“I’ll take the shovel now,” said Derry. “You take the marshapples.”
Eynon gathered up the reeds, keeping the dirty ends as far away from his jacket as he could manage. He trailed behind Derry as they skirted the marsh and got back on the road. A hundred feet farther along, the road descended abruptly and they were at the bank of the Rhuthro. Rows of stones across the river marked this as a ford. Eynon could see where the road continued on the far bank. Something that looked like a giant round basket was tied to a small wooden dock to the left of the ford.
“Wash those off,” said Derry. “I’ll get the boat ready.”
“Where’s your boat?” asked Eynon.
Derry laughed and walked along the dock to the big basket.
Eynon knelt near the dock and rinsed the roots of the marshapple plants in the swift-flowing river water. Clouds of dirt sluiced off and dispersed downstream. Eynon followed the flow and saw Derry sitting in the big basket not far away. What would the farmer need to store in a basket that large, Eynon wondered? He finished cleaning the roots, then remembered to fill his goatskin. That accomplished, he stood up, resting the stiff stalks on his shoulder with the damp root-balls away from his back.
His eyes scanned up and down this side of the river, looking for a boat, but couldn’t spot one. He’d read about boats and had seen the baron’s barge at Caercadel, but he’d never ridden in one before. The Wentwash was narrow enough to jump across with a running start and too shallow for even the smallest craft to navigate, except for the tiny sailboat his uncle had carved for him when Eynon was seven.
“Come along, we need to go,” said Derry.
“Where’s your boat?” asked Eynon as he walked toward the dock.
“I’m sitting in it,” said Derry.
“You’re sitting in a basket,” said Eynon.
“It’s a coracle.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a boat.”
“It looks like a basket,” said Eynon.
“Get in, boy.”
“Yes, sir.”
Eynon moved to the end of the dock. Derry was sitting on a board that went from one side of the center of the basket to the other, like a flat handle. The farmer was sitting on the side next to the dock, holding on to a post with one hand.
“Pass those down to me,” said Derry, indicating the marshapple plants.
Eynon extended the plants to Derry, who took them one-handed and positioned them in the middle of basket next to his shovel and something else about the same shape Eynon didn’t recognize.
“Now climb in. Carefully,” said Derry.
Eynon felt awkward wearing his pack and goatskin. The basket didn’t look very sturdy.
“How?” Eynon asked. “I don’t want to put my foot through the bottom.”
“It’s stronger than it looks, lad,” said Derry. “Step over me and put your foot on the thwart.”
“The what?” asked Eynon.
“The board I’m sitting on,” said Derry.
Eynon could sense the farmer was starting to lose his patience, so he sat on the edge of the dock and extended one foot over Derry until it reached the board, touching it tentatively, like he was dipping his toe into a farm pond in early spring. Derry surprised him by releasing the dock, grabbing Eynon’s hips with both hands, twisting him, and forcing him down on the thwart in the empty spot next to Derry. The basket boat bobbed and spun away from the dock, heading downriver.
“There,” said the farmer. “Sit still and don’t shift your weight. You don’t want to capsize us.”
“Yes, sir,” said Eynon. He sat very still, clutching the board with white knuckles and feeling like he had the first time he’d mounted his cousin’s riding horse bareback when he was eleven.
Derry pulled a long, flat-bladed length of carved wood from underneath the thwart and used it to stabilize the circular craft and steer it to the center of the flowing water. Eynon could see more woodland on his left as the river took them north. There was a wall of waving marshapple reeds with their sausage tops to his right. He’d read that bogs bred midges and was glad it was still too early in the season for them.
Taking time to observe his surroundings gave Eynon a chance to slow his breathing. His panic diminished and he no longer felt one wrong move would flip the basket boat and toss him into the current.
“Are midges a problem in the summer?” he asked.
“Are they?” asked Derry. “On the far side of the river they’ll be so thick you could walk on them high enough to touch a cloud in a few months.”
“That bad?” responded Eynon, playing along with the farmer’s exaggeration. “How do you manage?”
“We ward our homes and nearby fields,” said Derry, “but the midges are only a problem for a week or so. Then the swallows and martins arrive to feast during the day and the flying frogs do their part to gobble ’em up after dark.”
“We don’t get many swallows or martins on our side of the mountain,” said Eynon. “Now I know why. We do have a few flying frogs by the Wentwash, though. When my sister was little she caught one and kept it as a pet. They sure can jump and glide.”
“You know the story about the flying frog and the pail of milk, don’t you?” asked Derry.
Eynon politely said he didn’t, even though his father had first told him that tale when Eynon was small. Derry winked, aware of Eynon’s dissembling. The farmer shifted his carved length of wood in the current, centered the coracle on the river, and gave his version. He recounted the story well, explaining how the flying frog who’d fallen into the milk pail kept swimming so vigorously that he churned a raft of butter and used that as a platform to jump out of the pail and glide away. He added an extra twist, saying that anyone who drank the milk or ate the butter from the pail would have their dreams come true.
“I like that part,” said Eynon. “It makes it more of a fairy tale than a simple teaching story.”
“One of my neighbors sells Flying Frog Butter at markets downriver and gets a few pence more per pound for the name,” said Derry.
“Sounds like his dream is coming true,” said Eynon.
“He gets by,” said Derry. “Cider is my cash crop. You’ll have to try some with your dinner tonight.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” said Eynon.
He loved cider. His father had once given him a sip of the strong version he made by pouring off the liquid that didn’t freeze on cold nights. It burned his tongue and tasted strange, but Eynon felt mature for trying it. He wondered if Derry left his cider out on cold winter nights.
Ahead, on the left bank of the river, Eynon could see a gap in the trees. Large flat rocks lined the shore and two long docks on piles extended out into the water. Three boats were tied to them, each a different size. None were round baskets.
“We’re almost there,” said Derry. “Stay where you are when we get to the dock and don’t try to move. Let me do the work until we’re moored and I’ve got all the lines tied. That way, we won’t tip over.”
“Yes, sir,” said Eynon. He didn’t have any plans to move until the little basket boat was secured.
Once they arrived at the dock, Derry firmly connected the boat to the upper piles with ropes, lashing it tight in three places. Derry stowed his carved length of wood and climbed out of the coracle with practiced ease. He took the shovel and marshapple plants Eynon passed up to him. Derry put them on the dock, then reached down to help Eynon disembark. Eynon made the transition without mishap. He considered that boats might not be as frightening as he’d first imagined—though he might have felt differently if the coracle had tipped over. He was also surprised to realize that he hadn’t thought once about the amulet in his pack while he was on the water. Now that he was on dry land, his worry returned. How would he find a free
wizard to help him?
Eynon shrugged to stretch his muscles and adjusted the straps on his pack. Worrying about the amulet could wait until after supper. He put the shovel on one shoulder and the marshapple plants on the other. Both of his hands were full, but it was a convenient way to carry everything. Eynon prepared to follow Derry up a well-worn path and could see a low, wide house with a turf roof behind a screen of oaks and maples up ahead, well back from the river. He smelled smoke from a cooking fire and saw a figure striding down the path to meet them. It was a challenge to make out any details until the figure emerged from the shadow of the trees. It was a young woman with auburn hair and a concerned expression.
“It’s about time you got home,” said the young woman sharply. “Mother is worried sick. We saw the smoke and didn’t know what to think. If you didn’t catch anything and don’t have the marshapples mother asked for there won’t be much on the table for supper.”
“Don’t worry, there are six trout in the cage under the coracle. I’ll clean them before we come up,” said Derry.
The young woman pecked Derry on his cheek and finally took notice of Eynon and his burden.
“Who’s this hayseed?” asked the redheaded young woman. “Another one of your strays?”
“I’m a Haywall,” said Eynon. “My uncle is a Hayseed.”
“Eynon, this charming young lady is my daughter, Meredith,” said Derry. “Merry, this is Eynon. He’s from the other side of the mountain, in the Coombe. If you’d bothered to look on his hat to see his holly you’d know he’s on his wander year. I’ve invited him to dinner and volunteered him to go with you tomorrow to help get those cider barrels to Tyford.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Eynon, giving a slight bow.
Meredith looked him over, took the marshapples off his shoulder with a sniff, turned, and strode away from him up the path.
“Welcome to Applegarth,” said Derry. “Let’s clean some fish.”
Chapter 3
“More is shared at meals than food and drink.”
— Ealdamon’s Epigrams
“The fish is delicious, ma’am,” said Eynon. “It’s the first time I’ve had any.” He wiped his lips, then added, “I love the greens, too.”
Eynon and his hosts were seated around a square dark-wood table on chairs made from birch and willow branches. The table was in front of a wide hearth and rested on a floor tiled with smooth flat stones. A pair of windows—with real glass—faced east and west to the right and left of the hearth. The western window showed a warm red and orange sunset. When Eynon saw the window glass, he realized Derry must be quite wealthy, at least by Coombe standards. Few homes in the Coombe had glass windows.
In the center of the table were tallow candles in tall wooden candlesticks, but they weren’t yet lit. Still, even without their light, Applegarth’s interior had a warm, welcoming glow.
Derry sat at the head of the table with his daughter across from him. His wife, Mabli, sat across from Eynon with her back to the hearth.
Mabli smiled at Eynon. She was a short, round, older woman with cheeks as rosy as apples. Eynon thought she must have dressed up for supper, since she was wearing an embroidered red skirt, a white blouse, and a black vest with more embroidery. His mother had a similar ensemble for festival days and so did his sister.
“The marshapple root is also wonderful,” Eynon continued.
“Thank you, Eynon,” she said. “You’re so polite.”
“All the boys from the Coombe are like that,” said Derry.
Eynon admired Derry’s talent for exaggeration. Some of his friends were a good deal less polite, but he was pleased his parents had raised him to be respectful.
“I made the fish and the roots, but Merry prepared the greens,” continued Mabli as if Derry hadn’t spoken. “She adds spring onions to the tender part of marshapple reeds to give them more flavor.”
“They’re very good,” said Eynon to Meredith.
The girl ignored him and busied herself putting another serving of boiled marshapple root on her plate. She added butter and drank cider from her mug while waiting for it to melt.
Eynon was used to this sort of behavior when his sister was in a snit and took it in stride. He had another sip from his own mug of cider.
“What kind of apples is your cider pressed from?” Eynon asked the parties at the table who were speaking to him. “It’s better than what we make in Haywall.”
“It’s a special blend,” said Derry. “A little sharp, like me. A little sweet, like my charming wife—and a little bit of who knows what, like...” He waved his hand, indicating his daughter, who intentionally ignored him.
“However you make it, I can see why you have regular customers,” said Eynon. The cider had a pleasant alcoholic bite, but wasn’t nearly as strong as the potent version his father made each winter. That was better when saved for special occasions. For everyday drinking, Applegarth cider was perfect. He liked it a lot better than what he and his family usually drank—his mother’s small beer.
Derry beamed and looked proud, acknowledging Eynon’s praise. Mabli glanced from Meredith to Eynon and back again, as if willing her daughter to stop being rude and join the conversation.
Meredith was still wearing the simple dress she’d worn when she’d come down the path to meet her father and Eynon. There were wet spots on her sleeves—probably from preparing the greens, Eynon thought. He liked the way she seemed to take pleasure in her eating and didn’t pick at her food like some of the Haywall girls did on festival days when they wanted to impress boys with their dainty appetites, pretending to be high ladies from Caercadel. She had managed to finish almost everything on her plate without looking directly at Eynon once.
“Would you like more marshapple root, Eynon?” asked Mabli. “And more greens? Remember to save room for the baked apples with honey. I’m keeping them warm by the side of the hearth. They’re Merry’s favorite.”
Like a quarrel from the small crossbow Eynon had found by the tree, Meredith shot a sharp look at her mother and returned to removing the last bits of her fish from their bones.
“I’d love more marshapple root,” said Eynon, “and more greens, too.” I’ll never be accused of having a dainty appetite, he thought. Digging the firebreak had made him quite hungry. So had the flood of fear he’d felt when a fireball had blazed from his hand.
Mabli gently slid two bowls down the table to Eynon.
“Pass the butter to our guest,” Mabli instructed her daughter.
“Yes, Mother,” said Meredith, shoving the butter crock toward Eynon. She raised her head defiantly and shifted her strategy, deciding to be actively hostile instead of simply ignoring him. Eynon had been waiting for the change—his sister could only stay silent for so long before her temper appeared when she had moods like this. He buttered his roots and greens and savored generous portions of both. After he’d eaten half a plateful, he had an idea.
“Do you think I could make a go of hauling marshapple plants over the mountain to the Coombe when I get back from my wander year?” Eynon asked. “Would you sell me some? I’m sure they’d be popular in Haywall and Brynhill, especially if there was a regular supply.”
Derry rubbed his chin, considering. “I’ve got acres of wet land on the far side of the river that’s good for nothing except marshapples,” he said. “I expect we could work out a trade. What would you carry from the Coombe to this side of the mountain?”
Eynon considered the question. It would have to be something light—and valuable—to make the exchange worthwhile. He didn’t want to tell Derry about his father’s trick with freezing cider. He suspected Derry knew about that already, since cider was his business. The women of the Coombe did excellent embroidery, but judging from Mabli’s vest and skirt, so did the people of the Rhuthro valley. The village hi
ves in Haywall produced fine honey, though, and there were enough wildflowers to support more bees.
“I don’t know, sir,” said Eynon. “I’m not sure what you need here. Honey, maybe?”
“I like a lad who knows how to say, ‘I don’t know,’” said Derry. “Most would try to force an answer and prove their ignorance.”
“He seems pretty ignorant to me,” said Meredith with a frown.
Eynon grinned at Meredith to show that her new strategy wasn’t working.
“Merry!” said Mabli.
Meredith pouted at her mother and turned to her father.
“Really, Da, how can he carry enough marshapple plants to make it worth his while? He’s only one boy and two dozen would be more than he could manage on any one trip.”
“What do you say to that?” Derry asked Eynon. “Could you transport enough plants to make it pay?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Eynon repeated.
Derry smiled and winked at his wife.
“That’s a good answer at this stage,” said the farmer. “You’ll have to learn a lot more before you’ll know if it makes sense. And honey might be something good to trade. Bog flowers don’t make the best tasting honey, so a new flavor might find buyers on this side of the mountain.”
“Thank you,” said Eynon. “I hope I’ll have a chance to discuss the idea in more detail when I get back. I’ll need to talk to my mother about what she paid the peddler for marshapple roots. I could probably get more if I sold the fresh greens, too.”
The Congruent Apprentice (The Congruent Mage Series Book 1) Page 3
