A Small Hour

By morning her arms are laden with water-heavy oak tub, wrists swollen from the rhythmic beat of homespun to washboard. Shoulders stooped, aching, even after two decades not immune to the pounding routine.

By morning her arms are laden with bushels of moments-ago-picked ears of white corn, silk gowns awaiting the moment of husking where the sticky strands shall cling persistently to the side of hand, kettle, skirt.

She brushes an errant wisp of graying curl from her forehead, tucks it behind her ear and back into the thinning braid where it will stay a good ten minutes, and turns to task - next is the dinner meal for the fourteen come in from harvest. Stirs a boiling pot of stew with a deft touch and turns quick a practiced hand to slam rising rye dough into submission.

She lives within the momentum of life, large hours which march past, grave soldiers on parade-a pace which ceases not a whit from the moment she awakens until she gives herself up to exhausted sleep. It will not end; it cannot end, for to end would mean a task undone, a chore unfinished, a child unfed. Unforgivable.

I seek, the storyteller thinks to herself, a small corner of the hearth and a small corner of light by which to write, and a small hour to do so.

In day she scrapes charred wax remnants from around the base of the hand-carved wooden candlestick and into the low cast-iron pot to melt, a new taper to birth when the level reaches the lower lip.

In day she stomps the ground and kicks a booted foot against the weathered henhouse door, fair warning to snake and widow of her gathering task, basket crooked upon her sore left elbow, of which John shall not hear. Tired smile as she instructs Elizabeth, her middle daughter, in nuances of the art.

She pauses in her snap bean canning to rock wee Luke, scrunched apple face relaxing from his cries of hunger as eight-week old fists tap against her breast in suckling cadence. Boon child, seventh son, son of a seventh son, grand future assured.

Her day fills with large hours, huge tasks granting little but sustenance in return, a maddeningly constant run to stand still against the tide of life. A moment's thought is a respite, a drawn breath a lazy riverside picnic, a rest beneath a tree a full-blown retreat. Large hours loom before her faster than she can live them away. She lives them without pause, without thinking, seemingly without choice.

I seek, the lore mistress thinks quietly to herself as her new bairn nurses, the quiet radiance of the day's end fire, the quiet radiance of the day's end silence in which to write, and a small hour to do so.

The eve and, eyes barely open, her head nods as John lifts the massive Bible from its anointed spot next to his seat at the long dinner table and drones yet again through Exodus over the stew platter. Moses and gravy, pharaoh and potato. Let my people eat...

The eve, she sends each child in turn to wash, prayer and bed, each escorting the next, young man down to toddler. Last pot scrubbed and wiped with care, girls' braids brushed out and twined for sleep, the maelstrom of the day begins to quiet.

The darning basket glares at her in grave accusation through slowly dimming firelight. Another log shall not be spent, for purple threads lace the sky with the sun's descent, and a farmer's day begins before the morrow's rise. She retrieves a stocking and examines the frayed cuff in the waning light. A dozen stitches will serve.

John yawns broadly, stands from his heavily carved chair next to the fire, and stretches his work-weary frame tiredly, then tucks himself behind their curtain to an early bed. His large hours end for the moment, that they may begin again before dawn weaves a pale quilt upon the eastern sky. She nods at his retreating back then resumes careful stitching in the wavering candlelight.

I seek, the songstress thinks to herself as she loops back and ties off, the mahogany writing box tucked beneath the corner of the hand-stitched blue wedding ring quilt in the far corner.

I seek... the possessor of prose and phrase, feeling in her mind the coolness of the pen's surface in her work-wrenched fingers... just... a small hour...

I seek...

Pushing away the stocking and decades of weariness with all her might, she bends and retrieves the box from its hidden place, and sets it reverently upon her lap. Fingers peruse the soft inlays of the parquet top, seek in the darkening for the filigree surrounding the silver clasp upon its shallow lid. Release and lift it to the scent of the dusty contents, precious paper edge curled from time and silence. A tired bit of ivory-hued lace ribbon falls away with a tug. Freed, words struggle forth at first, then pace, then leap.

Bent over from a hunger no supper can feed, she gathers the phrases to her breast, old friends long written. Her eyes mist and she blinks as time rolls away and the ink becomes yet again fresh.

The squat-browed dwarf stood before the crude doorway (she reads as she spreads the paper out of its curl) and stared up at the lass who stood within its wood confines. The hem of his brown robe spewed dust upon her freshly swept porch, and she frowned slightly, preparing to send him on his way with a glance.

An overwhelming aura of sadness rifted from his soul to hers in the still air, and she stepped back involuntarily with a muted gasp. He glanced downward, heart heavy, and then shook his head. His left hand curved around his walking stick and he gestured westward in response to her unspoken question. With his right he beckoned her down to listen, then coughed to clear the dryness from his travel-parched throat.

"I, Meldanor, implore thee... a taste of water only, for such as yourself would possess no strong ale, I fear...

"Turn me away not, mistress, for the journey has been most hard upon these bones and I would not tarry but for my weariness of soul and feet. Were my mission not of such import, I would not beg drink from such beauty as yourself, but it is, and I must...

"For I am one with the land (she pens carefully, having moistened the tiny ink block remnant with particular care) and, being so am its guardian as well. It falls to me to care for cave and cove, field and fen, vale and swale."

And so it was Mistress Carter came to welcome the dwarven chief Meldanor to her home. Their duties similar, she thought with a smile as she fetched him a flask of her father's stout, for she cared for the home and hearth and was guardian to her father's farmlands, which stretched as far as a man could ride in five days on a good horse.

The candle gutters.

She looks up with distracted annoyance as the last of the flame sinks into the growing pool of darkness and beeswax. Sighs.

With careful hands she replaces the papers and quill pens to their repository, wraps the still-damp and diminished tiny block of ink inside its crumpled bit of waxed paper. Closes the precious box, fingers caressing the filigree with mute wish. Stolen time.

The night and dark, she sits staring silent at the lifeless embers of fire. Their glow barely casts a shadow from the andirons across her home-woven rag rug before the hearth. Naught is wasted now, even wood to warm. In the dark she smiles; Luke burps softly as he frets in the nearby crib. Behind the tattered brown curtain John snores his weariness away until it is time to begin yet another day of harvest.

The night and dark, she seeks the wooden combs with blind touch, letting loose the thinning braid. Carefully runs sore fingers through to de-tangle what were once flowing amber locks, decades ago. Brushes quietly as she thinks, absently rocking the babe's crib with a stockinged foot.

I seek, the farmwife smiles sadly to herself, her eyes seeking the magical box within the darkness of the small room, where carefully hidden it lives for such small hours, tiny secret, ever hers.

By morning she bends low to grasp the lacy top of yet another scrawny carrot to join its companions in the basket over the crook of her sore left elbow (of which John shall never hear). The bread dough rises while another task tears her away.

By morning she strips the bones from the boiled fowl's meat and forms the pie crust for the midday meal, floured hand dancing between task and rocking Luke's crib, tiny marks of white upon its battered and darkened rail.

She pauses in her baking to show Sarah the manner of the rolling pin and dough, watching in pride as her youngest daughter produces a misshapen oblong of flour and lard. She places it with great honor atop the chicken pieces, and marks it with the child's initials.

For a moment she is standing in her mother's kitchen, nose high to a monstrous oak slab of a table upon which a dozen fruit and meat pies are being constructed with care. The pace is frantic and her Ma moves with the speed of a flooding river, determined, focused. Yet not so focused that she has not the time to show a small amber-haired child the manner of the rolling pin and dough, nor so busy she will not take the moment to place the misshapen results atop a panful of cherries and grandly engrave this child's initials atop.

I seek, the story-weaver smiles to herself, a twin of me - one may scribe the tales and wind the story carefully upon the spindle, as the other sleeps in the small hours.

In day she passes well-worn knife across the skins of a pair of rabbit invited to supper stew, her pots scrubbed fresh from the dinner repast. Carefully she sets aside the soft belly fur and pelt. Naught is wasted.

In day she hikes her skirts up above her ankles and retrieves a small dust-hued lamb from an ill-thought trip into the mud of a sty. The bleating tears her heart and she glances toward the house, mindful of her babe's solitude.

She mutters to herself as she closes the gate and scoots the lamb back to its flock, shielding her eyes with her hand as she stares across the pasture green for its erstwhile keeper. A brown cap nods atop a tired head, its owner Paul leaned lazily against a sycamore across the way.

As she crosses the yard at the base of the hill, she rights a fallen butter churn, noting the scarred handle and empty chamber, and frowns slightly. Then adds to her list of things she must soon teach another daughter, undiminished of energy and curiosity, untainted by the drudgery of the large hour tide.

I seek, the tale-keeper sighs as she trudges back up the hill to the small house, a time to write, to spin the yarns within me, which hum the mystical fables in the back of my mind.

The eve and she stares in tired silence down the long table as her considerable family eats quietly, slaking workday-induced hunger with her stews and pies and bowls of victuals grown and caught. John glances up from inhaling his dinner and catches her eye, then looks down to his left.

The Bible rests, open to a ribbon, upon the small table at his side. She steels herself for the evening's ponderous trip and stumbled words through yet more chapter and verse, and manages to smile uptable to him.

His hand shifts to a pocket unseen below table's edge.

He glowers at the towheaded child to his left.

"You, Matthew. Be a lad and take this down to Ma." The small boy nods, scoots down from his high rickety chair, and scampers to her side.

She gasps - the goodly block of ink, in her fifth son's outstretched hand glints strong ebony in the table's candlelight -- deep and intense, a thousand thousand words captive within. It beckons her into its depths as it nestles in a waxy box of paper and thin wood. Through soft tears she regards the treasure with a silent smile.

"Aye then. And I'm thinkin' you'll be wanting more paper now, Ma..." John hides a smile with a gruff nod as he gestures toward the Bible, and she spies beneath its heavy cover easily a dozen precious soft white blank sheets.

In loving memory of my grandmother, Louise Margaret Clarke, who passed on her love of writing and literature with patience and glee. Her belief was that anyone can read anything at any age, and should do so if they wish - and to substantiate this, she granted me complete access to any book, novel, magazine or tome that I could reach and lift.

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