Cerryl complied. “Not so heavy.”
“What else?” prompted Dylert.
Cerryl replaced the plank. “I don’t think it be quite so dark, and it seems rougher.”
Dylert nodded. “Black oak. It be hard, not so hard as lorken, not so heavy, not so smooth.” He snorted. “And folks say there be no difference.”
Cerryl nodded. The dark oak hadn’t seemed so warm to the touch, either.
The tall man walked toward the back of the barn. “Sometimes we get virgin logs, the big ones. If I’ve the time, I’ll crosscut a section. Takes a different blade, and a lot of care. But some of the cabinet makers like bigger wood sections. Can charge them as much as a silver a section that way.” He wiped his forehead. “Work, though. A lot of work, and the sections are brittle-break just like that if you drop ’em. Only do a few a year.”
Cerryl hurried to keep up with Dylert’s long stride.
“A lot of guessing if you be a millmaster. . keep the wide planks back here. Charge more for them, but a lot of folks rather’d use more of the narrower cuts. .”
The gray-eyed youth found himself struggling to take in all the words as Dylert turned at the rear wall and walked back toward the door.
“Folks always want some lumber. Some years, we couldn’t cut and season enough. . hate to let go of green wood. . even if you charge less and it splits, folks don’t forget. .”
As soon as Cerryl stepped into the sunlight, Dylert shut the barn door and strode quickly toward the second barn.
Again, the youth had to hurry to catch up.
“This barn-it’s where we put the rougher cuts and the heavier timbers used for bigger buildings. Not that simple, but you’ll learn.” The millmaster opened the door and stepped inside, between another set of racks.
Cerryl followed, his eyes adjusting to the dimness and taking in that the racks in the larger barn seemed fuller.
“The racks on the right-they’re for planks, smaller timbers, that aren’t as good as those in the first barn. On the left here. .”
Cerryl squinted, concentrating on every word, even though his stomach growled, and sweat continued to ooze down his back.
After going through all the racks in the second barn, and then escorting Cerryl back out onto the stone causeway that connected both barns and the mill, Dylert grinned. “Lucky I’d be if half of that stuck in your head, young fellow. But you’ll learn. Yes, you will.”
Cerryl tried to look attentive.
Dylert fingered his beard. “Now. . for the house.”
Cerryl could feel the weight of the new boots and his feet dragging as he followed Dylert back up the lane to the house, up the three steps that felt even steeper, and to the door in the middle of the porch.
Dylert gestured, and Cerryl stepped inside. The kitchen ran most of the length of the space behind the front porch. At the left end of the kitchen was a hearth-of yellow bricks-that held two separate niches for fires and three iron oven doors for baking. Out from the hearth area were two large worktables, and two large cabinets were against the side wall nearest the hearth. A narrow many-drawered chest stood between the cabinets.
At the right end of the kitchen was a long trestle table with a bench on each side and a straight-backed chair at each end.
A woman looked up from a large wooden bowl on the worktable and smiled, dipping her hands in the wash bucket, then wiping them on a gray rag. Her brown hair was piled behind her head in a bun, from which wisps escaped in every direction.
“Dyella, this be Cerryl, the young fellow raised by his uncle Syodor you heard me talk of.” Dylert patted Cerryl on the shoulder. “Dyella, she cooks so well you’d think I’d be twice my size.”
“How could that be?” answered the thin-faced and black-eyed woman. “Never be said that you stopped long enough for the food to settle.” She glanced at Cerryl. “White, he is. You’ve run his legs off, Dylert, and he’s scarce arrived.” She lifted a knife and turned toward one of the long tables. When she turned back to Cerryl, she handed him a thick chunk of bread. “Here. Eat it, so Dylert doesn’t have to scrape you off the planks, boy.”
“Thank you, lady.”
“No lady. I be Dyella, first, last, and always.”
“Thank you, Dyella.”
“Polite young fellow.” Dyella looked at Dylert. “Blankets.”
“Oh. .” Dylert nodded and stepped out of the long kitchen.
Cerryl ate the bread slowly, feeling strength returning, his hearing sharpening.
“Mind you, don’t try to keep up with Dylert. None I know can. Just do your best, boy, and that’ll be better than most. More bread?”
“Ah. .”
“Don’t be shy. You walked all the way from the mines, and I’d wager not a morsel to eat since dawn.” Dyella thrust another chunk at him. “Now. . why don’t you eat it and wait on the porch? Dylert’s fetching your blankets, and supper be needing my hand.”
“Thank you.”
Dyella smiled as she held the door.
Cerryl sat on the bench and ate, slowly, trying to digest both the bread and the day.
V
A pair of pine logs lay on the three-axled timber wagon. The six draft horses, their breath like steam in the chill afternoon, stood facing south. The ox-drawn log cart faced north, toward the open mill door. The bed of the log cart was nearly a cubit lower than that of the timber wagon.
Broom in hand, Cerryl stepped to the side of the mill, well away from the door, and back far enough that he would not be in the way of drovers or the loaders.
“The first log, Viental,” said Brental.
“First it be.” Viental half-dragged, half-lifted one end of the huge log, its girth more than two cubits, and swung the end from the timber wagon onto the ox-drawn log cart. Then he walked to the front end of the wagon, where he and Brental lifted the weight-bearing end and struggled to ease it onto the cart.
The log cart groaned as the full weight of the pine log came to rest on it. Cerryl watched the rear axle bow ever so slightly, a stress that less-fine eyes and senses would not have discerned.
Brental slipped the log wedges in place on the side closest to Cerryl, knocking them solid with his long-handled hammer. Then he walked around the oxen and, standing where the beds of the cart and wagon nearly joined, placed the forward wedge. The redhead had to walk around the cart again to place the rear wedge.
Viental released his hold on the log.
Brental reclaimed his goad. “Ge-ahh!”
The log cart creaked forward and into the mill, and Cerryl stepped back into the doorway to try to finish getting the sawdust out of the door tracks before Brental brought the cart back.
Viental half-shrugged, half-flexed his broad shoulders, swinging his arms. “Heavy, that one.” He grinned at Cerryl, yellow teeth flared out of the ginger beard braided below. “Ever think you could lift that, mill boy?”
Cerryl shook his head.
“Best you know that. Not one in a score dozen be lifting as I do.”
“Not one in score of scores as bald, either,” called the lumber wagon driver from where he stood beside the lead horse.
“Rinfur. . I don’t see you handling the logs.”
“I don’t see you handling the teams. You have to be smarter than the horses.”
“Someday I be strangling you with that tongue.”
The teamster grinned. “Not while I run faster and ride better.”
Viental shrugged, then grinned. “And talk longer.”
“Go see your sister,” suggested Rinfur amiably. “You do whenever you feel like it anyway.”
“So? No one else lifts as I do.”
Cerryl and Rinfur exchanged glances. Viental disappeared for days on end, always returning with the explanation that he had had to help his sister. Dylert refused to pay for the missing time but said nothing.
“That right? Even the mill boy knows that. Right, Cerryl.”
“No one lifts like you do,” Cerryl agreed.
“See?”
Rinfur continued checking the harnesses.