Axiom Read online

  The longhouse was lined with tables which had one side pressed against the walls. This provided room for children—and people who did not wish to get in the middle of things—to sit and have their meal. This was a gentle way to cover for their pride; not having a seat at the long table meant you would not be heard even if you did wish to speak. On top of the already stuffed space, an extra wide table had been hauled in and pressed between two others so the visiting trader could arrange his wares.

  That the merchant, Boro, had arrived a moon sooner than expected had been a saving grace to keep people occupied. As much as it was an additional disturbance for the poorly tempered crone, she held her salty tongue. While the village had some larger matters to discuss on trade, individual villagers were neither barred nor prohibited from using their personal stock of goods to barter, measure, and exchange for whatever Boro may have brought.

  A considerable amount of the afternoon had been spent with at least a dozen people setting up a tool known as a ‘scale’. It measured the weight of a person’s salt or other goods; though the precise calibration required was a considerable undertaking in a place that wasn’t known for the most level of floors.

  The time-consuming task spawned a not-so-friendly recurring joke since the nearby area of work was named the flats—seamstresses quipped that the trader wasn’t the sort of man who got his ‘feet’ wet after a day of hard work. An array of goods, clothes, trinkets, glassware, and other goods were on proud display as the absolute peacock of a merchant shimmied his rump through the constant mess of questions and quibbles.

  Boro was prancing, proud to show off all sorts of illustrious knick-knacks, toys, and cooking implements with a bard’s flair. There had nearly been a riot during the sale of a cast iron cooking pot that came with its own sing-song story. The entire circus had put a significant delay on the evening's events, and it all served to work on Elder Switch’s frayed nerves. The first snap of her newly carved switch was as crisp as ever.

  “Where is that blundering old fool? You! Boy!” Her voice snarled as she looked for a victim. The fresh switch snapped, and ended up pointing at the youngest sproutling. “Fetch!”

  The youngest hadn’t been paying full attention and looked around to see if it was really him that had been addressed. Maybe he’d be lucky, and it was someone else th–

  *Switch*! Accompanied by a pointed gaze in his direction, another snap of the rod made the sproutling’s heart drop into his stomach.

  “Wh-wh…?” he stammered out under the buzzing burden of ambient noise.

  “You heard me, boy! Fetch the old idiot!” Small gears slowly turned in his head. He jumped right up and sped out of the longhouse. A *tsk* could have been heard behind him had he bothered listening to it. Instead, his arms went into the air. He was free! Free from the longhouse, its noisy people, and stuffy air; he normally was not allowed to escape this early. The cranky Elder had given him a convenient way out—and to find one of his favorite people, no less!

  The youth was skipping by the time he arrived at the A-frame home. Then he leaned his face right into the window and took a deep breath, preparing for some sanctioned noisemaking. Clearly, making very loud sound was the best way to get someone’s attention when it was otherwise mouse-silent between sonorous snores.

  The burst of noise never made it past his lips. Instead, a frown settled on the youth as he, somewhat deflated, decided to clamber through the sabotaged window instead of releasing a sonic attack. Who needs doors? His impact crunched forgotten nutshells and *popping* sounds came from underfoot as he hopped down. The home was dark, save for the moonlight beaming through the window and numerous scattered holes in the walls. He found the Elder seated and face down on a table covered in vellum, spilled ink, and a few broken quills. The young boy nudged the Elder in the arm.

  “Elder. Elder, they’re waiting for you.” The boy jumped back with a stumble as the Elder jarred awake and bolted upright with a deep nasal inhale. A nasty *crack* in his back followed.

  “Hhhmmm? Who is… oh… oww…” The Elder’s clenched hand pressed to the small of his back. Eyes squeezed shut and his grimace was plain to see even with the lack of light illuminating his face. The old man sucked in a breath between his teeth and let a slow exhale release from his bulbous nose. “I’ve got this. I’m good.”

  When the pain of age had faded, he wondered where all his sun had gone. Thinking that would be an excellent thing to ask, he turned in his wooden chair but didn’t get past the young boy sputtering out a stifled snort as the Elder’s ink-marked face came into full view. Finger marks dotted his long beard and cheeks; obvious rubs to the forehead were deeply smeared. When the Elder looked down at his hands, he could see there were several dark patches.

  Given there wasn’t too much of a mess on his hands, the majority of it must have lined his face with the sublime skills of a toddler’s art project. His writing digits were more smudged than the rest, along with the entire underside of his hand that followed to his wrist down from the pinky. The grogginess of slumber lifted swiftly enough. Physically, he might have been a wreck, but his mind remained sharp as he took stock.

  Luckily for him, the old man’s intellect tended to do the heavy lifting. “I take it I’m late for the meal and the village talk?” he weakly asked with a partial eyebrow lifted, hands hopelessly trying to wipe dried ink off on his stained robe. It was to no avail. The deep smudge was stuck to his hands until he bathed, and given he was likely already late, comfort would have to wait. “Always with the ink…”

  The quick nods from the youngest were indication enough that he was correct. Packing the vellum and scroll-binding them in haste, he stepped with ragged swiftness from his premises. *Oh-whoo*. Trying his best to ignore the dizziness of getting up too fast, his hand solidly pressed to the left side of an aching hip. That’s what he got for falling asleep while writing. Again.

  Even with his favorite pillow under his butt, it wasn’t quite enough to work in comfort. He stumbled on in the direction of the longhouse, and he would have made it too if the *thok… thok* of an axe falling to split wood had not reached his ears. That was odd… Everyone should have been in or near the longhouse, as work didn’t go into the night for safety’s sake.

  Stealing a glance behind him, he saw the young man trailing on his heels. A sour expression hung solidly on the youth’s face as he leered directly at the longhouse. No words needed to be said for him to express just how much he didn’t want to go back there. The Elder vocally made a decision as he turned on his foot. “We’re taking a detour!”

  The young man brightened at the chance for more time not spent near stick-lady. It barely took two minutes for them to move around all the A-frame homes and arrive at an open space that held soaring stacks of chopped wood. The chopped lumber was stored and ordered in very precise and specific measures, each pile holding an even amount.

  “Choppy?” the Elder called the inquiry as a very large, puffy-faced man came into view. The lumbering man didn’t react, still just neatly arranging the next logs to be turned into firewood. Choppy’s almond-shaped eyes were sunk in, and the other villagers tended to give him some space, as he ‘wasn’t all there’ and the man didn’t communicate well.

  Sure, his face was flat and the lad had tiny ears in comparison to the rest of the villagers, but the old Elder held firm that when it came to handling the firewood, there was simply no one better. Since Choppy could not hear very well, the Elder beckoned the youngest to his side with a motion and nudged the boy behind his robe so no rogue splinters could fling his way. After getting the youngling out of harm’s way, he simply sat on one of the larger logs, awaiting attention.

  Choppy, being distracted, tired, and hungry was surprised when he turned from his work to see the Elder mysteriously sitting there. A crooked but genuine smile broke out on Choppy’s elated face, and the Elder rose to open his arms wide in welcome as he got up. Choppy didn’t hesitate to melt into the hug, still smiling as he tried to blurt
out words to say seven things at once. All that came out was garbled nonsense.

  The Elder patted him on the back, listening regardless but didn’t release the hold. He was of the firm belief that it was the child who determined the length of the hug, as you just never knew how deeply they needed one. Sure enough, Choppy was in no mood to let go after having been avoided by the majority of people for yet another day.

  “It’s alright, my boy, it’s alright. Look!” he said as he pointed to a large stack of neatly carved firewood nearby. “That one is new! So big! Good! I’m proud of you, my boy.”

  The warmth of a parent radiated from the Elder’s hold as he praised the very much adult-sized child’s work. The youth behind the Elder had shrunk away, his face contorted as he held the sides of his robe.

  “Elder…” the youth whined out, not finding this particularly comfortable. The Elder, unlike the youth, felt no such pity. Choppy was genuinely doing his best for the village, and the old man again assured the man-child he was remembering that fact. The Elder lightly tugged on his upper back.

  “Come eat. I can hear your stomach growling from my house. How about a nice big bowl of stew in the longhouse? Hmm?” Choppy received another supportive pat to the shoulder and began to move. Finding the opportunity, the old man hooked his arm around Choppy’s to pull him along. The lumberjack was elated to be included, and while the mostly coherent noises he made didn’t follow his actions, a strong step forward from the Elder made the two children fall right in tow.

  For about… two steps. Until the youngest was also holding to the Elder by his sleeve on the opposing side, not remotely interested in being left out. The Elder blanched as he approached the longhouse, shaking his head at the sounds spilling out into the night. It appeared that Switch had blown her top.

  “I don’t care if he’s not here! A delinquent Elder like him is not necessary for this village, and if he’s going to shirk his–” The rusty-hinge squeak of the main door interrupted the words, and the old hag’s eyes snapped to him. Everyone present could swear that the temporary reprieve was only so she could inhale her breath faster. They all knew that she was about to begin an entirely new outpouring of derogatory commentary. Some adults even had their hands over their children’s ears in preparation of the onslaught.

  “Apologies, all. It appears someone neglected to fetch our dear woodcutter.” While his words were soothing, the glare the Elder gave the congregation was anything but an apology. His silent displeasure that the community would leave Choppy by himself to hunger filled the room. That this Elder was displeased as well only slathered additional guilt butter on the already burnt-toast emotions of the people present.

  “Choppy has been cutting so much firewood without end that there is now an entire additional cord of it in his workspace! So, for the foreseeable future, everyone is to take double their ordinary amount.”

  His words set his proverbial foot down, and rather than walk all the way to the opposite end of the table, he chose to settle for somewhere near the middle so the children on either side of him didn’t have to leave. This also gave people a way out of needing to retreat due to embarrassment.

  “I believe that calls for a congratulatory double portion in an extra big bowl! Along with a nice pat to Choppy’s back when you pass! After all, thanks to him, you’ll all be warmer. I expect your appreciation to be loud enough for even me to hear it when you do so!” He slid into the seat and was more surprised to see all the silenced glances directed at him rather than the muttered acceptance of what he’d asked of them.

  “Why is everyone staring? I said all of that out loud, correct?” The befuddled question hung in the air only to be answered by a shrill retort.

  “You! Are! Filthy!” The accompanying sharp, wooden snap to the table set everyone abuzz once more.

  The ink-marked Elder calmly laced his fingers, sat upright, and turned his face in the direction of the head of the table to lever his retort. His voice was filled with absolute sass as he spoke, “Indeed, Elder. Some of us do work that actually helps the village, and that tends to leave a mark at times.”

  A breathy, communal ‘Oooh’ rang out. It seemed the main entertainment and debate of the evening had begun. Passersby interrupted the deep, furious breathing of Elder Switch with their soft voices, patting Choppy on the shoulder to leave some words of kindness and a crunchy piece of bread that had originally been a scrap they didn’t finish.

  Choppy cared for none of that, beyond happy to have more of this tasty, crunchy, delicious thing while inhaling huge spoonfuls of a stew that was a thick mixture of vegetables, poultry, and fish. Bowls were provided to the Elder and the youth as well, but per his instruction, one of the larger bowls had been used for Choppy, who had been alone all day with his work.

  Elder Switch’s ire was not something that was doused by a meager distraction, and she chose to negate his quip in favor of going on the attack. “You are late. You are filthy. Your face is smudged, and your robe is unsightly. How did you even get brown, green, and black on you all in the same day?”

  She hurled the irritation at him and didn’t give him a moment to sass a clever retort. “You have had the entire village waiting on you, and you ignored us in favor of having your head in the clouds! At least now, we can finally come to a proper agreement on things that should have been decided the last time the merchant was here.”

  “Things which were only held up because you could not be reasonable!” Her accusatory, gnarled finger stabbed at him through the air. Elder Switch looked like her eyes were going to pop out of their sockets from how large they had become. The spittle from her mouth had those nearby recoil to avoid an impromptu shower, though more from fear of sudden rod-lash than some paltry saliva. “Then… then! You get here long after the meal is at its best, and you bring two worthless saplings to the grand table to sit with everyone of import?”

  The patient Elder slipped in a quick and determined response, “I sure did.”

  “No! Children do not get to sit at the long table.” Stick swishing, the Elder needed a moment to catch her breath. The screech of her voice caused a now very discomforted youth to feel stiff, legs already shifting half-off the bench in preparation to make himself scarce and run.

  The ink-stained Elder laid a shielding hand on the sproutling’s upper back, giving a calm and steady reply against the shouting crone who was being painfully haughty, “I placed him at the table, and that gives him full right to sit here.”

  Sure enough, an Elder’s word that one was allowed did very much provide precedence for them to take a seat at the long table. The youth was not required to leave, as per the rules.

  “Not him,” Elder Switch snapped. “The other one.”

  Switch believed she was cleverly quipping as she moved the goalposts of the argument to suit her needs. The patient Elder merely copied the previous movement and laid his hand on the back of a very voracious and distracted eater, still shoveling food into his endless tunnel of a mouth.

  “No, no. Choppy has a name and is therefore considered a full adult. Pay attention, Switchy, you’re starting to slip in your old age.” The not-so-covert snort that went around the room was neither silent nor hidden. The majority of the villagers did cover their mouths, pretending not to notice the slight as Switch went red.

  They could feel Elder Switch’s eyes going bloodshot as the calm, simpering, and very much relishing-the-sass Elder began chomping away at a very needed dinner. The similarities to how the Elder and Choppy were eating brought a mercurial glint to Switch’s eyes. “Well, at least it seems that you eat like your family.”

  The quip was mean, drawing a connection from how filthy he appeared to how messy the adjacent children were eating in similar food-scarfing fashion. The youth was eating fast, but that was more to get as much food in his tummy as possible before being dismissed from the big table on top of keeping his head down. People tended not to bother you as much when you had your head down.

  Repea
tedly knocking on his chest to get a big clump of fish swallowed down, the Elder nodded with a hiccup to Switch’s words. “Indeed, I do!”

  His spoon waved around, the motion indicating everyone in the longhouse. “What a beautiful family it is. Filled with strong people, good sproutlings, proud adults, and one excellent set of meal makers. Who made this delicacy, and may I please have another?”

  *Mmm*. “Yummy!” He scanned around while lifting his now empty bowl. The Elder was scraping the sauce out with his spoon and eagerly swapped the bowls when one of the Mill workers came to trade it out. “Thank you, my sweet dear.”

  “You’re welcome, Elder,” muttered a big man—built from nothing but muscle—who nodded, blushed just a little, and silently had a better day. Then he returned to his table near the cooking pit, where he was teased and prodded by the others who worked in the Mill. That shining pink blush was just so precious on him.

  Chapter Eight

  Elder Switch was seething. Her vision snapped to various members of the village, each of whom felt their laughter die when their chortling was noticed by her strained, twitching eyes. Thankfully, Boro could still be seen fiddling about in the back, providing a necessary distraction. Forced to change topics, the room hastily returned to exchanging gentle pleasantries.

  Using Boro’s chatter as cover, people averted their eyes from the dissent-seeking pair of ancient, judgmental orbs, conveniently finding something else to quibble about. The merchant verbally danced his way through deals like a sommelier at the wine market. The trader occasionally sipped from a very costly looking, dwarven-made tankard as business once again slid his way. Ah, the volatile ups and downs of a local market.

  Switch wasn’t keeping her temper as easily as her academic opposition. Her fingers were clenched on her switch, knuckles tensing white from sheer grip. She was not losing hold of this village! She was not. The Elder felt horrendously displeased that she wasn’t the main focus of the evening, and her words impatiently stabbed to the heart of the matter, “Since you’re so jovial, Elder, we can get right into the discussion on the new trading agreement.”