Story: Be a Helper (part five)

Be A Helper

(part five)

You may know the adage, that a thing of nature has nature’s wisdom in it; a thing of man, man’s. (Jorinda would not allow it woman’s.) Bede kept a cow, and for the milk—if his neighbor’s bull came wandering—let her calve. When the wolves took prey from the elderly of his sheep, he counted it Nature’s sound practice; even the wildcats, or a passing eagle (keeping the news from Finch and Bunting), might have a lamb. He kept chickens, but ate only their eggs. He kept hazel bushes without hating the deer or squirrels for looting them, though like anyone he was very fond of hazelnuts.

Bede’s woods were safe from poachers and hunters because Melchior kept his manor there. Melchior’s entry hall was a ring of rocky pillars, many become parts of trunks, of pines so tall and full of life they made their own weather. Little squalls of rain overtook climbers on the sunniest day; impenetrable banks of fog could deliver an enemy’s feet to empty air.

Melchior was a giant, and his house fit his size.

But as he would say, “I make my presence in the world as demure as possible.”

His dining hall was a cliffside cave, each frame of its irregular vantages excavated from earth and loose stone. Melchior had diagrammed the spaces inch by inch, dusted, cleaned, and smoothed them, built his sixteen custom shutters, chiseled mortices for the hinges, molded and fitted the fasteners, applied a milk paint saturated with bloodroot, to imbue his house with his favorite berry hue. He had woven mallow stalks into hanging mats that caught the mist from the falls, and tempered the air on warm days. His parquet floor, with its edge-tiles fitted to the very contours of the cave, their levelness perfection, and the vast wool carpet he had made on his loom—in purple, red, and gold; the chairs and table, the sideboard and cabinets, constructed from windfall scraps, tooth-jointed and painted yellow, the deep red panels folded against the walls, lent harmony and comfort to the whole.

Melchior moved strides ahead of his guests, loping as quietly as an unshod, twelve-foot being in festive mood might, while Jorinda and Bede ushered in the sprites. Langham held back at the stairs.

“Well, then, I might not, after all…”

The words seemed his, lost in the echo of Melchior’s feet, and Jorinda came in quickly: “Your view, Melchior! I am never less than inspired.”

“The air!” said Bede. “When the waterfall is running high. Rejuvenating.”

“Pleasant altogether, yes. The reason I have my bedroom this side as well. And how nice to have friends who enjoy one’s house!”

“Lot of noise from that water. Have the shutters closed and the lamps lit while we eat.”

Langham was alone in his opinion. But in aid of hearing less of it, Jorinda and Bede took flanking positions and tugged. Melchior swept the shutters nearly latched, then noticed his guests along for the ride. “Ha, ha! Always count your fingers in a giant’s house! Sprites, we’re off to the kitchen. Bring along those baskets of onions and garlic. And Jorinda, the butter.” In turning, he seemed gone already, well to the head of the lower stairs. He called, and the shutters thrummed, “Pay no mind to any clatter you hear. I’ve got all the pots and pans stacked largest to smallest. Takes a fair dismantling of the order of things…”

Each sprite had one of Jorinda’s ginger cakes. She carried the sixth, and had baked as large as she could: three cakes for their host’s portion, two for guests, and one to send home with Langham. Her pack held three pounds of Bede’s butter.

6

 a Helper

Be a Helper (part six)

(2021, Stephanie Foster)