Part 3......

Pirin awoke in the morning with a pounding headache.  His sleep had been dream-filled and fitful, with Crelda’s words and the vixen’s image swirling around in his mind.  The walk back from her cottage had not been the contented stroll that normally followed his visits to the sett.  Every sound or movement had been met with apprehension at what an encounter might bring and for once the darkness of the wood had made him anxious and sweaty.

Pirin rolled on to his side in the low bed, wrapping the coarse blanket tightly around his shoulders.  Sunlight was streaming through the small window above the door, sharply defining the cobwebs that formed an intricate lattice around it.  Pirin felt his mood lighten as he took in the familiarity of his cabin.  It had originally been built by his father as a storehouse for root crops, mounds of misshapen carrots and turnips piled up against the stone walls, and despite being abandoned from this use many years previously, it still bore a not unpleasant earthy smell.  The cabin was set into a slope, its turf roof blending with the hillside, and although fierce draughts swept under the door and between the shutters in winter, it was compact enough to be cosy and served Pirin’s purposes well.

As a result of its former use, the cabin was set apart from the other dwellings of Crowfoot, a bustling frontier village that had grown to satisfy the insatiable appetite for timber products from the large cities such as Edgewood, Toadsmouth and Tarn far to the south.  Crowfoot derived its name from an ancient beech tree, the twisted roots of which clung on to the limestone crag in whose sheltered shadow the village had flourished.  Struck by lightning many years earlier, the tree’s charred remains now resembled a huge claw, grasping upwards towards the sky.

Since the colonisation of coastal Calandria a hundred years or so previously, an initial string of small fishing villages and ports had coalesced to form a continuous sprawl of feverish human activity.  Yet away from the rich resources of the sea, the fertile soils, and the mild climate of the coastal plain, most of Calandria remained uncharted.  As yet, humans had only a toehold in the great wildwood that seemed to stretch forever inland.  A combination of biting insects, the continual threat of marsh fever, and tales of ferocious beasts had kept the colonisers at bay.  Only for a relative few did the forest provide a living. Crowfoot was one of a thin scattering of outlier settlements to the south and east of the Wolfskill mountains, the nearest – Bluetree and Itchingfort – being over sixty miles way.

Bracing himself for the chill of the cabin, Pirin threw back the blanket and made his way gingerly to the crude stone basin in the corner of the room.  The water in the jug that stood next to it was icy cold and Pirin flinched as he splashed his face and upper body.  Hurriedly he pulled a white linen shirt over his head, immediately feeling the benefit.  On top of this he fastened a waist length green leather jerkin.  His leggings were of fustian, a coarse material which, although cheap, had so far been effective against the coldest weather the winter had to offer.  Pirin’s boots were old and worn, but for all their age were still functional and comfortable.

A circle of rocks formed a simple grate and Pirin piled up shrivelled, brittle twigs over a layer of dry grass.  Using a length of coarse-fibred twine to twist a smooth stick on an indented wooden block, he soon generated a smoulder which, fed with dry tinder, quickly flickered into a small but healthy fire, the smoke drifting upwards towards a narrow exit in the roof.  Over it he heated a bowl of sweetened oats, to which he added dried cobnuts and goat’s milk, stirring it slowly until the mixture thickened.  Feeling a need for sunlight, Pirin pushed back the shutters and made his way back to his bed, cupping the bowl tightly on his lap in order to make the most of its radiated heat.  Although the sun was bright, it was still early, and as he ate Pirin’s breath rose in small clouds, twisting towards the cool clarity of the window.

Wiping the bowl clean with a damp cloth, Pirin opened a low cupboard near the door of the cabin.  From it he took a canvas belt, which had a series of hooks sewn into it.  Wrapping it around his waist, he suspended a number of small implements from it – a three-pronged, curved fork, a blunt metal spike and a small trowel with a wooden handle – all immaculate and well oiled.  Lifting a bag from the bottom of the cupboard, he inspected its contents.  Inside he found a quantity of muslin pouches of various sizes and a bundle of white cloth.  Carefully unfolding it, he took out a short axe, a double-edge billhook and a sheathed knife – its hilt carved from a polished red deer antler – and inspected the cutting edge of each blade.  Satisfied with their condition he re-wrapped them and, placing the bag over his shoulder, made for the door, grabbing his cloak as he did so.

Pirin walked briskly down the meandering path that led from his cabin to Crowfoot itself. Unseasonably heavy rain and the still recent snowmelt had left the main track into the village heavily poached, the deep, water-filled ruts requiring careful navigation.  Most of the damage was done by the short-legged, muscular oxen used to drag the heaviest timber to the mill and already several long trains of the white beasts could be seen hauling their loads laboriously down from the slopes. 

Crowfoot had originated as a small cluster of prospectors’ huts when gold had supposedly been found in the Silkstream, but when the rush never materialised the nascent settlement had almost withered away.  Only with the boom in the timber trade had the village prospered, sprawling up the valley sides as if in pursuit of the receding forest.  Work ceased almost completely during the bitter rawness of the colder months and Crowfoot would lapse into a form of hibernation, living off its accumulated stores, its inhabitants waiting patiently for signs of the demise of winter.  Their numbers were swollen in the spring by seasonal woodworkers, mainly from the southern coastal city of Tarn, whose rowdy presence would become discernible in the village during the lengthening evenings.  A thin veneer of order was maintained by Ketu, an Enforcer appointed by the regional Council in Tarn, and his small team of poorly organised and ill-trained deputies based at the Watchtower, a tall, imposing structure at the centre of Crowfoot.  As if to counterbalance it, the Boar’s Head Tavern stood at the opposite end of the main thoroughfare through the village, known as the Puddleditch for its tendency to flood following even the lightest rainfall.  It was a notorious focus for the rougher element among the hard, weather-beaten itinerants.  The tavern itself had rooms but they were largely tenanted by whores, who plied a brisk trade among Crowfoot’s male-dominated community.  Its landlady, a stern-faced, grey-haired woman called Kilti, ran it efficiently and largely without incident, her reputation for a fearsome temper deterring all but the most drunken from unsociable behaviour.  Most of the labourers lived in a series of long huts, where beds were rented out rather than rooms and food was cheap and plentiful, if a little mundane.

Beyond the boundaries of Crowfoot, life had more dangers than the beauty of the landscape suggested.  Wolves and bears were not uncommon and occasionally cave lions, either inexperienced or elderly individuals, would descend from their mountain dens, lured by the easy pickings represented by the free-roaming pig herds that grew fat on beech mast and acorns.  As well as these natural hazards, an assortment of thieves and cut-purses posed a continual threat to travellers along the main tracks in and out of Crowfoot.  By far the most dangerous of these were the woodlanders.  These were well-organised extended family groups who led a parasitic existence plundering the legitimate gains of others.  They knew the forest well, successfully avoiding the inadequate patrols sent out periodically to deter them.

Pirin made his way purposefully towards the Meadow, a roughly circular area of worn and weedy grass hardly worthy of the name, which served as an important focal point for the village.  Every two weeks during the summer months a bustling, makeshift market would be held, attended by a bewildering variety of local craftsmen peddling their products to visiting merchants who would go on to resell their haul elsewhere at vastly inflated prices.  Indeed, Crowfoot produce had come to be much sought after.  The local tannery, which had only been established a few years, had a reputation for producing particularly fine, supple leather and the carefully managed coppices provided the raw materials for almost anything from hop poles and pit props to wattle fencing.  Some specialised – Farash was an accomplished bowyer and fletcher, his painstakingly made yew bows and fine ashwood arrows commanding high prices, whilst others turned exquisite and unique wooden bowls and candlesticks from the more unusual woods such as holly and apple.

It was this thriving, vibrant market that provided Pirin with an income, which, although meagre, was more than enough for his needs.  During his childhood, he had been taught by his father those plants, which were of value, either as food or for their medicinal properties, and those that were distasteful or poisonous.  This knowledge Pirin now put to good use, foraging the remote wildwood for plants and fungi in season and selling them on either fresh, or dried for winter use.  Although patches of compacted snow remained in the shadier hollows on the higher ground, the warming spring sun brought with it an exuberant flush of vigorous growth and it was this abundance that Pirin in tended to tap.  Cropped now, the soft leaves of hedge mustard would offer a second harvest later in the summer.  The yellow blooms of winter cress and the peppery stems of cuckoo flower were a welcome relief from the monotony and plainness of late winter dishes and would be much in demand.  However it was for the wild garlic that the forthcoming trip with Karis had been arranged.  Locally plentiful in damper woods, its subtle, mild flavour would survive the drying process and bunches could be hung for selling throughout the year.  Pirin was also hoping to find morels, unusual honeycomb-capped fungi that invariably fetched a good price at the market.  They were greatly sought after by the more pretentious eating houses of the southern cities, in truth more for their rarity than anything their bland flavour had to offer.

Pirin had arranged to meet his companion at the Meadow.  Looking ahead, he could see his friend resting against the stocks eating an apple.

“Karis!”

Pirin signalled his approach with a wave and slapped Karis on the shoulder as he arrived. Karis’ face betrayed his annoyance. 

“Where have you been? I’ve been waiting here for almost an hour now!”

Pirin held up his hands.

“I’m sorry, my friend, but I returned home late from Crelda’s last night and couldn’t get to sleep. I didn’t rise with the dawn as is usual.”

Karis’ face immediately lightened.

“People will start to talk if you keep loitering around the old widow’s cottage – badger watching indeed!”

He nudged Pirin’s arm and gave an exaggerated wink, knowing Pirin would find any such suggestion distasteful.

Pirin swung a playful kick at Karis and missed.

“You don’t fool me.  You’re only jealous because the old sow in Bewik’s barn keeps rejecting your advances.”

Pirin and Karis had been friends since childhood and each felt deeply at ease with the company of the other.  Karis was slightly shorter than Pirin and of a stockier build.  As the eldest son of Sarim, the village blacksmith, he spent most of his time helping his father, acquiring skills which would enable him one day to continue the business of his own.  Despite his somewhat brutish appearance, love of coarse stories and frequent use of profanity, Karis was an emotional soul who shared Pirin’s affinity with the forest.  On many of his free days he would accompany his friend into the wildwood to escape from the sweaty heat and noise of the forge.

Though is manner seemed light-hearted, Karis could tell that Pirin was masking a more sombre mood.  Kneeling on the ground, he loosened the cords holding his pack together.

“Before you ask, I have all the necessities.  Dried fruit, rye bread, soft cheese and a flask of that sickly-sweet honey mead that you’re fond of.  I’ve also invested in some oilskins and a couple of woollen blankets.  I’m not so sure the worst of the weather is behind us yet.  Now, which direction are we heading in today, my leader?”

Pirin ignored the mocking tone in Karis’ voice and nodded towards a small track, which snaked between the brushwood lean-tos of a small piggery, before disappearing into the coppice woods of the lower slopes.  Turning back to his friend, Pirin forced a smile.

“Well, no time like the present to build up an appetite – pass me one of the sacks.”  Swinging it over his shoulder, Pirin set off up the slope.  Karis paused briefly, taking in Pirin’s expression and purpose of gait and quietly chuckled to himself. 

“Another maiden’s caught his eye…lovesick again!”

Shaking his head, Karis fell in behind his friend.  Beneath a vibrant forget-me-not sky, they slowly climbed up the hillside until eventually disappearing from view, swallowed by the verdant vastness of the forest.