Chapter 32
I woke from my sleep to find the sun well down on the day. Catia and Mara were preparing the evening meal and Seisyll was sitting up in his bed. Though still very pale and haggard looking, he seemed no worse to me and, perhaps, even somewhat better—though that might have been my imagining. He smiled wanly when he saw me, then closed his eyes again. Pain is wearing him away, I thought, and I wondered how long it had been since he had eaten.
I shared this concern with Catia at the hearth. “Mara is making some bone broth for him,” she told me. “We’ll add some bread to it and if Mara can’t get him to eat, no one can.” She then observed that we must eat heartily, too, for we would begin the butchering first thing in the morning when we had a whole day ahead of us.
I went out and refilled Ursa’s water bowl and saw the remains of some meat scraps that Catia had provided for her. She had eaten well and was happy to see me. I sat down and put my arm around my faithful friend and we watched the farm sink into the stillness of a radiant twilight. When Catia stepped out a short time later, I went with her to the barn to tend the calf and settle it for the night.
Back at the house, we found Mara sitting with Seisyll while he spooned up the bread broth she had made. When he finished, we examined his wound, and he professed to feeling better—though, I think he just said that to make us feel better. We made him as comfortable as we could and left him to Mara’s care.
After our own meal, we sat talking by the fire. Catia told me about her family and what it was like growing up on a hillfarm; and I told her what it was like to live in a civitas. We talked long into the night, and I was yawning again by the time she snuffed out the candles and we went to our beds.
The next morning, I pulled on the tunic and breecs Catia had found for me, and we broke our night’s fast on some bacon, bread, and fresh cheese. Catia had told me how we were to go about it and I recoiled from all thoughts of what lay before us. Nevertheless, I had agreed to help and meant to keep my part of the bargain as best I could.
Catia gave me a very large, very sharp knife and a bucket to catch blood and we went out into bright, crisp morning. Ursa greeted me with a wagging tail and I marked how much friendlier the dog was growing by the day; maybe she was getting used to other people. Then again, maybe I was just getting used to how canny she could be: she seemed always to know who to trust and who was best avoided. Catia and I walked across the yard and around the back of the bigger barn to the pen where the sows waited, watching us with their tiny eyes.
I steeled myself to begin our grisly work as Catia stepped into the pen containing three pigs—two young ones, skinny things for the fattening, and one large well-grown sow with big, floppy ears and a high, sloping back. “That’s the one we take,” she said, pointing to the sow. “I will chase it into the killing gate and we will begin.”
This killing gate was nothing more than a narrow place between two doors, with gaps in the fence through which a butchering knife might be thrust. And this is what we did: using a herder’s staff, Catia coaxed and chivvied the pig into the enclosure and I closed the door behind it. Stepping to the side, Catia took up the knife and, with a deft, decisive thrust, ended the creature’s life. I learned right away that one had to be quick with the bucket to catch the blood—that was my job—for the hot crimson gush spewed out in pulsing torrents that went everywhere. And that was bad enough. Worse was the squealing! An infernal wail like that of a tortured wraith taking flight filled the air. The poor animal struggled, but could not run and so quickly succumbed to its fate.
“It’s all in knowing where to put the knife,” Catia explained.
Together, we lugged the blood bucket to the barn and emptied it into a clean barrel—for use, I was told, to mix with oats and herbs to make black sausage.
“Now comes the hard part,” Catia said as we returned to the pen. “The carcass must be hung and gutted.” She pointed to a nearby pole to which a rope and chain had been attached. Taking a trotter each, we dragged the beast from the killing gate to the pole and secured the hind legs with the chain and we began pulling with all our strength. At last, I understood Seisyll’s insistence that I should help his wife: this took all the strength two lone women possessed—and then some.
Slowly, and with many halts and pauses, we inched that heavy carcass up the pole and off the ground so that the belly could be slit and the edible organs retrieved. This was to be my job: to pick out the liver, kidneys, and heart, separating them from the rest of the intestines and muck.
The long body stretched out and when we could lift it no higher, Catia tied the rope and took up her knife. “Stand back,” she warned, “this will splatter, and you won’t want it on you.”
Using both hands, Catia plunged the blade into the soft underbelly and began to carve through the skin and muscle. The flesh parted neatly, revealing a glistening pink interior. I stood by with my big wooden bowl to begin picking through the viscera for the organ meat and separating it from the rest.
Catia sawed away. The slit opened and the guts spilled out. The stink was not to be believed! I moved another step back.
When she finished, we sorted through the mess on the ground, saving the useable parts and bunging them into the bowl. Most all of a pig is useable, of course, so this occupied us for some little while. By the time we were done, the bowl was heaped to overflowing and we set to stripping out the intestines to be emptied and cleaned. That done, Catia said, “Now we skin it.”
Standing there—sticky, reeking—I formed a lasting appreciation for those who ply the butcher’s trade. Such work should be lauded and richly rewarded by all.
We went to the well to wash and have a drink before beginning the long, onerous process of removing the tough, hairy hide. Catia was in the midst of explaining how this was to be done when there arose a furious barking and shouts from the yard.
“Ursa!” I gasped.
“They’re back!” cried Catia, dropping the bucked. We hurried around the barn in time to see three young men and an elder white-haired fellow—her much-delayed sons and father—entering the yard beside a small mule cart. Ursa, hackles raised, was holding them at bay.
The boys were close versions of one another: thick, dark hair like ill-kempt thatch; big, dark eyes like their father’s; deep-clefted, smooth-shaven chins; long legs. Some might call them handsome. Two of the Catia’s sons carried long spears and one had a rust-spotted iron sword that must have been a generation or two older than the one toting it. The white-haired fellow was also tall and slender but, from the droop of his shoulders, appeared tired and worn—exhausted, no doubt, from the journey and trying to keep up with the younger men.
Ursa, alarmed at their arrival, was tensed and ready to launch herself at them. I called out and ran to her, grabbing hold of her collar and speaking soft words of assurance that all was well. “Thank you for warning us,” I whispered into her ear. “But these men are friends. So, no more growling. We will greet them nicely.” She calmed for me at once and ceased barking, but kept a wary watch all the same.
Glad halloos echoed across the yard. Catia fell to hugging her sons and soon everyone was chattering all at once. The tallest among the boys—the one I took to be the eldest of the three lads—gestured towards me and said something like, “And who is this?”
The one standing next to him, leaning on his spear, said to his mother, “You didn’t say we had a comely guest.”
“No more of that.” Catia gave him an affectionate cuff on the chin. “And when did I have chance to say anything at all?” She pulled me into the group. “This is Aurelia. She is travelling to Deva and has kindly stayed on to help me with the chores while you were away.”
She then introduced the others. Pointing first to the old man, she said, “This is my father, Ruarc.” He gave me a little nod. “And this is Garan,” she indicated the tallest of her boys then moved down the line “and Dyfan, and Orrin.”
I greeted them each in turn and repeated my own name and that of my dog. They all eyed the fearsome creature with some suspicion and not a little unease. “Never fear,” I told them lightly. “She won’t hurt you if you don’t hurt me.” I meant it in jest, but they all glanced uneasily at one another.
“Well, now,” said Catia, gazing happily the home-comers, “you’re home and no sooner than you should be. We were just now getting ready to skin the hog. What has taken you so long anyway? I expected you back days ago,” she said, a motherly reprimand in her tone.
“Ask Orri,” said the one called Dyfan. “It’s all his fault.”
“Not so!” protested the youngest son. “It was an accident!”
“I saw what happened, and you—”
“Enough!” snapped Catia. “You’re only just back and already bickering.”
“Where’s Seisyll?” said Ruarc, looking around—eager, I expect, to change the subject.
“He’s in his bed—resting.” Catia explained briefly that his injury was no better, and the men trooped into the house to see their father and take a little food. Catia followed, leaving me and Ursa in the yard.
I fetched water and gave Ursa to drink, then went to tend the remaining pigs. I was still at this when the eldest son, the one called Garan found me talking to the beasts. “Mam says you saved our Da,” he announced happily. “Is this true?”
I asked him to repeat this, and then replied, “It is true that I made a poultice for his injury. If this has helped him, I am glad. What else did your Mam tell you?”
“She says you are half-deaf and that I am to take you to Bryncadlys and put you on the way to Deva by way of the hill path.” Though he spoke evenly enough, I sensed resignation in his tone.
“I suppose that is the last thing you want to do—having just come from there and all—but this half-deaf girl would be most grateful for your help,” I told him.
“Aye,” he agreed. “Mam said you were abandoned by your friends and have been making your way alone.”
“Abandoned, yes—but not on purpose. It was more a misunderstanding,” I countered. “It seems I was not where I was supposed to be.”
“Neither was Orri!” he hooted. “That cost us three whole days!”
He did not offer any further explanation and I did not ask, but he seemed to wear the inconvenience easily enough. He regarded me, his look lingering so long I grew uncomfortable under his gaze. “What is it?” I asked at last, touching a hand to my hair.
“Is that Dyfan’s tunic you’ve got on?” he said. A grin appeared and spread across his broad face. “It is!”
“We were slaughtering the hog. Your mother gave me these clothes to wear so I wouldn’t ruin mine.” I brushed a hand down the garment and tugged at the breecs. “I didn’t know these were Dyfan’s.”
He laughed. “The look on your face just now.” He laughed again—happy, carefree—and I liked the sound. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. Turning away from the pigs, we started for the door of the barn to see to the calf. “Besides, you won’t have to worry about ruining anything.”
“No?”
He shook his shaggy head. “Now that we’re home, my brothers and I will finish the butchering.” He smiled again. “Though we wouldn’t mind an extra pair of hands to help with the skinning.”
“I’ve never skinned a hog,” I told him. “I’ve never skinned anything.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll show you all you need to know.”
True to his word, Garan and the others got down to it and were soon elbow deep in gore. They took turns guiding me through the awful process. Before that long day had run, I had skinned, beheaded, and quartered my first hog—and, I dearly hope, it was the last. A more grisly, gruesome work I cannot contemplate, and never wish to repeat—despite the fact that, if allowed, I would happily eat my weight in ham.
It was almost dark by the time we finished and we all went down to the stream at the bottom of the valley to wash off all the filth and stink. We went into the water in our clothes to wash them, too; and then shucked them off to soap ourselves. Catia and I went some way apart from the others, of course, and as we bathed she told me how all the meat we had butchered that day would be preserved. “Winter is hard in these hills,” she said. “But we will have plenty of good meat and sausage to see us through—and the grain and flour the boys brought home from the market.”
Her mention of winter rekindled the urgency of my journey. Already long when I began, the way grew longer by the day! It seemed that the further I went, the further I still had to go. Well, I would leave the next day with a guide and, with luck on my side, I would reach Deva with no further hazards or delays.
As if to mock my resolve, the weather changed during the night. I awoke to a cold drizzle, driven on stiff north winds. That, combined with Garan’s reluctance to repeat the trip he had completed only the day before, cooled my ardor enough to see the sense of remain at Tŷ Bryn yet a little longer.
In fact, it would be many more days before the dark skies lifted and the rain ceased its lashing and thrashing. I bided my time, helping out around the farm as needed until, at last, a day dawned fair. We ate a solid meal and I made my last preparations. Then, Garan took up his spear and tucked a long knife into his belt and we stepped out into the yard beneath a high blue, cloud-flecked sky with a crisp breeze at our backs to speed us on our way. Seisyll even rose from his bed and, though wan and yet pained by his injury, he hobbled out into the yard to wish me well. Holding to Catia for support, he told me that he believed my poultice had been the saving of him and for that he would be forever grateful.
And then Catia embraced me warmly and gave me a motherly kiss, smoothed my hair and, tears starting to her eyes, bade me farewell, inviting me to return any time for a visit. “Worry for nothing, Garan will see you right,” she said, and then addressed her son: “Now, Garan, don’t dawdle—and mind take her all the way to Bryncadlys.” He nodded his understanding, and she said to me, “Once you’re there, he’ll show you the quicker way to Deva.”
“The quicker way?” I pulled back in surprise. “Did I hear that right? There is a quicker way to Deva?”
“Aye,” she replied easily. “There is a trail through the hills and it is much the swiftest way—and safer, too, I’m sure. Once on it, you’re soon there.”
I pressed her hands and thanked them all for their kindness and friendship and, with a final wave, I turned my face to Deva and to my precarious future.