The Wheelwright's Apprentice

5

5

Art sat down numbly for a moment. The Count called for a page, but not very loudly. Instantly, a young man came in, and the Count said to him, “Dano, this is Art. He is now my apprentice and a member of my household. Take him to Quorn and ask him to arrange a bed, some more clothes and lessons with Master Simvil, starting as soon as he can arrange it.” The Count turned to Art and told him, “I will see you when I get back.”

Things were by now moving at a rate that was beginning to overwhelm Art. It was a challenge trying to come to terms with all the changes in his life. He was assigned a bed in a room with three other boys. Since one turned out to be Gorgy, Art assumed that the others would be of a similar age. He had been issued clothes which he stored in the room, and now looked forward to some free time as he did not have to start lessons until the next day.

He went wandering around, being careful not to get into anyone’s way. He saw the stables, watched some soldiers leave with the Count, and generally tried to familiarize himself with his new but temporary home. Then just as he thought he should lie down while he had the chance, he heard a shout behind him of, “You, boy, come here.”

Conditioned as he was from being apprenticed to a wheelwright, he automatically turned around and started running towards the voice, which proved to belong to a big man with a black beard, “Here I need your help.” The man thrust a large sack into his hands, and said, “Follow me.” They went down to the kitchen, back up and down again five or six times until they were finished. It was hard work. The man turned to Art and said, “I don’t know you, but you look familiar.”

“I am Art,” he replied hastily biting off the urge to say Wilson. “I am new here.”

The man stretched his face out into a wide grin, “That’s how I caught you then!” he said, “See that little crest on your shoulder, the fox!” Art looked around, pulling his jerkin so he could see it better. There was a little fox. “That makes you part of the Count’s household, and its location tells everyone you are an apprentice. You are fair game for anyone who needs help with anything. Apprentices have a habit of being scarce most of the time! I am Jack, or big Jack sometimes. Now, run away before anyone else catches you!”

Going back to his shared room, Art found Gorgy and two other boys. The new boys gave him a slow appraisal and said, “You look like the Count, but without the beard.”

Gorgy put in, “I wonder why?”

Art countered, “It doesn’t matter if I look like him, I still had to carry six sacks of vegetables from the courtyard to the kitchen pantry just now for Big Jack. I am the same as you, an apprentice, and I know a lot less than you or I wouldn’t have been caught! I am Art, and I would be from Dane’s Hamlet if there was anything left of it. Everyone in my village except me and a few pretty girls were killed three days ago.”

One of the new boys looked at the other and said, “That’s why the Count went raiding today then!”

The boys smiled at Art, and said, “He is Evan.”

“And he is Orman.”

“Good to know you,” they chorused.

Gorgy said, “Forgive them, they’re twins.” He followed with, “I’d better show you around then.”

“You had better show him some good hiding places too!” Evan added.

The next morning, Art was woken by Evan giving him a shake. He remembered his experience of the day before, and gingerly experimented by moving a leg. Agony it wasn’t. Uncomfortable and distracting, definitely. He thought of ‘curing’ himself, but after trying to muster the Will to do it for a few moments, he realized that it really wasn’t that bad, so he gave up trying. Climbing down from his bunk made him think for a moment that he had been an i***t, but that movement, and the process of washing and dressing himself eased things up enough that he had a smile on his face when Orman showed him to the apprentices breakfast room. That smile had vanished by the time he had climbed all the stairs to Master Simvil’s room.

Master Simvil seemed to be a kindly, older man and his behaviour suggested him to be not a little bit eccentric. Art sat down rather uncomfortably at the lone desk in the dusty office, and spent a few moments arranging his legs and backside. He had decided not to wish the pain away as he thought it might be just as easy to warm up his muscles, and hope the pain would go away on its own. It hadn’t yet, but it was tolerable. Master Simvil bumbled around. He appeared to be totally scatterbrained. He asked himself questions and then answered them himself. Eventually when he had managed to tell himself where the books he needed for the day were kept, he sort of settled down.

“Why is this old man nervous?” Art asked himself. Because of course Art was.

Master Simvil placed two books in front of Art, opened one, and asked, “Can you read anything off this page?”

His reply, “No, not a thing,” was from Master Simvil’s point of view a very discouraging response.

“Oh dear, we’ll have to start from the very beginning then!” Master Simvil murmured to himself. Art then started learning the absolute basics of reading and writing. He found it hard going, to the obvious distress of Master Simvil. On the third morning Master Simvil said, “You are not making the progress that the Count expects. He told you specifically you could use your talent to help you learn, yet it seems you haven’t. He said I could tell you that if you couldn’t reach a level that satisfies me in a week, that he would paralyze you until you did.”

“What does ‘paralyze’ mean?” Art asked with some trepidation.

“It means that your legs won’t work.”

Art sat silently digesting this snippet, and after a short period of reflection asked Master Simvil, “I don’t know what to wish for, what do you suggest?”

“I am not an expert on this but I have taught several children like you. Wishing for your memory to retain what I tell you might work. Wishing to know it won’t.”

Art pondered a moment and then observed, “I wished to know how to get out of that funny bedroom, and that worked.”

Master Simvil commiserated, “Sorry, that was different. The room was primed to show the answer to any strong use of the Will. Try wishing to remember, and we’ll see how it goes.”

Art sat back in his chair and wondered, “How do I do this?” So Art thought about not being able to move his legs. This was sufficiently frightening to give him a bit of motivation so, thinking of the consequences, he fervently wished to be able to remember his lesson, and while he thought of it, he also wished to keep his attention from wandering. After a minute he sat back up and told Master Simvil, “I tried something, but I don’t know if it’ll work until we start, so we’d better start.”

They started another session of simply learning the alphabet and putting together simple words. Things seemed to be going a lot better, and by lunchtime Art was reading simple sentences. Master Simvil was pleased, so he said, “Now I want to see you write something.” Art was given a stylus and a slate and asked to copy the letters. The result was ghastly. Art had never written anything before, and his letters were crawling all over the place like drunken spiders.

“You need to give yourself a bit of help here, I think,” observed Master Simvil. Master Simvil got out another book and said, “Here are the letters, and here is what they should look like when they are written. See if you can copy them exactly. Wish to be able to do so first, and remember you’ll be paralyzed if you don’t!”

Art concentrated on the thought of being paralyzed and said a few moments later, “Let me try again now.” He tried, but it was all still indecipherable. Master Simvil walked over to a drawer, pulled out a foot long knife and said, “If you don’t get it together, I am going to start cutting your fingers off your left hand one by one!” He then lurched across the room and made a stab for Art’s left hand. Art got up and started retreating down the corridor while Master Simvil followed him waving the knife and shouting.”If you can get it on this try, I won’t cut anything off!”

As Art reached the top of the stairs, he willed himself mightily to be able to copy the letters and then said, “Let me try again.”

Master Simvil gave an evil smile and said, “Good luck!” He stood over Art running his finger up and down the blade hopefully. Fortunately for Art, this time it seemed that he had managed to spell himself adequately. Master Simvil ended up sitting happily while suggestively fondling the knife. By the time they heard a distant bell announcing supper, Art had progressed quite acceptably and was writing whole sentences. Master Simvil put the knife away.

Later that evening, Art returned to his shared room. The twins followed him in, and asked him about his day. He immediately recounted what had been, for him, the most memorable event of the day. “Master Simvil chased me out of the room and down the corridor waving a huge knife. It was very frightening.” Both the twins fell about laughing saying, “That knife is blunt, he couldn’t cut paper with it!” Art deflated and started laughing with them.

Next day, Art arrived early, looking forward to learning with Master Simvil. He was actually waiting when Master Simvil arrived. “My, you are keen! Let’s see what you remember from yesterday.” Art sat down in his place and picked up his stylus hopefully, while Master Simvil told him what to write. It was immediately apparent that he had forgotten everything from the day before. Master Simvil went crazy. He shouted, “You lazy bastard, what sort of a useless spell did you put on yourself yesterday?” He strode to the drawer, and took out a different knife saying, “This is a sharp one, look!” Simvil brought the knife down on a nearby chair, and it cut straight through the chairback. Art quailed as Simvil followed up with, “You have one minute to remember everything from yesterday, or this’ll cut off more than a finger!” Simvil edged towards Art who by now had retreated fearfully towards the door, but found it had been locked. Simvil suddenly raised his knife and plunged it towards Art.