JOURNEY TO THE MIDNIGHT SUN
James Sheldon
LOVE CONQUERS ALL
Book 1 of 3
Chapter 5
That same day at midmorning, Emma made a last minute change of plan. Woman’s intuition amplified by long life led her to roll the dice, in a manner of speaking. Instead of sending Cody to assist Mr. Summerfield with the work in the aspen grove, Emma decided to send Laureal.
“Granddaughter,” she called to the girl.
“Yes, grandmother.”
“Let us put a picnic basket together, that Mr. Summerfield may remain strong while he works.”
Meanwhile in the aspen grove, John had arrived with his horse and a few tools, foremost being his hatchet. He did not feel confident letting Ellie loose there because while she would initially stay around due to good grass, the falling trees would spook her. It was important, however, that she keep eating to build her fat stores for the coming journey north. Therefore John led her upriver and left her in a grassy area where she would not be frightened by his work. He knew she would slowly make her way back to him and in the process get accustomed to what he was doing.
To get started, it should be known that, due to Summerfield’s upbringing, he could not fathom building a flimsy structure. Honor demanded he cut down a fair number of large poles to serve as sturdy corners and intermediaries in a strong wall.
Selecting the first tree, John set to chopping with his hatchet, a tool that many would call an ax. In the hands of a man like John Summerfield, however, it was only a hatchet. An ax would have been more efficient and he regretted not having one. He had a bucksaw for cutting firewood but having only one blade left and it being so important to his quest, he left it at his camp, daring not risk breaking it by foolishly misusing it in an attempt to fall trees. So he had his hatchet, and it took a fair piece of chopping to fall the first tree.
Having removed everything except his buckskin pants and short-sleeved tunic of white cotton, John chopped and dropped a second tree. Pausing not, and wet with sweat, he set to chopping a third tree.
Falling the third tree, John paused at last to wipe perspiration from his brow, “If only I had an ax!”
“Mr. Summerfield,” came a calling voice, a voice he knew well.
Yet some distance away, Laureal stood in a patch of sunlight on the edge of the aspen grove. She had come down the trail that ran along the river.
“Good morning, miss,” John hollered, beginning towards her, pausing only to set down his hatchet.
“Good morning, sir.”
As Summerfield came through the trees, Laureal could not help noticing how his tunic clung to his chest, shoulders and arms. Special made just for him, the tunic not only fit John perfectly but had a simple elegance about it with subtly embroidered chest panels divided by three buttons that ran from neck to solar plexus. The fine white cotton, being soaked with perspiration, revealed him not only tall but broad shouldered and extraordinarily well-sculpted. He was narrow at the hip and, as he walked, long powerful leg muscles shown in the telltale outlines of his buckskins. Drawing nearer, his face of 21 years, at once boyish and ruggedly handsome, possessed a countenance that softened his piercing dark eyes. But what Laureal noticed more than anything else was the genuine warmth of his smile, for it spoke to his heartfelt happiness in seeing her.
Coming directly before Laureal, John’s expression changed to that of surprise, for she had brought the very tool he needed. An ax, but not just any ax. An ax fit for a king, “Oh Miss, that is just what I need,” and quickly he added, “second to your company, of course.”
Immediately wishing to have his last few words back, John silently rebuked himself. For scarcely had three sentences been spoke between them and he had already violated the agreement he had made with Laureal’s honorable grandmother.
“It needs new binding,” lifting the heavy ax with both hands for John to see.
Taking the ax in hand, John could not help but admire it. A long heavy handle of polished oak, crowned with a great head of jasper which, being highly polished, very nearly looked like jade. An awesome tool and work of art all together in one, the axes’ only flaw was its leather binding which, having aged and weathered, was in need of replacement.
“I have new binding in my basket,” said Laureal. “If you would like to use it, we can wrap and tighten it over a fire.”
“Yes miss, that would be perfect.”
“I’ll get a fire started while you gather wood.”
“I can start a fire, miss. You don’t need to trouble yourself.”
“What would I do then?”
“You have already brightened my day, not to mention bringing the very tool I need. Just make yourself comfortable.”
“Sir, if my grandmother were to come along and see me making myself comfortable while you worked, she would thrash me with a switch.”
“Oh,” taken aback, himself having no prior experience with savages outside of killing them. Women in his renaissance world were not expected to start fires, at least not in the wild. Still, John was not completely obtuse to the fact that he’d entered another culture and, to his credit, he gave a befuddled nod, “I will get our wood.”
That he might bring Laureal the best possible firewood and not just any dead stuff that breaks easily over a knee but doesn’t produce any real heat, John retrieved his hatchet and went straight to work. Laureal meanwhile took the new rawhide binding from her basket and put it under a rock in the river so that it might soak and become pliable. Next she chose a picnic site amid a group of boulders above the river. Flat, pebbly, and dried out by days of sunshine, the site sat sheltered from the breeze. For fire fodder, she gathered birch bark, twigs, and feathery tips of dry grass. Then, taking a bow drill from her basket, she got a flame started to which she quickly added some twigs and sticks.
John returned with quality firewood and soon they had a nice little fire going in the corner of several small boulders like a natural hearth, built in such a way that the breeze carried the smoke away between the rocks so as not ruin their picnic. Made for shrinking rawhide, the fire also made for a very pleasant atmosphere in the cool of an Indian summer. And being beside the river, the lovers enjoyed the sound of water slowly rolling around roots and rocks. The crisp autumn air, so fresh in their nostrils, bore the gentle musk of decaying leaves. And with the opening that the river cut through the forest, their little nook appeared to sit in a natural hall. A great hall lined with aspen and birch, naked of leaves, their limbs extended as though in praise of clear blue heaven.
Sitting cross-legged on the gravely floor, the lovers had backrests at their disposal in the form of smooth boulders if they felt so inclined. Presently, Laureal watched as John cut off the old rawhide binding, being careful not to damage the wood handle.
“So far so good,” said he, cutting away the last of it. Then rising up on his knees, he planted the hilt firmly in the pebbly gravel before him so that it stuck straight up with the massive stone ax head at the top, still secured to its wooden handle via an elongated hole in the wood into which a narrowed portion of the stone fit exactly.
“Can you hold it there, Miss?”
Laureal rose up on her knees facing John and took hold of the handle to steady it while John, with a long string of moist rawhide, began binding the two together, ax and handle, wrapping and wrapping, copying the pattern he had observed while removing the old binding. And when his hand incidentally brushed hers as it did every so often, both felt the electricity like a surge in a powerline between a pair of young hearts.
Having finished the binding with a knot, John took the ax and held it like a giant marshmallow over a campfire, turning it slowly to dry and shrink the rawhide tight to wood and stone.
Beside him, Laureal sat back in silence and relaxed. Cozy in her hooded cloak, she watched him counter the leverage of the ax by remaining up on his knees, bringing his entire body into play, gripping the ax with both hands, one hand at the back of its wooden handle, and the other halfway to the flame.
“That should do it,” said John, examining the bindings. And turning to his lover,
“Shall we give it a try?”
“Would you like something to eat first?”
“Thank you, Laureal. I do feel hungry now that you mention it.”
Smiling sweetly, Laureal turned to her basket and, pausing there, turned back to him with a pouty look, “John, please put your coat on. Otherwise, I fear you may catch your death of cold.”
John opened his mouth to protest but stopped himself in the realization that Laureal was right. It was a bit chilly and he was still moist with sweat. So he went to fetch his coat in the aspen grove. Not his long coat but a thin undercoat made of wool.
When John returned, he found Laureal had laid out a picnic on a mat of woven reed grass. There was smoked trout, fresh bread cakes, hazelnuts, and apple slices for dessert. So it was, the lovers settled in for their picnic, reclined against smooth boulders with their lunch laid out in between. They had no bottle of wine but only that special something in nature that intoxicates young hearts. They didn’t speak much while eating. They were too busy stealing looks and trading smiles. John did compliment Laureal on the excellent food, however. And Laureal took credit, as she should, for making the cakes even as she confessed they were only leftovers from breakfast.
They had a few sticks yet lying beside the fire and, putting one in the flame, John sat back and returned his eyes to Laureal’s. He didn’t say a word but simply felt a happiness unlike anything he’d known.
“John.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about your home.”
“My home,” his thoughts traveling back, his eyes slowly filling with recollection. “My home lies faraway, between mountains and ocean.”
“I’ve never seen a mountain, or an ocean.”
“Well…the mountains are like this river bank, except they continue rising up from the river until they are above the clouds, and on the way up, there are more rivers, and more forests, with giant trees, and tiny brooks running through flower filled meadows. Below the mountains the ocean is like a lake, only it is so big and vast that one cannot see to the end of it. And in fact no one knows where the end of it is. They say a man could walk its shore for a lifetime and never come back to where he began. And because the ocean lies to the west, the sun sets over it and creates a beautiful sight almost every evening.”
“Between ocean and mountains,” John continued, “there lies a great valley. It is broad and fertile with a river running through it. My home lies in that valley.”
“It sounds so wonderful…I could scarcely dream of such a place.” Then, after a brief silence, “John, tell me about your father and mother, brothers and sisters.”
“Well, there’s not much to tell. I hardly know them.”
“You hardly know them?” visibly bewildered. “Why?”
“I was separated from them when I was six…five and half, actually.”
“Why?” gazing with empathy beyond her years, “What happened?”
“I was taken into the Order. It was a great honor for my family. And I did get to see them, once, sometimes twice a year.”
“But in reality,” Laureal said sadly, “you never got to have a family of your own.”
“The Order is my family,” said John, as if to correct her.
“And the Order, they trained you to be who you are today, a Seeker?”
“Yes.”
John offered no more, and perhaps wisely, Laureal only said, “Thank you, John.”
“For what, Laureal?”
“For telling me about your home,” and rolling up the reed mat, she shyly added, “I’d very much like to know more if sometime you are of a mind to tell.”
Putting the reed mat in her basket, Laureal produced a small towel of leather, soft and thin like a chamois. “Grandma told me that, once on one of her and grandpa’s [rare] journeys to the big village, they met a family from the east, and that family knew another family from further east, who knew a family from very far away where it was said people eat with tools made of silver and gold. And as it was told to grandma, the faraway people had very specific customs around eating. Some food was to be eaten with the tiny tools, other food was to be eaten with fingers. And if one were to be successful in life, it was very important to know which was which. And it was especially important that, when conducting some business crucial to one’s future, one must never have a bit of food on their face while eating with the tiny tools.”
John could not help but laugh, himself coming from a renaissance.
Laureal continued, “As grandma was told, the tiny tools were used with such precision and skill, there was scarcely a need to wipe one’s mouth or face. But just in case, a towel was always at hand.”
“Yes,” said John, gesturing to the small towel in Laureal’s hands, “we use a towel like that but made of cotton or linen, like my shirt, and we call it a napkin.”
Napkin was the term used on the west coast of the continent. Serviette was the term used on the east coast. Both coasts had pockets of renaissance that had recently made transcontinental contact, although extremely limited by way of a sea route through the Gulf of Mexico, followed by a treacherous overland route where if the desert didn’t get you, the savages would.
“Is it your custom?” asked Laureal, still holding the leather napkin.
“Yes, but out here, if I need to, I just wipe my mouth on the back of my hand.”
“Can you show me how it’s done?”
“Yes, of course,” and taking the napkin, “you keep it out of sight in your lap, like this. And when you need it, you bring it out like this.” And lifting the napkin to his mouth, John daintily dabbed his lips.
“That’s interesting,” smiling as though it were all very funny. Then, taking the napkin, Laureal placed her lips exactly where John’s lips had been. And as she pressed it there, peering as if over the top of a veil, John thought he saw the inclination of a bad girl in her emerald green eyes.
Just then, as that mysterious force in nature would have it, a ground squirrel leapt atop a boulder beside them, stood up on its hind legs, and scolded them for invading its territory.
“Sounds like someone is telling us to get back to work,” laughed Summerfield.
Having put the napkin away, Laureal hopped like a cat from rock to rock down to the river’s edge where she cleaned her teeth with a hardwood toothbrush, its one end frayed, its other end sharp like a pick.
John took the ax and headed into the aspen grove.
Laureal quickly caught up, “You should clean your teeth after you eat, John Summerfield. That way, when you grow old, you will still be fit for a picnic.”
“I clean them every night,” shaking his head as he laughed.
“That’s not enough.”
John stopped, turned to Laureal, and nodded to a good-sized tree, “What do you think, boss?”
“I think I’m not your boss, but, it looks good to me.”
“Well then,” said John, stepping up to the tree, “here goes nothing,” and putting ax head to tree, he slowly traced the arch of a swing. Then for real, winding up hard, he took a mighty swing, an uppercut that went deep into the trunk. Then, with a powerful downward swing, he knocked out a tremendous chunk. It tumbled across the ground before them and, lifting their eyes from it, the lovers shared a look as if there was nothing in the world they could not accomplish together.
“This, is a fine ax!” holding it up as if showing off a prize, but no more had John spoken then a darkness crept into his expression. A shadow overcame him and he lowered ax and eyes alike.
“Did your father make this tool?”
“My grandfather,” softly.
“Well then,” studying it so that he might avoid her gaze, “your grandfather, and your father, were skilled tool makers.”
“Thank you,” watching as John sunk under an unseen weight. And fearing for him, Laureal added, “I know my father is looking down from heaven, and grandfather too, and they see you helping us.”
Lifting his gaze, John gave Laureal a glassy eyed smile, “We will put their skills to good use today.”
