Post by John Patton on Jul 29, 2010 12:12:45 GMT -5
John took one final look around before setting down his pack and removing his coat. Laying his coat on the ground as a blanket, he paused to take a long pull on his canteen, then sat. Good; while sitting the tall wheat growing all around him hid him nicely.
Chewing on a piece of jerky, John thought back to the last time he had spent much time in the fields. It was a long time ago. He was a young man, trying to show off for the ladies by cutting as much wheat as he could, as quickly as possible. He managed to pull a muscle in his shoulder and was rewarded by the ministrations of the lovely Daphne Ross. That was a good time.
As John sat and rested, he picked the heads off of some of the wheat plants, placing them into a pocket on his pack. He would dry them by his fire tonight and use the grains to make some flat bread when the mood struck him.
John took a deep breath, gathered his belongings, draped his coat over his pack, and started walking toward the small village he saw in the distance.
----
The village wasn't much to talk about. There were a few older stone buildings with thatched roofs and improvised repairs here and there, and a few others that appeared to be built out of salvaged materials. Some children, throwing a plastic disc (one of the few toys simple enough and sturdy enough to survive for fifty years), promptly ran as John approached. "Guess they're not used to outsiders," thought John to himself.
John looked for a bar, or shop, or meeting place as he walked through the village. It had been a while since he had been to "civilization" and he sought some news.
"Greetings, traveller!" came a call from ahead. The greeting was spoken with a bit too much enthusiasm, as though the speaker were covering up his fear. He was a man of average height wearing a well worn, but well maintained set of overalls. Even from where he stood John could tell that where the clothing had been patched it had been done with great care; not sloppily as was often the case.
"Hail, friend, at least I hope you are a friend," replied John. "I have been away from the settlements for a long time. I hoped to learn a little more about what is going on in the world. Tell me, what is the name of your village?"
The man seemed to relax a bit. "My name is Thaddeus Dickens, and I guess you could say I'm the chief here. Our village doesn't have a name; we're actually from all over. We're refugees from several nearby villages which were destroyed by raiders. Seems like they're getting more violent these days. Of course the Enforcers continue to head out further and further from York, both in response to Raider actions and to bring more of the villages into the fold, so to speak. I assume it's for tax purposes."
John nodded, "Any contact with the outside world? Outside of England, I mean?"
"I doubt it," said Dickens, "but we don't have any kind of communications here. If you really wanted to find out you should either go to Hebeden Bridge, or maybe Leeds."
"I see. I'm just curious. Do you have any work I could do for room and board for the evening?"
"Old Mrs. Willoughby has some firewood that needs splitting. I expect she'd let you sleep on the couch and feed you dinner if you'd take care of that for her. I'll take you over and introduce you."
---
Mrs. Willoughby lived in a straw and mud hut with a thatched roof. The villagers cared for the old widow, sharing their crops, meat, and wood with her. She, in turn, managed a small herb garden from which she provided various medicines to the villagers.
A strong, spicy scent attacked John when he entered the herbalist's home. Plants in various stages of drying hung from lines strung across the ceiling. Thin, narrow shelves lined two of the walls with all manner of bottles lined up on them. The bottles held liquids, powders, and whole plants of every description.
Dickens made the introductions and then excused himself. "Well, lad," said Mrs. Willoughby, "you'd best get to it. The hatchet is by the door and the wood is around back. I'll have some dinner ready when you're done."
John went outside and divested himself of his gear, setting it neatly near where he would be working. It was a large pile of firewood, maybe two cords, but it was well seasoned and extremely dry. John got into the rhythm of the splitting, enjoying for a time the repetition and exercise. Before he knew it he was done.
John took a long drink from his canteen before refilling it from the rain barrel next to the widow's home. He then went inside where his host had just finished ladling some kind of stew into a bowl. "Good work, son. Everyone around here is so busy that nobody has time to help me with that chore. Not that I blame them; keeping yourself alive is hard enough without worrying about the dependent."
Nodding, John replied, "Yes, just getting from day to day can be tough. I haven't had a home for a good long time, but as much as I'd like to settle down I still have work that needs to be done." John tested his first spoonful of the stew, which was actually closer to a chicken curry. He smiled, then said, "This is fantastic!" before diverting his full attention to the food, to avoid talking any more about himself.
As the evening progressed they chatted a little. John assisted Mrs. Willoughby with a few more chores that had been neglected and then spread himself out on the floor before falling asleep. It had been a good day.
The following morning, John carefully slipped out of the house early to avoid disturbing Mrs. Willoughby. He was determined to find some raiders to make good (as in, "The only good raider is a dead raider") soon.
Chewing on a piece of jerky, John thought back to the last time he had spent much time in the fields. It was a long time ago. He was a young man, trying to show off for the ladies by cutting as much wheat as he could, as quickly as possible. He managed to pull a muscle in his shoulder and was rewarded by the ministrations of the lovely Daphne Ross. That was a good time.
As John sat and rested, he picked the heads off of some of the wheat plants, placing them into a pocket on his pack. He would dry them by his fire tonight and use the grains to make some flat bread when the mood struck him.
John took a deep breath, gathered his belongings, draped his coat over his pack, and started walking toward the small village he saw in the distance.
----
The village wasn't much to talk about. There were a few older stone buildings with thatched roofs and improvised repairs here and there, and a few others that appeared to be built out of salvaged materials. Some children, throwing a plastic disc (one of the few toys simple enough and sturdy enough to survive for fifty years), promptly ran as John approached. "Guess they're not used to outsiders," thought John to himself.
John looked for a bar, or shop, or meeting place as he walked through the village. It had been a while since he had been to "civilization" and he sought some news.
"Greetings, traveller!" came a call from ahead. The greeting was spoken with a bit too much enthusiasm, as though the speaker were covering up his fear. He was a man of average height wearing a well worn, but well maintained set of overalls. Even from where he stood John could tell that where the clothing had been patched it had been done with great care; not sloppily as was often the case.
"Hail, friend, at least I hope you are a friend," replied John. "I have been away from the settlements for a long time. I hoped to learn a little more about what is going on in the world. Tell me, what is the name of your village?"
The man seemed to relax a bit. "My name is Thaddeus Dickens, and I guess you could say I'm the chief here. Our village doesn't have a name; we're actually from all over. We're refugees from several nearby villages which were destroyed by raiders. Seems like they're getting more violent these days. Of course the Enforcers continue to head out further and further from York, both in response to Raider actions and to bring more of the villages into the fold, so to speak. I assume it's for tax purposes."
John nodded, "Any contact with the outside world? Outside of England, I mean?"
"I doubt it," said Dickens, "but we don't have any kind of communications here. If you really wanted to find out you should either go to Hebeden Bridge, or maybe Leeds."
"I see. I'm just curious. Do you have any work I could do for room and board for the evening?"
"Old Mrs. Willoughby has some firewood that needs splitting. I expect she'd let you sleep on the couch and feed you dinner if you'd take care of that for her. I'll take you over and introduce you."
---
Mrs. Willoughby lived in a straw and mud hut with a thatched roof. The villagers cared for the old widow, sharing their crops, meat, and wood with her. She, in turn, managed a small herb garden from which she provided various medicines to the villagers.
A strong, spicy scent attacked John when he entered the herbalist's home. Plants in various stages of drying hung from lines strung across the ceiling. Thin, narrow shelves lined two of the walls with all manner of bottles lined up on them. The bottles held liquids, powders, and whole plants of every description.
Dickens made the introductions and then excused himself. "Well, lad," said Mrs. Willoughby, "you'd best get to it. The hatchet is by the door and the wood is around back. I'll have some dinner ready when you're done."
John went outside and divested himself of his gear, setting it neatly near where he would be working. It was a large pile of firewood, maybe two cords, but it was well seasoned and extremely dry. John got into the rhythm of the splitting, enjoying for a time the repetition and exercise. Before he knew it he was done.
John took a long drink from his canteen before refilling it from the rain barrel next to the widow's home. He then went inside where his host had just finished ladling some kind of stew into a bowl. "Good work, son. Everyone around here is so busy that nobody has time to help me with that chore. Not that I blame them; keeping yourself alive is hard enough without worrying about the dependent."
Nodding, John replied, "Yes, just getting from day to day can be tough. I haven't had a home for a good long time, but as much as I'd like to settle down I still have work that needs to be done." John tested his first spoonful of the stew, which was actually closer to a chicken curry. He smiled, then said, "This is fantastic!" before diverting his full attention to the food, to avoid talking any more about himself.
As the evening progressed they chatted a little. John assisted Mrs. Willoughby with a few more chores that had been neglected and then spread himself out on the floor before falling asleep. It had been a good day.
The following morning, John carefully slipped out of the house early to avoid disturbing Mrs. Willoughby. He was determined to find some raiders to make good (as in, "The only good raider is a dead raider") soon.