The area was small but well organized. Using Ruberik's net ting, Flint managed to rustle up his own pot of brew. Bertina kept the cream in the same place his mother had: against the back of a low cupboard along the cold north wall, where it stayed fresh longer.
When he'd downed enough chicory to feel his senses straighten, Flint looked about and noticed that the house sounded empty, its usual occupants apparently having al ready gone about their day. He decided to give Ruberik a hand in the barn.
Helping himself to two big hunks of bread and cheese,
Flint slipped his boots on and stepped outside into a bright but brisk morning. He picked his way along the narrow, muddy path that led from the small front yard to the barn far off to the right of the house. He stopped at the well to rinse himself, letting the brisk autumn air dry his cheeks and beard and refresh his tired soul.
Swallowing the last of his bread in one big bite, Flint cov ered the remaining distance to the barn.
Pausing at the massive door, Flint grasped the thick, brass ring that served as a handle. It was polished and smooth from centuries of use. He remembered the times when, as a child, he had strained and hauled on that ring with all his strength without ever budging the massive door. Now he gave it a tug and the heavy timbers swung out.
Even before his eyes had adjusted to the dim light inside the barn, its odors washed over him. The hay, animals, ma nure, rope, stone, and beams blended together into a smell that was unique, yet each odor could be separated from the others and identified individually. Flint paused there for a moment, savoring that aroma.
Chickens roamed throughout, flapping from beam to beam, picking at the grain mixed in with the fresh straw scattered across the floor. Three cows tethered in tidy stalls raised their heads from an oat-filled trough to eye Flint dis interestedly. At the rear of the barn, six goats jostled and clambered over each other to get to the two buckets of water
Ruberick had set inside their pen. A pair of swallows swooped down from the rafters and out the open door, pass ing inches above Flint's scruffy hair. The dwarf ducked re flexively, then chuckled at his reaction.
Ruberik stomped into the light from the depths at the back of the barn, a shiny milking pail in each hand. He saw
Flint, looked surprised, then seemed about to grumble some insult. He thrust a pail into Flint's hands.
'Let's see if you remember how to milk a cow, city boy,' Ruberik said, his tone unexpectedly light.
'Solace is hardly a city,' Flint scoffed, then rose to the challenge. 'I've been milking cows since before you even knew what one was, baby brother.' Hitching up his leather pantlegs, he lowered himself onto a three-legged wooden stool next to a brown-spotted cow.
'Make sure your hands aren't cold. Daisyeye hates that — won't give you a drop,' warned Ruberik.
Flint just glared at him, then rubbed his hands together fu riously. He reached out quickly and began tugging; in sec onds, he had milk streaming into the pail. Daisyeye chewed contentedly.
'Not bad,' Ruberik said, nodding as he looked over Flint's shoulder, 'for a woodcarver.'
Flint ignored the jibe, handing his brother the full pail of creamy milk. 'You know,' he said, wiping his damp hands on his vest, 'I'd forgotten how much the smell of a barn re minds me of Father.' He inhaled deeply, and his mind wan dered back to other mornings, when he had been dragged from his warm bed at the crack of dawn to work in this place. He had hated it at the time…
'You're lucky to have any memories of him,' Ruberik said enviously. 'He died before I was really of any use to him.
Aylmar had his smith — and then one day you were gone, too. Had to teach myself to run a dairy farm,' he finished, using his cupped hands to scoop more oats into the feeding trough.
Flint's hands froze under Daisyeye in mid-milking stroke.
He'd left Hillhome those many years ago, never thinking how it might make his siblings feel. He felt compelled to say something — to offer some explanation — and he tried. 'Uh, well, I — ' And then he stopped, unable to think of anything.
He stole a glance at Ruberik.
His younger brother moved about the barn, whistling softly, oblivious to Flint and his halting response.
Ruberik finished feeding the animals and clapped his hands to remove grain chaff. 'I've got to stir some cheese vats,' he said, finally aware of Flint again. 'Care to help?'
'Uh, no thanks,' Flint gulped; he hated the overpower ingly sour smell of fermenting cheese. He took the bucket out from under Daisyeye, handing it to his brother. 'I'll fin ish up the chores in here, if you'd like me to.'
'You would?' Ruberik said, surprised. Flint nodded, and
Ruberik listed the remaining morning tasks. With that, he left through a door at the far right of the barn, the scent of cheese billowing in after him.
Flint covered his nose and began milking his second cow in many decades.
He finished the chores by late morning. Ruberik had left to deliver cheese, so Flint sat at the edge of the well and looked opposite his family's homestead, through the multi colored autumn foliage and steady green conifers at
Hillhome below. The Fireforge house was about midway up the south rim of the valley that surrounded the village — the notch known simply as the Pass cut into the eastern end of the valley; the Passroad continued through the town and down the valley to the eastern shore of Stonehammer Lake.
Flint could see the town beginning to bustle with the ac tivity of a new day, and without really deciding to do so, he found himself walking on the road that snaked down to the center of the village. The stroll stretched his stiff joints and freshened his spirits. He passed many houses like his fami ly's, since most of the buildings here were set into the hills, made of big stone blocks, with timbered roofs and small, round windows.
The village proper was more or less level, and thus had many wooden structures, certainly more now than Flint ever remembered. As he came around a bend in the road, bringing him within sight of the village, he was again sur prised at the extent of the changes in Hillhome.
The great wagon yard and forge seemed to serve as a cen tral gathering place for work on the heavy, iron-wheeled freight wagons. The trade route ran east and west, straight through Hillhome on the Passroad. His view of the yard was blocked by a high stone fence. New buildings stood crowded together along the Passroad, extending the town past the brewery building, which Flint remembered as once marking the town's western border. Off Main Street, there were still the neat, stone houses with yards; narrow, smooth streets; little shops. But the pace of life seemed frantic.
That busyness nettled Flint, for reasons he could not even explain to himself. He had intended to explore Hillhome, to see the new sights, but instead he found himself resenting the changes and heading toward the safety of Moldoon's once again to enjoy the comfortable familiarity of the place.
'Welcome, my friend!' Moldoon greeted the dwarf pleas antly, wiping his hands on his apron front before he took
Flint's arm and drew him forward. At this time of day, the place was virtually empty, just a table of three humans in the center of the room before the fire, and a pair of derro drink ing quietly at another.
'Have you a glass of milk for an old dwarf's touchy stom ach?' Flint asked, spinning a stool at the bar to his height.
He slipped onto it easily, propping his chin up in his hand.
Moldoon raised his eyebrows and grinned knowingly.
'Don't you mean a touchy old dwarf's stomach?' He reached under the bar for a frosty pewter pitcher and poured Flint a mug of the creamy liquid. Flint tossed back half of it in one gulp.
'I heard your family got together last night,' said the bar tender, topping Flint's glass again. 'You cost me half my cus tomers!'
The dwarf smiled wryly, shuffling the mug between his hands on the bar. Then he remembered the one family mem ber who had remained at Moldoon's rather than greet his uncle. 'Not Basalt,' he said to the barkeep. 'He didn't seem any too glad to see me… when he finally got home.'
Moldoon sighed as he filled two mugs with ale. 'Aylmar's death really hit him hard, Flint. I don't think it's got any thing to do with you. He blames himself — he was his father's apprentice. But he was here, not at home, when Aylmar went off to the wagon camp.'
