For a few turnips

“Hear that metal sing!” Cried Matthew as his son and pride Henry brought down his hammer on the white-hot iron, sending a molten hail of sparks through the muggy June air. He was in his fourth year of apprenticeship to his father, and the hard work had put lean muscle on him, much to the delight of the village girls. Often finding every excuse to come by bringing refreshments and praise. All if which Henry took with an abashed naivety that came with early adolescence and a firm clap on the back from his father. Who would often slip him a penny on the Saturday to spend down the tavern.

His eldest, Brandt was afforded no such treatment. Due to his twisted spine, he couldn’t lift the hammer above his head nor bring it down in a swift arc. His metal clattered rather than sang. He knew his father did not hate him, not truly, but after a year of trying to learn his father’s trade and seeing his younger brother surpass him in both skill and strength, he had sort work elsewhere. All manual labour however came with its difficulties, his twisted ribcage protruding out from his chest caused immense pain even carrying light loads. So, he retreated to the woods that surrounded the village where he was teaching himself the art of trapping.

His tiny frame and keen eyes enabled him to slip through the foliage in near silence and whilst his arms were somewhat withered his hands were deft and the patience and precision came naturally to him. He could never share what he was doing, he had heard of men swinging from the towns old oak tree for killing a single hare to feed their starving kids. “Poaching” it was known as.

It was mid-morning, and Brandt had returned from following a trail, he sat in the shade of the trees and watched his father and brother work the forge. He pulled his flint out from his belt, striking a few sparks. Not to catch a flame, merely a means to keep his hands busy. Henry used a pair of tongs to pull metal from the fire; he held it in front of his face and spat on it. It let out a tiny hiss and he smiled, laid it on the anvil and drew back his hammer. Seeing the pride in his father’s eyes made Brandts insides ache. He thought about turning back to the woods when he saw a stranger in the vegetable garden, it had been his mother’s pride until a month ago when she had passed. Brandt had vowed to carry it on and had, but when it had come time to harvest, something had stopped him.

“Hey!” He called.

The man’s head shot up, his face half covered by a cloth. He threw the bag of turnips he’d stolen over his shoulder, squinting in the direction of Brandt’s call. Brandt burst from his hiding place, stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled. When his father and brother looked up, he pointed to the man still in the garden.

They ran round and confronted the thief as Brandt slid down the embankment. The thief made a run for it, getting only a few steps before Henry was on him. Throwing his weight forward, hammer in hand he barrelled the thief over. They wrestled in the thick greenery of the turnip bed. Henry got to his feet; the thief lay cowering beneath him as Brandt and his father closed in.

“Thieving bastard!” Henry panted, holding up the canvas sack.

The thief sprang like a viper, in his hands was Henry’s hammer. Brandt opened his mouth to scream when the cruel slab of metal connected with Henry’s temple. He sank to the floor as the thief snatched up the bag and bolted.

“Henry!” Matthew cried, running over to cradle his sons head in his arms. Brandt stood over them unsure of what to do. His fathers anguished wails washed over the garden, filling him with a kind of dread he’d never experienced before. He spotted the hammer lying on the ground next to his brother. The thief had cut a path through the garden beds and disappeared.

“Help get your brother inside!” His father shouted at him.

Brandt dropped the hammer and took hold of his brothers’ legs. Eyes were rolling in his sockets. He grunted as the pair hoisted him into the air. Less than thirty seconds of carrying and Brandt’s spine began to throb in protest. He gritted his teeth, tucking his brother’s legs under his armpits continuing to move. They were less than twenty feet from the house when the burden became too much. The curvature of his spine made it hard to fill his lungs, he was wheezing, the throb in his back had turned into agony that radiated down through his legs. He fell and took his brother with him, they both landed hard on the sunbaked dirt, Henry’s head jerked violently to the side.

“I’m…sorry…father.” Brandt managed out, clutching his ribs.

“You are, aren’t you?” His father said, his panic now a biting malice, “if you aren’t the sorriest creature in this entire stinking shit pile.”

He stared at his father who stroked the hair of his favourite son and wept. After a minute he took Henry by the shoulders and dragged him the rest of the way inside the house, leaving Brandt to feel the weight of the words. When the door to the house slammed behind him, Brandt got to his feet and ran into the village calling for the catchpole.

By the midafternoon Henry’s left eye had come up a deep purple and he’d vomited everything he had in his stomach. Goodwife Anna had tended to him whilst his father ranted and raved at the local catchpole, a weathered man known as Mallard. Who calmly stroked his mustache to a point whilst watching Matthew tear apart his own house, demanding a mob to comb the woods looking for his son’s attacker.

Would he be so angry if it had been me? The question shouldn’t have ever entered a good Christian’s head, especially with their own brother on deaths door. But it was all Brandt could think about.

“We’ll ‘ead through ‘em woods as soon as able Mathew, not before.” Mallard said. With a curt nod he left the house. Amongst his own destruction Matthew watched him leave, his fury having burnt through his remaining energy he slumped down to the floor. Goodwife Anna applied a herbal and vinegar-soaked cloth to Henry’s head. Afraid to move from the barrel he perched on Brandt stared at his broken father.

The room was silent except for the soft moans coming from his brother. Brandt decided he couldn’t sit and wait.

“Jus’ goin’ gather up tools pap.”

Matthew sat cradling his head in his hands, he gave no response to Brandt’s words. Brandt hopped off the barrel and approached his brother, Henry’s eyes were open and had a frantic alarm to them.

“You be ‘right now Henry.” Brandt said, goodwife Anna smiled and stroked his brother’s forehead. As he turned to leave his father lifted his head to speak.

“Should ‘ave been you, lad.”

Goodwife Anna gave him a sympathetic look before turning her attention back to Henry. His father got up and reached for one of the few bottles he hadn’t smashed and took a large swig. Brandt left with the answer to his question.

He walked through the garden in a stupor, his fathers words ringing in his ears. When he got back to the sight of the attack he picked up Henry’s hammer. Its handle was streaked in black, different to the soft soot of the forge this clung to the skin and had a far gritter texture. He rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. Its smell carried the acrid tang of wood burn. Brandt was no stranger to it, growing up around the forge he had seen his father trade with charcoal burners. Arms black from elbow downwards, necessary but distrusted.

“Wrong-un’s!” His father had called them whenever they’d finished trading for the day.

“Don’t even stop by tavern for som’ drink. Jus’ flit away like some bleedin’ Leshy’s. Vanishin’ into woods.”

Brandt knew they didn’t vanish, more than once he had followed them back to their dugout. He made it a game, could he follow them all the way without being seen? They always stayed by water and there was always a white pillar of smoke curling it’s way heavenward at their camp. If this thief was a charcoal burner, could he find him too?

He left the village behind following its life blood, the river. The air cooled under the shade of the trees and Brandts senses came alive, his nose picked up the damp earthiness and all manner of forest life made themselves heard. He tucked the hammer into his belt keeping his eyes low, the thief couldn’t have ran through these woods without leaving a trail. Broken twigs, the wood inside pale and dry told him it had been crushed underfoot recently, his heart leapt. Quickening his pace, his spine began it’s usual needling pains, this time he ignored it. Even when the ache of his back bent him forward, he persisted, emboldened by every sign of boot scuffed moss or snagged scrap of cloth.

He had lost all but the last of the light when he caught the lingering aroma of the burner’s camp, sweet resin beneath a heavy blanket of charred wood and moss. The place looked to be abandoned, the charcoal hearth that burned all throughout the day was out, leaving a black ring around the wood pile.

Brandt slid the hammer out of his belt and approached. The silence of the place gripped his bowels, nature had been driven out, the camp was nothing but scorched earth. He let his thoughts drift into fantasy, bringing back the thief, hands bound and sorrowful. The village would see him swing from the great oak. His father patting him on the back would declare “That’s wha’ yer get for harming one of my lads!” He’d look down at Brandt, chest swelling with pride, slip him a penny and a wink. Then it would be down the tavern where Henry and his friends would cheer and declare him his brother’s keeper.

The clatter from the burner’s dugout shook Brandt from his daydream. He crouched beside the great pile of wood, having to steady himself due to his lopsided frame. A weak red glow of a hearth made an outline of the dugout door. Half below ground it had once been used by the charcoal burners for sleeping and preparing meals. Now it gave shelter to a thief, one that had almost killed his brother.

Think yerself som’ huntsmen do you cripple?

The thought splintered through his skull, he could feel the daydream already fogging as his father’s laughter rang in his ears.

You found som’ burners hut an’ thought you’d caught im? His father bellowed as his brother pointed at him and laughed from his deathbed.

Did he spot you an’ beg fer mercy?

Brandt swallowed hard, desperately trying to focus on the door. But the laughter boiled over until it pounded his head and sent lightning bolts down his spine.

The door creaked. Brandts grip on the hammer was so tight his hands shook. He sprinted forward. The door halfway open Brandt drew back the hammer. Agony tore through his spine. He brought it down. It landed with a sickening crunch. His victim crumpled to the floor.

Brandt stood in shock letting the hammer slip from his fingers. The man let out a moan and curled into a ball. For a long moment he didn’t recognise him, thinking he’d just brutalized an innocent man until he rolled over and Brandt spotted the rag he’d worn over his face now round his neck. He stepped over him and entered the dugout.

Next to the hearth was the bag of turnips he’d stolen. Brandt picked it up and felt the weight, barley anything in it. For reasons he couldn’t explain that only made him angrier, he picked up the hammer from the floor, not wanting to make his brothers mistake. With his moment of triumph soured he sat down on the bed and watched the thief writhe in pain.

The thief tried to rise, getting to his feet but struggling to straighten his back. Brandt gripped the hammer and tensed but the man never drew himself to his full height, couldn’t in fact due to the severe curvature of his spine. His entire chest sunk inward and his shoulders were crooked. He gave up trying to stand and fell back hard on the dirt floor. Brandt stared at the thief’s warped body, his own now feeling tender.

The thief looked over at him still clutching his head, when he caught the sight of Brandt’s body in the firelight so like his own, he threw his head back and let out a dry laugh. It echoed through the tiny shelter as Brandt stared deep into the hearth, his knuckles whitening around the hammers handle.

The laughter died when Brandt stood up, quickly turning to whimpers as he crossed the dugout and walked out the door. He slammed it shut leaving the thief to nurse his head.

He walked around the back of the woodpile, selecting an uncut log of about five feet that would suit his needs perfectly. He dragged it through the ash and dirt, the pain in his back igniting a fresh determination. He stood it in the dugout pit opposite the doorway and let it fall. It struck the door with a great shudder, some of the dirt and moss of the roof shook free and a murder of crows took flight. From inside the thief tried in vain to force open the door. But his body failed him, the log barely moved as Brandt headed back for more wood.

Brandt took out his flint, striking a few sparks in the darkness as the thief beat his hands bloody against the inside. It hadn’t taken much, he had hauled over a few more logs then he cut himself some kindling using some left behind tools. The hard work made the whole ordeal feel somehow justified and after he was done, he was roasting despite the chill night. He stacked the kindling on top of the wood outside the door. Allowing airflow to ensure a long, slow burn. It wasn’t as good as Henry’s work but it would serve for a thief’s pyre.

He made sure to hold the flint close to the door, striking it far harder than necessary. The crisp metallic snap sent sparks skimming across the kindling.

Tap-Tap-Tap.

“Reckon you’ll burn me, eh?” The thief’s voice sounded queerly calm, “Hotter’ end than I wanted but free at las’. Dunno why I ‘eld on as long as I did, mayhaps I were tryin’ to prove somethin’. I hope it brings yer peace.”

The inside of the hut went quiet. The night air suddenly felt very cold, setting his skin to prickle and stinging his lungs. His body began to shiver, the flint felt clumsy in his grasp. He placed his hands just under the downy wood fibre, striking once.

A thin stream of smoke trailed, and the bright bud of flame emerged. Brandt watched as it grew, blackening the kindling in its greedy hunger. The heat didn’t warm him, his hands were still numb, the strain of the labour forcing his head into a bow. He would stay the rest of the night, making sure all the wood caught. At first light, he would set off for home. He wouldn’t tell anyone of what he’d done, maybe he’d join the fruitless search, lamenting at how God could allow such a barbaric act to go unpunished. All for a few turnips.