It was an old forest, with ancient trees and long shadows through which kobolds and goblins might creep, and with deep hollows and still ponds and hidden caves and secrets and hazard. Peter walked with his pack and his stick and when he came to the forest he went in. It seemed a good place to be alone.
He was not a priest anymore. Excommunication, they called it. Now wherever he went there were questions he'd rather not answer and mistrustful glances whenever he did. He rarely stayed long in one place anymore. He worked when he could, ate when there was food, slept wherever he was, and it was fine. But now it would be winter soon; the hard months were still ahead. So Peter went into the forest.
The first day he wandered with no particular destination. These woods, it was said, were inhabited by strange folks, furtive and backwards people rarely seen by outsiders, though Peter considered most of the stories told about them mere fairy tales. That first day he encountered no person and even few beasts. The great, moss-covered trunks of the old trees were his only neighbors.
The rundown building, when he found it, looked out of place. It was a windowless, one-room structure planted in the midst of a clearing. Though the roof was fallen the walls were still sturdy enough and the door was on it. When he pried it open, he realized that it was in fact an old chapel.
He frowned. The place had a bad air about it. But it was a roof over his head, or part of one at any rate, and it would be dark soon, so he stayed. Dinner was only a few squirrels and a few roots. His stomach complained, but sleep would quiet it. He went to bed with his coat on, wrapped in a single blanket. In the old days, when he still wore the cloth, twilight was his favorite time, when he would stay up an extra hour or two reading and writing. Now he simply went to sleep. And when he awoke, a man was standing over him.
He was a big, thick man, unshaven, and with small black eyes. He held a pike at his side. He looked at Peter for some time without saying anything. He was not pointing the pike at Peter, but he did not set it down either. Peter blinked at the morning sun and stood, stretched, and offered the man his hand. The man did not take it. Peter introduced himself. The man seemed to chew on nothing for a moment before replying:
"Buchard. I heard someone was here."
"Heard from whom? You are the first person I have seen in this place."
"Those who know."
Buchard (Peter was uncertain if it was a first name or last) spoke with an accent Peter couldn't identify. His voice was low and phlegmy. "No one is allowed here," he said. "Now you have to come with me."
His tone invited no debate, so Peter went, away from the old chapel and into the quiet hollows of the forest, for what destination he knew not. They walked in silence. The trees were older and huger the further in they went, and the shadows smelled damp, and little light crept through the branches. Now and then he heard the rustle of some small creature in the brush, but mostly it was quiet. Peter cleared his throat. "It's a beautiful place."
"If you think so."
They walked on.
"Are there many others where we're going?" Peter said.
"You should not talk so much," said Buchard. "You are in trouble."
Peter said nothing the rest of the way.
Eventually they came to a collection of huts which could be called a village only in the most haphazard sense; perhaps twenty structures altogether, or perhaps less. The men and women Peter passed were lean and had a circumspect quality. They watched him with dark eyes.
Buchard took Peter to one house, a bit larger than the others. A woman was in the yard, feeding a flock of chickens whose cackling was the only thing audible. She said nothing to either of them. Buchard led him into what Peter from the outside took for a stable but where he instead found a furnace and a forge and an anvil and tools and the smell of old fires. Buchard put on an apron made of animal hide.
"Do you work?" he said.
Peter licked his lips. "I'm all right with my hands. I know most tools. I've never been a smith, but I'm sure I could learn."
"A yes or a no."
Peter considered. "Yes," he said.
"If you can work, you can stay. Most strangers who come here we make them leave, but you came when I need someone to help me. If you're good help, you can stay. If not, you must leave."
"Is that the law?"
"It's the way things are done," Buchard said, and he indicated, with a gesture, that Peter should stoke the fire.
They worked all day in near-total silence, Buchard speaking only when it was completely necessary. Peter was soon sweating and he winced at the sparks that flew and at the terrible smell of hot metal. Other people came in often, either to leave things or to take them. They all seemed to communicate without words, as if they knew some sort of secret language of glances unfathomable to Peter. At him they seemed not to look at all.
They ate nothing all day and Peter's stomach complained, but he said nothing, refreshing himself only with water, as Buchard did. Finally, when the light was failing outside, Buchard removed his apron and Peter took this as indication he should to the same. "Come," Buchard said, and led him into the house attached to the forge.
There was only one room, with a kitchen of sorts on one side, a bed on the other, and a table with chairs in the middle. The silent woman, who must have been Buchard's wife since she was not old enough to be his mother, was cooking. Buchard sat him down and dished up what turned out to be a thin stew of chicken meat. Peter ate the entire thing in less than a minute. After, they two sat looking into the fire. Peter tried not to fidget.
Buchard brought out a hammer. Peter wondered if this meant the time for his execution had come, but then Buchard handed it to him, along with a bundle of nails. "You'll need these to fix the roof," he said.
Peter blinked. "On the chapel?"
"Don't use that word," Buchard said. "But yes, on the place you're staying. You cannot stay here because no one has any room, but you can stay in that building if you want. Work for me again tomorrow and I'll give you wood to use with those nails. You work for me three days at a time then stay away for three days at a time. Every time you work for me, I'll give you something you need, but never food again. If you want to eat you have to hunt for yourself like most of us do."
These instructions were delivered in such a way as to indicate that obedience was mandatory. Peter also realized that the proposed arrangement constituted what his host considered an unprecedented degree of lenience and generosity. "Thank you," he said.
"Don't use those words. You worked, so I paid. That is all."
Peter kept his mouth shut.
At the end of the day Buchard walked Peter back to the chapel. "I was not expecting to stay here longer than a night," Peter said.
"There is nowhere else," Buchard said. "It's a good building. Work hard and you'll live through the winter."
"Why is it empty?"
"There used to be a priest here, when my grandfather was young. He taught people about the Christ god. It was fine, for a while. But other priests came: madmen. They said there were witches here."
"Were there?"
"I do not know. But they burned and hung many people. Finally we had enough, and killed all the priests. Since then, this place has been empty, and we keep our own gods." Buchard put the bundle of nails into Peter's hands again. "You are a priest."
Peter started. "How did you know?"
"I know."
"I'm not a priest anymore. They threw me out."
Buchard chewed on nothing for a moment. "That should be all right," he said. "But you should not tell anyone else what you once were. Why did they throw you out?"
"I slept with women." And men, he almost added, but didn't.
"That was bad?"
"They thought so."
Buchard seemed to accept that, and left.
It was another cold night. Buchard was right, Peter realized, he would need a place to stay for the winter, and the chapel would need repairs if it was going to do him any good. So the next day he went back and worked in the smithy, and again the day after, and then he spent three days building a new roof. As promised, every day he worked Buchard gave him something else he would need: tools, pots and pans, a lantern. If Peter needed anything Buchard could not make Buchard traded for it from a neighbor: cloth for blankets, hides for clothes, oil for the lamp, wood to make furniture and for the coming winter. In the morning Peter set snares in the forest and most nights, upon returning, he found something to eat in them. Most nights.
Weeks passed. Peter learned that the reason Buchard needed help only for three days at a time was because those were the only days he worked the forge. There was not enough demand to work full-time, so the other days he tended his house or he hunted. Most people in the village (which had no name that Peter ever heard) were hunters who survived by catching just enough to feed their own selves and children. As a man with a trade Buchard was one of the relatively wealthiest people here, and the chickens his wife tended seemed to be a status symbol. Peter suspected this was what gave Buchard the authority to sponsor an outsider in their midst.
Peter's job had until recently belonged to Buchard's boy apprentice, but the boy was gone now. Peter asked what happened to him. "He was burned," Buchard said. "A crucible cracked. Two of his fingers burned almost completely away."
Peter looked at the glowing orange iron in the fire. "What happened to him after that?"
"He is not here anymore," was all Buchard would say. Peter became more mindful of his work from them on.
It grew colder. The chapel was at least habitable now, and Peter was learning the best places to hunt. Since the locals did not like the chapel they rarely hunted near it. Other than Buchard and his wife (who never said a word either to Peter or
It was an old forest, with ancient trees and long shadows through which kobolds and goblins might creep, and with deep hollows and still ponds and hidden caves and secrets and hazard. Peter walked with his pack and his stick and when he came to the forest he went in. It seemed a good place to be alone.
He was not a priest anymore. Excommunication, they called it. Now wherever he went there were questions he'd rather not answer and mistrustful glances whenever he did. He rarely stayed long in one place anymore. He worked when he could, ate when there was food, slept wherever he was, and it was fine. But now it would be winter soon; the hard months were still ahead. So Peter went into the forest.
The first day he wandered with no particular destination. These woods, it was said, were inhabited by strange folks, furtive and backwards people rarely seen by outsiders, though Peter considered most of the stories told about them mere fairy tales. That first day he encountered no person and even few beasts. The great, moss-covered trunks of the old trees were his only neighbors.
The rundown building, when he found it, looked out of place. It was a windowless, one-room structure planted in the midst of a clearing. Though the roof was fallen the walls were still sturdy enough and the door was on it. When he pried it open, he realized that it was in fact an old chapel.
He frowned. The place had a bad air about it. But it was a roof over his head, or part of one at any rate, and it would be dark soon, so he stayed. Dinner was only a few squirrels and a few roots. His stomach complained, but sleep would quiet it. He went to bed with his coat on, wrapped in a single blanket. In the old days, when he still wore the cloth, twilight was his favorite time, when he would stay up an extra hour or two reading and writing. Now he simply went to sleep. And when he awoke, a man was standing over him.
He was a big, thick man, unshaven, and with small black eyes. He held a pike at his side. He looked at Peter for some time without saying anything. He was not pointing the pike at Peter, but he did not set it down either. Peter blinked at the morning sun and stood, stretched, and offered the man his hand. The man did not take it. Peter introduced himself. The man seemed to chew on nothing for a moment before replying:
"Buchard. I heard someone was here."
"Heard from whom? You are the first person I have seen in this place."
"Those who know."
Buchard (Peter was uncertain if it was a first name or last) spoke with an accent Peter couldn't identify. His voice was low and phlegmy. "No one is allowed here," he said. "Now you have to come with me."
His tone invited no debate, so Peter went, away from the old chapel and into the quiet hollows of the forest, for what destination he knew not. They walked in silence. The trees were older and huger the further in they went, and the shadows smelled damp, and little light crept through the branches. Now and then he heard the rustle of some small creature in the brush, but mostly it was quiet. Peter cleared his throat. "It's a beautiful place."
"If you think so."
They walked on.
"Are there many others where we're going?" Peter said.
"You should not talk so much," said Buchard. "You are in trouble."
Peter said nothing the rest of the way.
Eventually they came to a collection of huts which could be called a village only in the most haphazard sense; perhaps twenty structures altogether, or perhaps less. The men and women Peter passed were lean and had a circumspect quality. They watched him with dark eyes.
Buchard took Peter to one house, a bit larger than the others. A woman was in the yard, feeding a flock of chickens whose cackling was the only thing audible. She said nothing to either of them. Buchard led him into what Peter from the outside took for a stable but where he instead found a furnace and a forge and an anvil and tools and the smell of old fires. Buchard put on an apron made of animal hide.
"Do you work?" he said.
Peter licked his lips. "I'm all right with my hands. I know most tools. I've never been a smith, but I'm sure I could learn."
"A yes or a no."
Peter considered. "Yes," he said.
"If you can work, you can stay. Most strangers who come here we make them leave, but you came when I need someone to help me. If you're good help, you can stay. If not, you must leave."
"Is that the law?"
"It's the way things are done," Buchard said, and he indicated, with a gesture, that Peter should stoke the fire.
They worked all day in near-total silence, Buchard speaking only when it was completely necessary. Peter was soon sweating and he winced at the sparks that flew and at the terrible smell of hot metal. Other people came in often, either to leave things or to take them. They all seemed to communicate without words, as if they knew some sort of secret language of glances unfathomable to Peter. At him they seemed not to look at all.
They ate nothing all day and Peter's stomach complained, but he said nothing, refreshing himself only with water, as Buchard did. Finally, when the light was failing outside, Buchard removed his apron and Peter took this as indication he should to the same. "Come," Buchard said, and led him into the house attached to the forge.
There was only one room, with a kitchen of sorts on one side, a bed on the other, and a table with chairs in the middle. The silent woman, who must have been Buchard's wife since she was not old enough to be his mother, was cooking. Buchard sat him down and dished up what turned out to be a thin stew of chicken meat. Peter ate the entire thing in less than a minute. After, they two sat looking into the fire. Peter tried not to fidget.
Buchard brought out a hammer. Peter wondered if this meant the time for his execution had come, but then Buchard handed it to him, along with a bundle of nails. "You'll need these to fix the roof," he said.
Peter blinked. "On the chapel?"
"Don't use that word," Buchard said. "But yes, on the place you're staying. You cannot stay here because no one has any room, but you can stay in that building if you want. Work for me again tomorrow and I'll give you wood to use with those nails. You work for me three days at a time then stay away for three days at a time. Every time you work for me, I'll give you something you need, but never food again. If you want to eat you have to hunt for yourself like most of us do."
These instructions were delivered in such a way as to indicate that obedience was mandatory. Peter also realized that the proposed arrangement constituted what his host considered an unprecedented degree of lenience and generosity. "Thank you," he said.
"Don't use those words. You worked, so I paid. That is all."
Peter kept his mouth shut.
At the end of the day Buchard walked Peter back to the chapel. "I was not expecting to stay here longer than a night," Peter said.
"There is nowhere else," Buchard said. "It's a good building. Work hard and you'll live through the winter."
"Why is it empty?"
"There used to be a priest here, when my grandfather was young. He taught people about the Christ god. It was fine, for a while. But other priests came: madmen. They said there were witches here."
"Were there?"
"I do not know. But they burned and hung many people. Finally we had enough, and killed all the priests. Since then, this place has been empty, and we keep our own gods." Buchard put the bundle of nails into Peter's hands again. "You are a priest."
Peter started. "How did you know?"
"I know."
"I'm not a priest anymore. They threw me out."
Buchard chewed on nothing for a moment. "That should be all right," he said. "But you should not tell anyone else what you once were. Why did they throw you out?"
"I slept with women." And men, he almost added, but didn't.
"That was bad?"
"They thought so."
Buchard seemed to accept that, and left.
It was another cold night. Buchard was right, Peter realized, he would need a place to stay for the winter, and the chapel would need repairs if it was going to do him any good. So the next day he went back and worked in the smithy, and again the day after, and then he spent three days building a new roof. As promised, every day he worked Buchard gave him something else he would need: tools, pots and pans, a lantern. If Peter needed anything Buchard could not make Buchard traded for it from a neighbor: cloth for blankets, hides for clothes, oil for the lamp, wood to make furniture and for the coming winter. In the morning Peter set snares in the forest and most nights, upon returning, he found something to eat in them. Most nights.
Weeks passed. Peter learned that the reason Buchard needed help only for three days at a time was because those were the only days he worked the forge. There was not enough demand to work full-time, so the other days he tended his house or he hunted. Most people in the village (which had no name that Peter ever heard) were hunters who survived by catching just enough to feed their own selves and children. As a man with a trade Buchard was one of the relatively wealthiest people here, and the chickens his wife tended seemed to be a status symbol. Peter suspected this was what gave Buchard the authority to sponsor an outsider in their midst.
Peter's job had until recently belonged to Buchard's boy apprentice, but the boy was gone now. Peter asked what happened to him. "He was burned," Buchard said. "A crucible cracked. Two of his fingers burned almost completely away."
Peter looked at the glowing orange iron in the fire. "What happened to him after that?"
"He is not here anymore," was all Buchard would say. Peter became more mindful of his work from them on.
It grew colder. The chapel was at least habitable now, and Peter was learning the best places to hunt. Since the locals did not like the chapel they rarely hunted near it. Other than Buchard and his wife (who never said a word either to Peter or
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