‘Your magick is strong, Megan,’ I said.
‘There is no magick in gathering plants,’ she muttered.
‘Oh, but there is when it is winter and none of them grow. You have a spell-garden somewhere and your enchantment works there even while you sleep.’You have a long tongue, Owen Odell,’ she said, a short curved blade hissing from the leather scabbard at her waist, ‘and I have a sharp knife. Be advised.’I looked into her eyes. ‘An empty threat, madam,’ I told her, keeping my voice low.
‘How would you know?’ she asked. ‘You cannot read my thoughts.’No, but I like you, and that is purely on instinct. My magick may not be strong, but my instincts usually are.’ She nodded and
her eyes lost their coldness. Smiling she slipped the skinning-knife back into its sheath.
‘Aye, sometimes instincts are more reliable than magick. Not often, mind! Now make yourself useful and build up the fire. Then there are logs to be cut. You will find an axe in the lean-to behind the house. After that, you can help me prepare the hanging birds.’I learned something that evening: physical labour can be immensely satisfying to the soul. There was a stack of logs, sawn into rounds of roughly two feet in length. They were of various thicknesses and the wood was beech, the bark silvery and coarse but the inner bright and the colour of fresh cream. The axe was old and heavy, with a curved handle polished by years of use. I placed a log upon a wide slab of wood and slashed at it, missing by several inches. The axe-blade thudded into the slab beneath, jarring my arms and shoulders. More carefully I lifted it again, bringing it down into the centre of the log, which split pleasingly.
As I have said I was not a small man, though I had little muscle. I was tall and bony, but my shoulders were naturally broad, my arms long and my balance good. It was a matter of a few minutes before I was swinging the axe like a veteran woodsman, and my woodpile grew.
I worked for almost an hour in the moonlight, stopping only when my fingers became too sore to hold to the handle. There was a deep ache in my lower back, but it was more than matched by the pride I felt in my labour.
For the first time in my life I had laboured for my supper, working with my hands, and the flames of tonight’s fire, the warmth I would know, would be the result of my own efforts. I laid the axe against the lean-to and began to stack the chunks I had cut.
Megan walked out into the night and nodded as she saw all that I had done. ‘Never leave an axe like that,’ she said. The blade will rust.’Shall I bring it inside?’She laughed then. ‘No, young fool, leave it embedded in a log. It will keep the blade sharp.’She waited as I stacked the firewood, then bade me follow her to a small hut at the rear of the building. Even with the winter wind blowing the stench was great as she opened the door. There were some twenty geese, seven turkeys and more than a dozen hares
hanging there. I cast a swift spell and the aroma of lavender filled my nostrils.
‘Have you ever prepared a goose?’ she asked.
Tor what?’ I answered, forcing a smile.
‘I thought not. Nobleman, are you? Servants to run your errands, build your fires, heat your bed? Well, you will learn much here, master bard.’Stepping forward, she lifted a dead goose from a hook and pushed it into my arms. The head and neck flopped down against my right thigh. ‘First pluck the bird,’ she said. ‘Then I will show you how to prepare it.’It is not a skill I wish to learn,’ I pointed out.
‘It is if you want to eat,’ she replied. After working with the axe, I was extremely hungry and did not argue. My hunger, I should point out, did not last long. Plucking the bird was not arduous, but what followed made me wonder if I would ever eat goose again.