The Wheelwright's Apprentice

2

2

Three hours, and six miles later, he was tired and hungry. He had been to Joman’s Crossing only once before with the wheelwright to whom he had been apprenticed. Travelling in a cart had seemed uncomfortable and bumpy at the time, but it was infinitely better than slogging it along the rough track on shank’s pony. He knew that there were a couple of farmsteads on the way, but no more, as this close to the border people stayed together for protection. It hadn’t done his village much good, and he hoped that the farms might be able to spare him something, as long as they still existed. The first one should, if his memory served, be very near, and a short time later he saw a thin swirl of smoke in the distance.

Was it from a fire in a fireplace, or was it from a burning building? He stepped away from the track, and carefully made his way closer. Cresting a small rise he could see the farmhouse still standing, and for the first time in a long while he felt his spirits lifting. As he drew closer to the house, he saw the farmer and his two sons come out carrying scythes and cudgels. When he was near enough for them to make out his features, they relaxed and hailed him.

“Are you Kan Wheelwright’s apprentice?”

He nodded assent, and replied, “I am glad you are alive, because no one else from my village is!”

After having told the story of his day, and what he could remember of the night to the farmer, his goodwife and children, he could see only grim expressions. Apparently a riderless horse had passed by earlier, but they had been unable to catch it. They had been worried, and now their worst fears were realized. With a loaf of bread and a nub of cheese for which he had insisted on paying, he hurried on so that he could make Joman’s Crossing before dark.

He tried to make the best time that he could, and although he saw one other farmstead along the way, he chose to pass it by. He really did want to get to Joman’s Crossing before dark, not just to pass on his news to a responsible person, but because, whatever the cost, he wanted a safe, snug night in a bed to help him recover from the shocks that he had not yet properly faced.

It was still twilight as he limped into the market place in Joman’s Crossing. Priorities crossed his mind. Should he look for a room or for the Constable? He knew if it was the room first, he would collapse until midday tomorrow, so reluctantly he trudged to the Constable’s house. The Constable was a young man with a young wife and baby. He was also very kind and professional. He started to listen carefully and then stopped him, saying, “You need to eat, and then we’ll start again and take notes. You have had a great shock and need to relax.”

The Constable’s wife placed a platter in front of him, and he was unable to talk until he had finished it. Afterwards it turned out that he had a very meticulous memory. The Constable was writing every little detail, from the design of the helms to the breed of their horses, the styles of sword and bow, and things that seemed inconsequential to him like the fletching on the arrows. Between swallows of water, as his mouth was dry, he managed to impart everything he had seen. By the time he had finished, his head was on the kitchen table, and he was snoring.

He woke up the next morning on a pallet in the kitchen when the goodwife came in to start cooking breakfast for her family.

“Good morning,” he greeted her, “I guess I just collapsed on you.”

“I am not surprised that you did with the day you had,” she replied, “Did you sleep well?”

“I must have done, as my last memory is sitting at your table with your husband busily writing. Please can you point me towards the jakes?”

He walked to the outhouse, and while there recalled that for him, an outhouse was where it had all started for him. He then drew some water from the well, and washed his hands and face before taking a long cool draught from a second full bucket. He then poured the remainder into the bucket left there for carrying water inside, and brought it in with him.

Once inside, he saw the Constable was up, and greeted him with a cheery, “Good Morning.” He then asked the question he had been avoiding, “What are you going to do now?” Reality descended with a crash that was somewhat softened by the admonition, “Have some breakfast first before you answer!”

Sitting back a few minutes later under the watchful eye of the Constable, and feeling a lot better, he at last managed a smile. He told the Constable, “My mother told me that when I was old enough she would send me to my father. She didn’t know his name, but said that every year during fifth month he would be at a place between Horseford and Midpass, and that I couldn’t miss it!” The Constable let out a huge belly laugh.

“The Count always spends fifth month at his border castle that commands the road into Midpass. He takes his retinue with him, that’s fifty or more men, so you might have trouble working out which one of them you resemble!”

He looked at the Constable. “Now that my mother is dead I really have no choice but to follow her words. I have to be old enough. If I find my father then I will have a place, otherwise...” He looked down and grabbed his head with his hands,”I don’t know what I will do.”

The Constable sat in front of him and said, “Bring your head up and look me in the eye.” When he did, the Constable continued, “Let’s start with your name. I was so busy yesterday that I forgot to ask, and you never volunteered it, so what is it?”

He sighed and looked the Constable in the eye again, and said, “I have been known as Wilson, but my mother always said that my father could choose to change it when he first met me.”

The Constable turned and looked at his wife, who was washing. They caught each other’s eyes, and nodded at each other. The Constable looked back to Wilson and said, “I have to report this to the Capital, but as this happened in the County, I must also report it to the Count. Since you say that you are going to where he is, I am going to ask you to carry a letter to him. I can’t do both.”

Two hours later, having had the directions carefully explained to him, and with the letter and provisions for three days in his pack, he happily set out. As he walked away, the Constable remarked to his goodwife, “Looks like another of the Count’s by-blows. There used to be a lot more of them, or so I was told. I hope he finds his place.”

The road out of Joman’s Crossing was a lot busier than the track from his village. In fact he was passed by several carts, and one of them offered him a lift. He paid for the lift by telling the carter all about the m******e at his village. The name came to his mind now that it was virtually no longer there, and now that he was at a distance from it. It had been called “Dane’s Hamlet”. He wondered if there had been a man called Dane who had once made his homestead there. He wondered if anyone would live there in the future.

The carter, whose name was Erman, became talkative after Wilson had finished his tale, and ruminated, “Haven’t heard of any raiders for five years or more, if not longer. Usually they come over Midpass. Now, since the Count guards it in raiding season, they must have tried for something easier. I don’t know what they get out of it. The Count always retaliates, and they get hurt worse than us. I had an uncle in the Count’s guard, and that’s what he told me, leastwise.”

The cart trundled on, and around midday when Wilson was chewing on a heel of bread that he had found, the cart suddenly lurched and stopped. The carter swore, and got down to have a look. Wilson got down and followed him.

Erman, hands on his hips, looked at Wilson and asked, “D’you know anything about fixing wheels? ‘Cos if ye don’t, ye’ll be walking!”

Wilson did not want to walk, and replied, “I’ll take a look. I was apprenticed to a wheelwright, but I can’t fix everything.”

Wilson got down under the cart to have a good look. Right away he saw the problem, the rim was broken, and there was no way it could be repaired. He looked hard at the rim and thought, “I really do not want to walk thirty miles when I could be riding in this cart.” He let out a deep breath and, looking at the rim, thought, “Please let it be fixed.” He felt just the way he did when he was running, terrified, through what was left of Dane’s Hamlet, and when he looked again, the cart had lurched slightly, and the rim was as new.

Wilson sat stunned beneath the cart, and then Erman called out, “What’s it look like?”

“Give me a minute or two,” he called back. He sat numbly under the cart. After a minute, he started tapping and tapping and then called out, “Looks okay.” He stumbled out from under the cart, and brushed himself off.

“Let’s try it now,” he called out. They set off again while a very surprised Wilson sat beside the carter, completely bemused.

That evening they stopped at an inn. Wilson was told, “You can sleep in the cart if you like, it’s probably cleaner than any bed they have here!”

Erman thought, “A bit of extra security for my load!”

That night Wilson curled up in the back of the cart as soon as he had eaten, and fell fast asleep. Much later, he was woken by the sound of two men speaking in quiet but rough voices. “It’s so easy to steal a cart; we just attach a horse and go!”

“Yes,” his companion replied, “The best thing to stop it being stolen is for them is to take a wheel off.”

Wilson stayed still in the back as he listened to a pair of horses being put in the traces, and thought to himself, “If the wheel was broken, they would have the same problem.” He lay there in the back, terrified of being found by the robbers. He thought, “I wish the wheel was broken again.” He suddenly felt the cart lurch and went cold. What had happened? Was it his doing? What would the robbers do?

One of them stopped and said to the other, “I thought I heard a crack. I’m going to take a look.” A moment later, there was a whispered tirade, and then Wilson heard, “They went one better than taking the wheel off, they left a broken one on, nobody’s fools after all.” He then heard the horses being unhitched and led away. It was a long time after all the noises had ceased that before he was able to get back to sleep. In the morning when he was woken, he first got back under the cart to take a look. The wheel was broken in exactly the same place as it had been before. Squatting down beside it he thought, “If it was me before, then I should be able to do it again.” He tried to remember how he felt when he thought he would have to walk for leagues and leagues, and wished for the wheel to be whole. Abruptly with a lurch, there it was, perfect again in front of him. Hunger clamped itself around his stomach, and he went looking for breakfast.