by Max Anthony
Chapter Twelve
The woodmen’s camp was a few miles out of the city on the other side of the Ten Dams River. A short hour after leaving the office of Heathen Spout, Tan Skulks walked across the Bridge of Clarts (named prior to the passing of Edict 569.52 some hundred years ago, which forbade the disposal of human excreta from the bridge). He paused, looking out over the Ten Dams, which was just starting to widen at this point. Hardened was as far as it was safe to go in a barge before cargo had to be switched to a ship. As a result, barges cluttered the fresh water docks upriver, whilst in the deeper waters downriver, ocean-worthy vessels could be observed. On a normal day, there would be a bustle of stevedores fetching goods between barge and ship, ship and barge. With the strike, Skulks saw that these labourers were unoccupied, milling about in groups, hoping for work. There would eventually be unrest.
He didn’t dwell, except to purchase a sprig of lucky wool from a destitute child; the wool was taken from a first-born lamb. Though Skulks wasn’t usually sentimental, she had a hopeful face and he knew the one Sliver he paid might put a half-loaf on her table tonight.
A short walk took him through the Hultus Gate, out of the city and into open fields, just as the sun was midway to its hottest point. He paused and took a deep breath, only now recognizing how pure the air was away from the city. There was no smell of cheap perfume, manure, bread, stale ale, hot stone or any of the other scents that assailed a visitor to a metropolis like Hardened. Skulks missed it already.
He was wearing different clothes now; a loose-fitting shirt, lightweight yet strong. Loose-legged trousers of a brown colour were tucked into stout boots. Each boot carried a narrow dagger. It was not unusual to carry such weapons, often just for practical reasons as skinning or skewering hot meat from the fire. Over his shoulder he carried a bag containing the same clothing in duplicate, along with some small provisions for the journey and a single-man tent which was more of a large waxy sheet and some pegs. A single-headed axe hung at his belt, bound in such a way as to not foul his legs as he walked. He had a few Slivers in his pocket. Sometimes it was preferable to start with something, rather than having to steal.
The walk took Skulks the better part of half a day and he occupied himself by whistling merry tavern-tunes. The road was paved and traffic was light. Wood from the lumber camp would generally be transported on heavy cart if it were for firewood or cooking. The larger trunks to be used in construction or exported further afield would be strapped to barges and brought into Hardened by river. The woodmen strike looked to be having a significant impact on the city and combined with the bargemen refusing to work it wouldn’t be long before Hardened’s trade income dried up.
At one time, hundreds of years back, the Million Trees Forest had stretched as far as Hardened, but the city’s insatiable appetite for wood had seen it gradually hacked back further and further from the boundary walls until now, when it took more than a casual stroll to get there. The forest itself was huge, stretching many miles along the river. The name was reputed to have come from an early scholar’s estimate on the quantity of trees it contained. In fact, even after many years of assault upon its edges, it still contained significantly more than a million trees.
The woodmen camp was in several aspects like a small village, but comprised temporary lightweight wooden huts that could be picked up using long horizontal poles pushed through holes at floor level. As the borders of the forest were cut back, the living quarters could follow, meaning there was never a long walk before the woodmen could start cutting. Travellers approaching from the Hardened side had to be wary they didn’t fall into the deliberately concealed latrine pits the woodmen left behind. They were renowned for their riotous appreciation of a cruel practical joke.
Though Skulks was too accomplished to stumble into a pit of human waste, he wasn’t looking to approach the camp from the Hardened side, so spent another hour making a circuit of the camp until he reached the river on the far side of their dwellings. Emerging from the trees on the opposite approach from Hardened, he accosted the first woodman he saw, hailing him with a cheery hello in the minor patois of lower High Domes.
“Areet man, I am come from up river to cut down some trees, like. Where’s ya foreman?”
The man blinked at him as if he’d been asked a question of such peculiar stupidity that it was taking his brain a vast amount of effort to formulate a suitable response. In the end, he just raised his arm dumbly and pointed further into the camp.
“Over there,” he said. “The one with the flag on it.”
Skulks thanked him in the style of High Domes with a small tug at his forelock and made to walk past him. After he’d walked a few paces he heard the man’s voice.
“There’s no work to be had here.”
Skulks walked through the camp in the direction indicated. He estimated there might be somewhere between two and three hundred people living here. The woodmen were in the employ of the city. It provided them with the provisions to sustain their bodies, and paid them a piece rate based on the amount of wood they chopped, divvied up amongst the men using a formula that Skulks hadn’t bothered to try and understand. Thus far, the Chamber Council’s negotiators hadn’t threatened the withdrawal of food. If they did that, the men would likely just disperse and it would be difficult to start up operations again. So as it was, the men remained fed, but unpaid.
The camp itself wasn’t quite squalid, but it was certainly not a place for the elderly, the infirm, nor ladies of good standing. The ground was a mixture of slightly churned mud, with occasional hardy plants poking through and lots of tree stumps. It was after all built upon what had been forest only a few years ago. The warmth of the sun prevented it becoming a complete morass. Looking downriver towards Hardened, Skulks could make out a swathe of damage to the earth, a dirty trail showing the journey the woodmen camp had made to reach here. The further away he looked, the fewer were the signs as grass and other foliage grew back. The Chamber Council apparently had it on the agenda to start a tree-planting programme, but of this there was no sign.
The foreman hut was a hut like any other to be seen here, but had a flag sticking out of the roof. A sign upon the door read ‘Foreman’; Skulks pushed it open and entered. Inside was a long table, suitable for seating three men abreast. This would be where the men were paid when they were not on strike. Today, there were two foremen sitting here. When trees were being felled, the hut would likely be empty, except on pay day when all three foremen would be present, handing over Slivers from a chest to the queuing men.
The first foreman was a burly character, cut from the same cloth as the fellow who had accosted Skulks a mere two evenings ago. This individual, for it was hard to refer to him as a gentleman, had risen to his status as he was blessed with a modest quantity of intelligence and a greater amount of cunning. Some folk respected other folk with brains and knowledge, whilst some had respect for those with brawn and strength. The woodman camp was overwhelmingly tilted towards respecting the latter sort of individual. They couldn’t have people slacking off and getting paid for it, so occasionally a beating was required to ensure no-one took advantage of their harder-working colleagues.
The second foreman was smaller, though not small. His face was smooth and unmarked, so if he were a fighter he was either extremely good at it, or so much feared that no one ever dared test his physical prowess. He had the same sharp eyes that Skulks knew amongst others of his ilk. There was real intelligence behind them. Skulks knew him for what he was immediately: a dangerous man. Fancying himself as a master amongst servants, Skulks fell into the persona of his High Domes woodman.
“Areet man, I am come from up river to cut down some trees.” As they stared at Skulks, he feigned concern as if he were a bumpkin failing with his airs and graces. He blundered on, “I am known as Jodhpur the Axe in me village on account of me winnin’ the tree choppin’ contest for the last nine years runnin’. Just outside of High Domes. They told me to get down here and ea
rn mesel some proper money. Pleased to meet yers.”
He noted the foremen exchange a very brief glance, but wasn’t quite certain what passed between them. It was as if they were flipping an invisible coin to see who would have to talk to the imbecile in front of them. Evidently it was the second foreman who called the arse end of the coin when it came up with the noggin. He sighed and stood up.
“Well, Jodhpur, you do know there’s a strike on here don’t you? There’s no paid work.” His tones were even, his voice slightly accented.
“Aye I know there’s a strike on,” volunteered Skulks. “But I told mesel it wouldn’t last forever and that when it ended I’d be first in the line to get a job.”
The foremen digested this, evidently uncertain whether it was testament to stupidity or misplaced enthusiasm.
“And what exactly did you hope to eat while you were here? I see you only have a small pack. I doubt there’s more than a couple of days’ food in there.”
Skulks allowed himself to look crestfallen. “Well, I thought, yer know, mebbes I’d get taken on yer books and then I’d be, yer know, fed with the other woodmen.” He appeared to brighten. “And I can fish! I’ve also been called Jodhpur the Ten Dams Mudfish on account of me ability to fish so well!”
The second foreman shook his head, trying not to look too pityingly at the naiveté of Jodhpur. “Sorry, we’ve got nothing here for you. You’re welcome to apply again, when the strike is over.”
Looking glum, but taking it on the chin, Skulks asked if he could at least bed down for the night before setting off for home tomorrow. Seeing no harm in it, the foreman said he could do as he pleased, but recommended he avoid the other men who were becoming short of temper after weeks without pay. Nodding his understanding, Skulks turned and left the cabin.
Twenty minutes later, those two foremen were disturbed by noises outside. Noises which sounded suspiciously like cheering and general merriment. Before either of them could get up to investigate the source of the commotion, there was a knock on the door and in burst woodman Natter, his face flushed with excitement.
“Come quick!” he exclaimed. “You’ve got to see this!”
Foreman two was already starting to join the dots. Outside, just on the tree line, there was a crowd. It appeared that nearly all of the camp was present and there was much hollering and not a little bit of whooping to accompany the dull whump of axe blade on wood. The foremen hadn’t heard this level of high spirits since the time a fine horse-drawn carriage shed a wheel and toppled over into one of the hidden latrine pits, covering four white horses and the daughter of a rich merchant in six feet of human filth. How the men had enjoyed that one.
Elbowing their way through the arm-pumping mob, they found the source of the happiness. There, in the centre of the baying crowd, was Jodhpur the Axe, astride the trunk of a Stonebark Hardwood. His axe was almost a blur as it struck down time and again, each blow severing a thick branch, or digging far deeper into wood than even the most experienced woodman would have thought possible. As they watched, the tree got progressively smaller, while the pile of neatly arranged firewood it was becoming got steadily larger. Eventually, Jodhpur the Axe stopped chopping and stepped down to show thirty feet of neatly trimmed trunk alongside a pile of firewood seven feet high. He didn’t even appear to be breathing hard. The woodmen swarmed around him, clapping him on the back and shaking his hand. In the world of tree chopping, they had just witnessed something special.
Woodman Natter turned to foreman one. “Did you see that Foreman Groats? Did you see THAT?” he yelled, face still flushed. “He’s cut and stripped a Stonebark in less time than it takes a team of four woodmen to do it! He’s the best I’ve ever seen!”
Knowing they’d been outmanoeuvred, Foreman Groats turned to his colleague and said in a slightly slurred voice which made him sound inaccurately like he might be stupid, “Foreman Trowel, I think we’ve got a new man on our books”. Foreman Trowel narrowed his eyes and nodded. On the plus side, he thought, it may give the men something new to talk about rather than asking when the strike was going to be over.
Only five minutes later Skulks found himself back in the foreman’s cabin.
“Jodhpur…we may have been too hasty in turning you away. It looks like you know how to swing an axe and we’ll need good woodmen when the strike is over.”
Skulks permitted himself to look as if he’d just been anointed by the three gigantic paps of the voluptuous God Queen of Knockers.
“Really? Yer mean I can stay here with the men and work?”
“Yes, really,” said Foreman Trowel drily. “We couldn’t possibly let a man as skilled in the art of tree felling as Jodhpur the Axe slip through our fingers. Whatever were we thinking?”
“Well then,” slurred Foreman Groats, “you work for us, so you work to our rules. From now on, you don’t cut down a tree without our say-so. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir!” responded Skulks, his hand raising in a barely-suppressed salute.
“You’d best get out there and meet a few of the men, though I reckon every damn man in the camp already wants to be your friend! We eat in four hours.”
Skulks left the foreman’s hut forthwith. The other woodmen had already dispersed, but he could see them looking at him out of the corner of their eyes as he made his way across the camp looking for a place to pitch his tent. Whilst pretending to be shy at the attention, Skulks was in fact hoping to get as many of the men interested as possible. Consequently, he pitched his tent near the centre of the camp, next to a tree stump and away from the churned up mud where the other men had walked.
Though the day was warm, Skulks knew that it would get chilly when night fell, so he helped himself to a couple of armloads of his freshly-chopped wood. The other men were already doing the same, a couple of them grunting their thanks to him. He stacked the wood next to his tent and waited until the hour at which food would be served.
Chapter Thirteen
The provisions, which Hardened so generously continued to deliver to the site, were stored on a large wooden wagon. A long bench was placed in front of it and the men queued to be provided with a loaf of reasonably fresh bread, a lump of cheese, a medium-sized semi-preserved beef sausage, an apple and a sconey cake. Chopping trees, when such activity was taking place, necessitated a large intake of calories. As well as the food, each man was also permitted a single mug of Cow’s Piss, of which worthy spirit Skulks had himself partaken on his first evening in Hardened. It was considered very important that the men were able to get slightly inebriated every evening. It may have caused the odd punch to be thrown, but made it easier to keep the camp as a whole in line. This reasoning had worked perfectly until they had decided to go on strike.
The sky was already darkening when Skulks made his way to his wax sheet tent, with food and mug clutched firmly. He sat with his back to the tree stump and used one of his daggers to cut slices from the beef sausage, pushing them into his mouth. He hadn’t seen any of the foremen queuing for food. He wondered if they got served something better in private, not that any labourer could reasonably complain about the meal provided here.
It wasn’t long before the first brave soul arrived at his tent. It was woodman Natter, of whom Skulks was already aware. Natter was pushing fifty years old, thin and wiry, with thick brown, greasy hair on his head and a seemingly equal quantity of hair protruding from the top of his coarse cloth shirt.
“Don’t mind if I sit with you?” asked woodman Natter.
“Yer welcome to sit here,” responded Skulks. Introductions weren’t necessary; all the woodmen knew he was Jodhpur the Axe.
There had scarce been time for woodman Natter’s arse to leave its print in the scrubby grass when three more woodmen arrived, also looking to share camp with the newcomer. Even without his feats of earlier in the day, the men were bored and naturally curious.
“Where’d you learn to swing an axe like that?” one of them asked immediately.
&nbs
p; “Me grandma tells me I was born with it,” responded Skulks. “Same as me dad and his dad before him. Born under the fourth full moon of the Silver Axe, she said. A blessing from the gods.”
The men leaned forward, their eyes wide.
“The fourth full moon of the Silver Axe? I thought there was only three full moons under the Silver Axe,” said one.
“Aye,” said Skulks. “But every thirtieth year there’s a fourth full moon and them what’s born on that very night are destined to cut trees.” He patted the axe by his side, “And this is me family’s special axe, passed down from me dad and me dad’s dad.”
The men peered at the axe. It didn’t appear to be anything special, as indeed it wasn’t for Skulks had purchased it from an ironmonger for the princely sum of fifteen Slivers on his way out of Hardened earlier that same day. However, they had seen it slice through a Stonebark Hardwood as if it were cutting through lard, so they were sure the blade was possessed of some mystical quality. There was some appreciative muttering at Skulks’ explanation.
The five men were silent for some time as they ate their food and took deep slurps of their Cow’s Piss. Another couple drifted in, one of them getting the makings of a fire prepared. The woodmen were not naturally accustomed to the fine art of gossip, so there was little beyond the sound of chewing, with one occasionally cocking a leg or furrowing a brow to facilitate the expulsion of methane from his behind. Sometimes, a particularly wet-sounding or prolonged bout of flatulence would draw a nod or two from the surrounding men. The woodmen had simple tastes and childish humour.
After a time, the sky was dark and the fire was going. One of the men drew forth a collection of five shaped knuckle bones, roughly etched with numbers.
“Who’s for a game of bones, then?” he asked. Skulks immediately perked up.
Without being asked, another man left and returned, straining with the weight of a hefty wooden table he’d sourced from elsewhere in the camp. This table was laid down in the middle of the group, next to the fire. It wasn’t long before the men were clustered around it, producing a surprisingly large quantity of Slivers and half-Slivers between them.