'Extreme Holiday'

It was getting very dark when they decided to venture down a well-used staircase. All the way down, the walls were scuffed, chipped, and had a generally greasy appearance. At the bottom they stopped, unsure if they were intruding even though they’d been given a so-called free rein to wander at will. Gretchen half sat, half stood, her bulk perched on an especially sturdy stool. Large as it was, it barely accommodated one bum cheek. She was busy kneading some sort of pallid dough. Hanging from an iron rack above her head were an assortment of blackened pots, an ancient kettle and the most wicked array of cleavers and filleting knives Miriam had ever clapped eyes on. This woman was serious about her cooking.

‘Can we lend a hand Gretchen,’ asked Miriam brightly. ‘I used to make my own bread once, when Fong and I were young hippies playing at self sufficiency.’

Gretchen threw her a quizzical look and shook her head.

‘Go on, it’ll give me something to do. I promise to do as you tell me ―in the kitchen that is,’ said Miriam amiably.

‘You may shape them into buns.’

‘So, is this what you do? Are you the cook, or are you expected to do a bit of everything? I mean … I haven’t seen Timothy since yesterday.’

‘Laziest bag o’bones you will ever meet―famulus indeed!’

‘Now that you mention it, I’m not familiar with the job description. What exactly is a famulus?’

Gretchen stopped kneading for a moment to wipe her sweaty brow with her forearm and thought about it before replying. ‘The silly twerp attends the Master, that is all. A famulus is much more than that. He … organises his master’s affairs, holds the keys to his library, oversees the Oarfs, arranges meetings. He is …’ she wrinkled her smooth brow trying to drag the words out, ‘he is…’

‘He’s a private secretary ―or something like that?’ said Miriam finishing her sentence.

‘Or something like that, indeed. None of which describes that malnourished, conniving upstart.’

Obviously there is no love lost between the chunk and the bone, thought Miriam.

Oli— who was feeling much better after dutifully forcing down a horrible greenish herbal tisane that Gretchen had concocted and bade him drink; was dutifully shaping the bread into small round buns. His hands were getting very sticky so he searched around for a bag that looked like it might hold the flour. At the end of the bench ―long enough, and strong enough to butcher a whale, stood a wooden barrel, a small version of those that might normally have contained beer or wine. He scooted over and lifted the lid, yes; inside was dull grey looking flour. He was about to stick a hand in when Gretchen let out a mighty bellow.

‘No— that must not be wasted! Use this, to prevent them sticking, and work quickly youngun, like this.’ Hanging from a sturdy rope around her waist was a small sack. She dipped her hand in and sprinkled the surface of the table, then deftly pinched off and shaped six buns in the space of time it had taken Oli to make one. ‘A light touch is required, youngun,’ she said, this time gently.

‘Sorry Gretchen, Oli and I take things for granted. Back home we get our flour from the shop. Guess you have to grind your own,’ said Miriam.

‘Oarfs grow and grind this,’ said Gretchen, indicating the stuff in the sack, ‘but that … there … well. That is a different story. I, have to make that. Master won’t take normal bread, just like the eggs ―says he needs to eat nourishing food.’

Oli tried to keep his movements ‘light’ as requested, copying Gretchen’s nimble fingers. ‘Is it a different type of grain, you know …that you grind the flour from?’

Gretchen gave a strange chuckle and said, ‘Yes, very special. Requiring specialised skills … I will show you,’ she added winking.

She wiped her hands on her shift, ambled over to a large box near a fiercely burning hearth, and grunting with the effort, squatted down, lifted the lid and delved its dark interior. ‘This will do nicely,’ she mumbled half to herself and half to them. She stood up and turned, flourishing a large bone ―a strangely familiar bone.

Oli stopped shaping and stepped back from the bench, slightly alarmed. Gretchen reached up and selected a heavy cleaver. Holding one end of the bone steady, she split it squarely through the middle lengthwise. She scooped the marrow from both halves as though seeding a cucumber, and proceeded to bash the ends using the flat side of the cleaver like a mallet.

Next, sweating copiously with the effort, she reached down and brought from a shelf running the length of the bench, a large, pitted granite mortar. It took ten minutes from start to finish. Miriam and Oli stood slack jawed processing the information.

‘There … done,’ said Gretchen with a flourish ‘–the Master’s bone meal’.

I’ll grind yer bones to make my bread …thought Miriam numbly.

~~~~~

They assembled at the back wall of the fortress just before sunset, when they were sure that everyone in the village had hunkered down for the night.

‘What do you think Dad?’ said Nic.

‘I’m thinking, that even if we can break through this section, and if we can do so without making so much noise that the Jishan from the next county hears us, that we will have very little time to find your Mum and Oli before everyone inside and outside, is on to us. Which beggars the question, how on earth will we locate them in this monstrosity of a building?’

‘Mikal and I have brought two strong chisels, a mallet and long bar of iron,’ said Gareth inspecting the spot that Fong had determined assailable. ‘I think working night times only, and with stealth, two ―perhaps three days with all those able to, working.’

‘Miriam might not have, two or three days,’ said Fong chewing his lip.

‘Let’s say we do get in without someone raising the alarm. Who’s to say we won’t find ourselves in a locked dungeon or something. Does anybody here, know about your typical castle layout?’ said Josh gloomily.

‘Have you got a better idea?’ said Bas.

‘No,’ said Josh, uncomfortably aware that Elspeth was listening.

‘I didn’t think so … well then, we’ll just have to hope for the best. I’ll give you a hand Dad, I’m pretty strong,’ said Bas.

‘Hey, I didn’t say I wouldn’t help,’ blustered Josh, ‘―I just don’t like our chances … that’s all.’

‘You know, I noticed from the campsite that the castle’s roof is flat like a big courtyard. Maybe Mum and Oli can find an excuse to get out there?’ said Nic.

‘That’s presuming we can get a message to them, and, they’re not locked up ―or worse,’ countered Josh.

‘Show me what you’re talking about,’ said Fong. ‘Maybe I can figure out a way to get across.’

~~~~~

Gretchen had never witnessed first hand, a bond as close as the one between Miriam and Oli. She tried not to think about them. She tried not to like them. She tried not to care. It was breaking the rules, self-imposed rules, the rules that had kept her alive and sane until now.

No one had ever treated her as anything but a freak, certainly no one had ever offered assistance, a smile or a kind word ―til now. She turned over these new feelings. She wondered if she could crack their bones when the time came.

The boy ―a handsome and caring soul; was sitting next to her peeling and quartering potatoes while his mother scraped carrots and parsnips, they were making a stew of vegetables because ―as they politely informed her, they were vegetarians.

Well it takes all kinds, she thought.

‘Why are you doing that?’ said Oli.

Gretchen was holding an egg in front of a candle peering intently this way and that, before adding it to one of two piles in front of her.

‘It is to reckon whether the cock has had his way with the hen or not,’ answered Gretchen in a distracted voice.

‘How can you tell if an egg is fertilized or not?’ he asked leaning against her and squinting at the egg.

She took a moment before answering ―not wanting him to move away and, fighting the urge to gather him up and set him on her capacious lap, she gazed into his intelligent eyes and said, ‘look closely youngun, there …observe the tiny beak, and that dark spot … it will quiver ―for it is the chick’s heart.’

‘So … what do you do with the fertilized eggs, do you put them back in the laying boxes, or stick them under a clucky hen?’ said Miriam without looking up from the onions she was slicing.

‘I am sorting those that are suitable for the Master. He will not eat eggs without a hint of feather,’ said Gretchen blandly.

‘Sounds as if your Master is taking his high protein diet a little too far. Does he ever eat fruit and vegetables?’ said Miriam, giving Oli a ‘can you believe this ‘ look.

‘The Master credits his longevity, to his abstinence of that which grows in the earth, believing that those who eat from the earth will like as not, repair to the earth.’

‘And what about you Gretchen, what do you believe?’ asked Miriam.

‘I do not trouble myself with thoughts that dispute the Master’s ―as should you,’ she answered, with eyes downcast.

‘Ah, but he’s not our Master Gretchen and ―he doesn’t have to be yours,’ said Miriam in a loud whisper.

Go to Chapter 27