’d done
the buttons up wrong and started over.
“Never too early for that, friend,” Ruther chuckled.
Henry’s fingers worked furiously at the cloth and buttons,
getting them right this time. He pulled up his pants and jammed the tails of his
shirt inside. The blue scarf was next. Henry picked it up, trying to remind
himself the proper way to tie it around his neck.
“Isabelle has assured me several times that her father will
say yes, but I can’t help but worry. What will I do if he says no?”
Ruther grinned and gave a hearty laugh. “Trust me, he
won’t. Not in his situation. You’re wealthier than a tenth of the country’s
nobles—”
“That’s only because a tenth of the country’s nobles don’t
know how to use their money.”
“He’s one of the poorest and he knows it, friend.”
“But I’m desperate! I can’t marry her without his
permission!”
“Yes, you are desperate, but so is he—he can’t afford to
pay a dowry to any respectable noble family. Everyone knows that’s all he cares
about—regaining his social standing—and that’s where you come in. By you asking
for Isabelle’s hand, he can demand you pay a bride price, which you have the
ability to pay. Everyone wins.”
Henry’s concerns were not assuaged. “You know how he is,
Ruther. You remember how he treated us when you lived here.”
“Sure I do. That stick game we played one time . . . I went
through the hedge to get my stick. He grabbed me and shook me. ‘
You dirty
little boy—good for nothing bastard child! Get away from my house!
’”
Henry choked out a laugh, but it sounded more like a cough.
Ruther had impersonated Lord Oslan to perfection. “Oslan has hated me since I
was a lad.”
“Has he loathed you?” Ruther asked. The tone in his voice
told Henry that Ruther had started one of his word games.
“Yes.” Henry’s answer was weary. A look in the mirror told
him his attempt to tie the scarf correctly had failed. He hurried to undo the
damage. “That’s one.”
“Despised?”
“Definitely. Two.”
“Abhorred?”
“Enough.” Henry sighed as he wrapped the blue silk, this
time with more success. Then he adjusted his shirt again and tried to tuck the
ends of his brown hair under his collar. He decided that looked ridiculous.
“Fine then, rehearse with me what you plan to say.”
“I have to go!”
“Just once. No point in going if you aren’t going to do it
properly.”
“Good evening, sir,” Henry enunciated with careful measure.
He tied off the scarf and reached for his boots. “It is an honor to speak with
you man to man.”
“If you say it like that, he’ll think you’re challenging
him.”
“He knows I’m not challenging him.”
“Do you want my help or not?” Ruther asked
“I have to go. I should’ve trimmed my hair. For the love of
the King, nothing is right today!” Henry rarely concerned himself with things
like clothes and hair. When Maggie thought he needed new clothes, she bought
them. When his hair needed cutting, she cut it.
“Calm yourself,” Ruther said, lifting the lid off his
flask. “Things are not that bad.”
“If he refuses me, I’ll fall on my sword the moment I
return to the house.”
“You’d probably miss the sword and hit the floor.”
Henry chuckled despite himself. Their eyes met in the
mirror and Ruther grinned at him. Henry was glad his friend had come, Ruther
helped him keep a proper perspective.
“Lord Oslan won’t decline you,” Ruther said. “If Isabelle
is certain, then you can be certain, too.”
“Bah!” Henry exclaimed as he wiped his forehead with his
sleeve. It came back with a good-sized wet spot. “I wish there were some other
way than speaking to that man.”
“Well, friend,” Ruther said, getting up and taking a small
swig from his flask, “you’re the one who will be calling him
Father
, not
me.”
Henry watched Ruther take a drink with disappointment. “I
wouldn’t if I were you,” he said. “It’s too early. You’ll be sick all day.”
“No, I’ll only be sick until evening.”
“Just in time for your story.”
Ruther took another long swig from the flask. “No, the
owner cancelled my spot.”
“Why?”
“Possibly because I was so drunk last night, I couldn’t
pronounce my main character’s name?”
“Which story was it?”
“The Tale of Thurgerburder the Furious Sheep Herder.”
Had it not been such an important day for Henry, he might
not have had the prudence to hold his tongue. Instead of speaking his mind, he
straightened the scarf one last time.
“It doesn’t matter,” Ruther continued. “I have secured
myself several jobs over the next three or four weeks in other towns not too
far away. I’ll be quite busy.”
“When do you leave?”
“In the next day or two.” He took another long draught from
the flask. “And where is Maggie in all of this? She should be here for support
or familial obligation.”
“She’s at the market selling her cabbages before they rot.”
Ruther went to the window and looked down to the street,
then up at the sky. “If you’re going the long way, you’d better be on the
move!”
“Alright, I am!” Henry put his tan cloak around his
shoulders. “I’m gone!”
As he sprinted out of the bedroom and descended the wooden
stairs, he heard Ruther call out to him in a woman’s voice: “You look so
handsome!”