Reset count

Isekai Villager isn't working out. It was a bad move making the main character mute to lead up to one joke: having the father prefer his kid not talk. One thing that I got from listening to Chuck Dixon talk about writers block with my bro was to understand that it was about the story. I compromised telling the tale for one punchline.

Another problem was the realization that far from making it easier, the lack of a conflict or a goal makes a work far more difficult to focus. The reason why shounen manga often have the MC striving to be the best figure skater/running back/biker/cook is to provide focus and a goal to direct that fiery passion. In this one, I only had a series of scenes that I wanted to experience.

My favorite part of isekai is inducing someone into wearing depends from crapping their pants in surprise. Those scenes don't make a story worth telling. Those are just vignettes that stack loosely at best. Far from writing better isekai than the most goofy webnovel, my work just crumbled.

I don't particularly remember my childhood as happy. In fact, it felt more constrained and restrained than anything else. I'm starting with adolescence.

I'm not quitting. I'm just resetting the counter back to one and striking out with another work.

Sixth Son: Villager in Another World 26

I used the ink to scribble some notes about herbs and plants. Helen found some shed antler and passed it along to me in exchange for more arrow points. I sharpened an awl from a point of the antler and bored some holes into the leaves of birch, then bound them together with some nettle cordage.

The experience taught me that the ink was a use amount of effort to make and did not keep long, even in the ceramic container that I had taken so many pains to make. However, I still kept an open mind on improving my previous production, such as gathering oak gall. My fever-born memories were still unclear on the form of the iron that was supposed to match with the tannic acid from the galls to make the so-called iron gall ink.

In any case, I had spent a fair amount of the early summer on making ink. I thought briefly about what I wanted to pursue next. It came to me quickly as I accompanied Helen to her archery practice.

Sixth Son: Villager in Another World 25

Making the ink went much smoother than my fumbling attempts at baking and glazing pottery. The walnut fruit or drupes only had to be boiled down to a warm, dark brown ink. A few days later, I showed off my ink to Agnes along with the birch paper and a feather quill.

Agnes readily recognized the ivory shade of the birch bark and small quill. She touched my stained fingers, which were dyed from squeezing the dregs from the boiled fruit. As a healer, she spent much of her time in the forest and instantly knew the identity of the ink from a shrivelled drupe. What she spent the most time studying was the small, lop-sided pot.

"Where did you get this?"

I mimed shaping it.

"Can you show me?"

I nodded.

Helen immediately got up from her canvas, where a deer had been doodled in charcoal. She took my hand and led me out the door before Agnes could utter a word. She let go of my hand and began helping her mother down to the creek. First, we showed her where the clay had come from. Next were the remnants of the two earthen ovens, which were deteriorated from the recent rainfall. One of the ovens still traces of ash and bits of charcoal left. The interior of the other oven were scarred from the heat of the fire.

Once Agnes was satisfied, we returned to her home, where we finished the lesson to Helen's chagrin. Even more to her chagrin, Agnes had us practice writing with ink and quill. The lesson felt longer than usual after enduring Helen's glare.

(written 09/08/19)

Sixth Son: Villager in Another World 24

Fishing went as well as could be expected in a shallow creek with few fish. Helen joined me. Meanwhile, a fire burned a small distance away for ash. I wasn't sure how much ash was needed, so I made a guess of one to one. The next day, I mixed the ash with clay and rebuilt the stove and baked the glazed bowl. Both of the pieces of ceramic that were recognizable as bowels survived the process and emerged a shiny, tanned brown.

Helen wasn't interested, so she delved into the forest.

More baking and fishing followed on the third day. The day was too hot to move around much, so Helen sat next to the creek with me and kept away from the fire. This time Quartus and Quintus wandered by with their fishing poles over their shoulders.

"What are you guys doing?" Quartus asked.

"Fishing," Helen answered.

"How do you expect to catch anything with that little piece of wood?" Quintus asked.

I pulled my line from the creek and showed the sliver of wood that I used in place of a hook. The cordage was tied to one side of middle of the splinter. Once a fish bit, the idea was that splinter would rotate and jam itself in the fish's maw.

It was about time for me to check up on my ink. I pulled my line, wrapped it up and hung it from a nearby branch, before making my way to a steady fire nearby.

Quartus followed, while Quintus stayed by the creek.

I stirred the bowl of dark brown liquid with some peeled birch twigs. The color stained the pale wood. The ink was going well.

"What is that for?" Quartus asked.

I mimed dipping a pen into the ink and writing. He nodded. He stood, folded his arms behind his head, and went into deep thought, which was soon interrupted by Quintus's raised voice."

"She's got a bite. Helen's got a bite!"

Quartus and I returned to Helen as she pulled a fish a little longer than her finger from the water.

"What are you going to do with that?" Quintus asked.

"It's too small to eat," Helen said.

"You can use it as bait," Quartus said.

"Not here," Helen gestured at the creek.

"You're right, what about the mill pond?"

Helen considered a moment.

"Come on, Six, let's go," she jerked her chin. "You can bank the fire, right?"

After a moment's thought, I nodded and returned to the fire. I buried the fire under some earth and left the simmering walnut ink next to it. I brought back the other bowl for her little fish, and the four of us headed to the mill pond.

Sixth Son: Villager in Another World 23

I could not afford salt, so ash it was. Similar to the way that lime could bring down the melting point of glass, I figured that the ash would act the same way. By mixing some ash with clay, it would melt more readily and seal the surface of the clay.

I also examined the failed pots. Two of them had a very small pebbles, only a little larger than grains of coarse sand at the crack, along the path of the crack. To sort out the coarser grains, I would have to make a watertight container first. Instead, it made more sense to keep the containers small and fire up a quantity of ceramic and hoped that enough would survive.

Meanwhile, I gathered the material for my ink: walnut fruit. Not the hard shell and the edible meat within, but the husks that contained nut. I sorted through the fallen fruit to find the least bug eaten and the right level of aging. The dark brown fruit was rich in tannic acid and would etch nicely into the birch bark.

I just needed to burn enough wood to create the ash, glaze the pottery, then boil down the fruit to make ink.

In the meantime, I would need something to do. There was a creek right there, which lent itself to fishing. To fish, I would need a hook, line, and a stick. Man's wants were truly endless.

Sixth Son: Villager in Another World 22

Helen led me past a row of overgrown hedges and through a fallen section of fence. The lawn was overgrown. The potter's home had holes in the thatching.

We approached the kiln. The red brick enclosure was a little larger than an outhouse. The exterior was in good repair, but there looked to be a nest inside.

Helen circled the workshop and found a shutter that had been forced open at some point, which had been wedged into place with a splinter of wood. Once the wedge was removed, the shutter swung open.

She agilely climbed in & held her hand out to me. I took it and followed into the darkened workshop. A pair of spinning wheels dominated the space. Helen gave a wheel a spin. Several bins sat against the walls.

A pair held a small quantity of earth. One was wet. The roof had a hole over it. The other had a withered plant growing out it. A third bins held traces of dark dust, which could have held ash. A fourth still had traces granular salt. We had found two candidates for glazing.

Sixth Son: Villager in Another World 21

Once Ma caught sight of the earthenware pot, she asked me where I got it. I pointed at myself and mimed shaping it. She examined the intact one closer and saw that the shape was somewhat crude. Once she glanced at my hands, she seemed to be satisfied and let the matter drop.

It rained heavily overnight, and the next day was hot. I checked out the clay ovens. The makeshift kiln had survived largely intact. The side of the charcoal oven that faced the creek had fallen in on itself. The next one needed further away from the water.

While I was at the creek, I decided to test the the two good vessels by dipping them into the water. They initially held the water, but started dribbled.

Helen caught me as I sat and pondered the bowl. Her cheeks were flushed with heat. She set aside her bow, took the bowl out of my hand poured the creek water over he still short hair. She filled the bowl back up.

"It looks like your bowl is leaking?"

I nodded.

"The bowls that Mum has are shiny."

Glazing! I forgot that earthenware needed to be glazed before they could hold water. The rough, unglazed surface was porous and let liquids through. The next step was to figure out what could glaze it.

The glazing material could be clay-based as well. The trick was to lower the melting temperature to end up with a smoother surface. Glass making included carbonates to accomplish that. Pottery should have an similar analog.

Whosever memories I had come across certainly wasn't a potter.

"Can't figure out what makes it shiny?" Helen asked.

I shook my head.

"Why don't we go to the potter's place?"

I gave her a questioning look. I hadn't heard about a potter in our village. Even if she did make introductions, would a potter show us the secrets of his techniques. Medieval craftsmen were jealous with their knowledge.

"Come on, let's go take a look," Helen said.

We dropped off our things at her place and headed to the village.

Sixth Son: Villager in Another World 20

I broke out a part of the mud dome to pull out the charcoal. Most of the wood blackened properly into irregular shards of charcoal. The bottom was still a bit sodden and not very well burned, since it was close to the damp ground. That was not a problem, since I could dry it out and heat it into charcoal or burn it. Seeing that there was nowhere else to store it, I ended up stacking the charcoal back into the oven.

Since both the raw materials and fuel were already near the stream, I picked the same area for the kiln. The next afternoon, I built another mud oven. The day after that, I dug clay from underneath crumbly stone and shaped it into some bowls. After letting it dried overnight, I lit another fire and fired the clay.

While tending to the fire, I occupied my hands by making cordage. It was necessary for tying the head onto a hatchet or other tools, lashing together poles, bundling together sticks, used for fishing, or any other other number of things. I could never have enough cordage.

I let the fire burn out on it's own. The bowls seemed to have firmed up, so I left them in the oven to cool down naturally and lessen the thermal shock. I managed to finish my project just in time to avoid the burgeoning storm clouds. 

Out of the six bowls that I had prepared, two cracked in the kiln. One more broke as I tried to remove them. A fourth was had melted like a model for a famous Dali painting, but made it out of the kiln. The fifth and sixth were intact. However, number five broke when I tried to fill it with water. Number six dribbled water, but it washed out to the characteristic orange red of earthenware. One out of six wasn't good, but I could still call it a success.

I kept the shards to number five as well as fourth and sixth ones in a hand basket. I put leaves between the ceramic and tied them to the basket with the cordage. See, I told you that I couldn't have enough of the stuff. The remaining usable charcoal went into a back basket, and I carried the lot back home.

Sixth Son: Villager in Another World 19

In addition to the clay, I needed a fuel to fire the pots. Not wanting to raid my family's supplies, I gathered some branches to make some charcoal. Since it had not rained, the wood was fairly dry.

I worked on a cloudless Sunday a short distance up from the creek. I stripped down to my skivvies. I stacked the wood in a pile, then covered it with mud from the creek bed, making sure that there was a small hole up top to keep the fire going and a small hole in the front to light up.

I used a cordage made from spruce roots, a creek stone, and a stick to make a fire bow. Some minutes of diligent spinning later, the friction ignited an ember. I transferred the ember to a palmful of dried hay, then moved it to the wood in the oven. The trick to making charcoal was to have enough fire going to drive off the water and leave behind blackened carbon, without igniting the pile into a full fire.

I worked near the creek to keep the fire in check. While the charcoal smoked away, worked on sharpening a second hatchet head.

Sixth Son: Villager in Another World 18

Helen helped me find a sturdy oak branch to mount the hatchet on. We were delighted when we found that it would actually chop wood. The hatchet was stored at her place, since Quartus or Quintus would probably "borrow" it. 

Helen also figured out how to make arrowheads, but was far more interested in practicing shooting than flint knapping. I ended up making eight of the next dozen. We built a firepit near the big stone to straighten out service berry bush branches. She took care of the fletching and assembly herself, since that would affect the arrows' flight. With a baker's dozen of arrows in an worn quiver, she quickly took off into the forest after lessons. I did not see as much of her for a spell.

Meanwhile, I reverted back to my original course of making ink. I managed to get some feathers for quills from Helen. The birch bark had been bleached in the summer sun. The last component needed was ink, and to make the ink, I would would need a pot. I headed back to the creek.

There had been few pieces of hard flint that I could find and reach in the creek bead. Instead, there had been soft stone that fell apart under my grasp. Underneath those eroded masses was clean clay, free of organic particles. Now, I needed fuel that would be hot enough to cast & glaze some earthenware pots for the ink.

Sixth Son: Villager in Another World 17

Dad and Ma exchanged looks across the table. They must have thought that it was important enough for Dad to spare a few of his scarce words.

"What do you want it for?"

I held up a finger for him to hold. I retrieved a small stone hatchet head, mimed the action of pushing against the edge, then ran my finger over the head as if testing the edge. Dad seemed curious enough to go and retrieve the nail from the mantle place.

I knelt near the hearth for light near Dad. I turned my hand palm downward and applied pressure upward. Pieces of stone flicked off. After several flakes, I flipped over the stone. The iron nail was far more precise and had made a better edge than striking flint against flint.

Dad held out his hand. I put the stone in his hand. Primus came over as well.

"What is that?" Primus asked.

"I reckon that it's a hatchet head."

Primus took it and flipped it around.

"I suppose that it is one."

He handed it back to me. I held up the nail.

"Keep it, son," Dad said.

I smiled and nodded my head to him. My other brothers took turns glancing at the stone before we went to bed.

The next day, I split a branch with the hatchet head and bound the nail tightly at the end of a carved stick with some cordage. The tool was called an Ishi stick and would give me better control over the flaking of the stone.

Sixth Son: Villager in Another World 16

Helen called out to me. Since it was shorter than Sextus, she just called me by the vernacular.

"Hey Six, did you make this?" she asked.

She held the arrow up to me just below the tip. I nodded.

"It shoots pretty well," she said. "How did you make it?"

First I mimed striking stone against stone, then sharpening them against each other. Helen nodded as she followed my motions.  I pointed to a stone the size of a block, to the spot near the big rock. Since my staff was awkward, I leaned it against a tree away from a road, before taking my position on one side of the blocky stone. She shouldered her bow, stuck the arrow back into her quiver, and took the other side.

Helen let me lead. She even took the lower of our burden as we sidled our way up the trail. We set the stone next to the big rock that I intended to use as an anvil.

"Need anything else?" she asked.

We ended up moving a coarser stone to flank the anvil rock and an armful of smaller stones. I sat on the anvil and showed her how to strike the flint downward to fracture it, picked out a promising piece, and began removing the bits that did not look like an arrowhead.

Helen studied my hands closely as I chipped away. After finishing the tail and half of th head, I handed the piece to her and emphasized that she had to use small motions and work away from herself. She took off a bit too much on one side. Her lips made a mou of displeasure. I pointed to the other side, so she took off more to  balance it. The arrowhead was fairly well shaped even if it was a bit small.

The sky had darkened to the point when we had to call it a night. While eating my simple meal, I thought about our experience. Chipping out the small flakes to make an arrowhead would be far more precise if we had thin, hard rod to focus the pressure rather than relying on another stone. Knowing my father, I recalled that there was probably at least one such object in the house that I could use.

After dinner, I asked Dad for it, which made both his and Ma's eyes grow large.

Sixth Son: Villager in Another World 15

During the next few days, I finished a knife by stripping and wrapping tree bark around the hilt. I also added a knob of fallen oak as soft hammer to put a finer edge onto a blade. Helen received the arrowhead with an absentminded thanks and put it into her pocket.

Knife in hand, my crafting branched out from stones to weaving once I was able to cut away some serviceberry and willow branches to store the stone tools and a few chicken feathers I kept from cleaning the Archers' coop.

The first knife was functional, but was still crude. I wanted to make a better one, but I also needed a better work space than the outcropping beside the road. To do that, I would need a workspace. Ideally, it would be sheltered from the wind. I found just the place near some white birch that my father coppiced. There was a time worn stone that kept the outline of its angular shape and had splotches of deep red over the surface. More importantly to me, it had the hardness and the mass to serve as an anvil.

There were rough rocks at the outcropping that could be used to sharpen my tools against. As I wondered how to move them, Helen approached me with a bow and arrow in hand. At the tip of the arrow was the flint arrowhead that I had shaped.

Sixth Son: Villager in Another World 14

My morning was taken up by chores and lessons. After lunch the next day, I walked a circuit around the surrounding area our houses. I held my ever present bamboo staff. Last night, Tertius had been kind enough to trim off the split ends with his blade, which reminded me of my sore need for a knife. I was on the lookout for rock outcroppings, whether by the road or the stream.

Most of the rock near the stream was crumbly. They were easily broken with a hard stone that was the size of a walnut that lay in the stream bed. None of the gravel were the right size. I still noted the location, since clay lay underneath the eroded stone.

I had better luck near the road. I found an outcropping of gray stone. A large slab sticking out of the ground served as my anvil. A piece slightly larger than my hand served as the stock for my future stone age tools, while I held a third piece as a hammer. I struck firmly at a shallow angle away from myself.

The stock rock gave a satisfying split into a variety of flakes. The smaller, thin pieces would serve as razors that could be used to trim a quill, once I procured feathers. I set those aside. Some larger pieces would become knives or smaller hammers. One piece mostly shaped itself into  an arrowhead.

I put the proto-arrowhead piece against my thigh and tapped away at in. My fingers were clumsy at first, but quickly acclimated to the force necessary to flake off what didn't belong on the arrowhead. As the triangular head took shape, I found myself wishing for other tools, like a pad to cushion my thigh, a soft hammer to smooth out the crude edges, or a pointed metal stick to have better control while making edges. Those thoughts were pushed aside to focus on the task at hand.

I not only finished the arrowhead, but also put the edge on a crude knife, though the handle still needed work. That reminded me that I needed something to store my tools in. At least I could cut some reeds or tall grass to weave into a bundle for storage. I could also make a mat to work on.

Such was the way of man that one desire led to another.

Sixth Son: Villager in Another World 13

Under the house eaves were stacks of cut birch. They needed to be peeled to let them dry out, so they didn't rot. That worked for me, since I wanted the bark. I pulled a shard of bark from log that was already shedding. I put a slight bend in the shard with a pressure from my thumb to stiffen it and used it to strip the logs.

After being soaked in water, the paper birch bark could be peeled into thin strips similar to their namesake. I planned to sun bleach a portion to increase the contrast.

To write on the makeshift paper, a pen and ink would also be necessary. I could find a wild feather or, at worse, gather chicken feather from the coop and cut it into a quill. I needed a knife first to cut it.

Quartus had only received a used knife from Tertius this past Yuletide, and I would not get a knife before Quintus. I bundled the bulk of bark with another thin strip and tied it to a peg on a column in my shared room. By the time I stowed the bark, it was nearly dinnertime, so I stayed indoors for the rest of the evening.

Sixth Son: Village in Another World 12

Twelve.

Each following morning, after breakfasting on brown bread and small beer, I went over the Archers’ to help. It was expected, since I was a sort of an apprentice. In addition to the various gardens, there were the animals to tend to. Both mother and daughter seemed to share the knack of handling animals. The both milked the goats and gathered eggs with ease. The chickens always tried to peck me if I approached carelessly, but I was still able to clean their roosts.

Helen’s father and brother cut the wood and fetched the water before leaving for the woods, but they often left early in the morning. This left the Archers short of hands and Helen grumbling under her breath. 

My family, which was larger, helped them tend to their fields in exchange for part of theharvest. My kind brother Tertius also helped with cleaning out the sty and the goat stall, since it was still beyond my strength.

After chores, Agnes gave lessons to both Helen and I. Helen did try hard, but her head did not seem to be suited for figures or letters. She would give them a try and would occasionally turn to me for help as a last resort. In turn, Agnes had Helen teach me about herbs and mushrooms.

After we were let out from lessons by mid to late morning, Helen grabbed her bow to dash out into the woods. I thanked Agnes for the lesson and continued to repeat the contents to myself, but I was not confident that all of the information would all stick. I wished that I had something to write with and on.

Ink and parchment were valuable. I was not so shameless as to ask to use any of Agnes’s valuable stores. My Ma and Dad had never written anything as far as I could see, though I had seen my Dad use an abacus and scratch a few roman numerals in the ground.

I returned home and ate lunch slightly distracted, while considering everything I saw in the house. Quartus took advantage of my it and pinched a piece of turnip pinched from my soup. Without an answer, I stepped back outside and immediately saw the answer stacked under the house’s eaves.

Sixth Son: Village in Another World 11

Eleven.

Both Agnes and Helen seemed pleased with my presence at their lessons. Agnes spoke to Ma during the afternoon. During dinner Ma and Dad spoke it over. Dad thought it over.

He looked me in the eye and asked. "Is this something that you want to do?"

The spoons stopped for a moment. All eyes turned to me. I did not hesitate before nodding vigorously.

"I'll speak to them tomorrow morning," Ma said.

Right after breakfast, we met Agnes drawing water from the well. After greetings, Ma had warned Agnes about my lax weeding. Agnes glanced over at me as I toed a milkweed plant that grew next to the well. Agnes said that she would show me what to do.

It seemed like I was not only going to join them for lessons, but would help Agnes with some chores as well, meaning that I was going to be somewhat like an apprentice. I tailed after Agnes that morning to her gardens.

While commoners did not have family names like the nobles, our neighbors were called the Archers by the villagers, because the father was an archer. My family was called the Woodbys, because we lived by the woods.

Anyway, the flatter part of the Archers' land was devoted to growing grain like the other villagers. Unlike the other villagers, a fairly large portion was devoted to gardens. Some patches were devoted to the familiar turnips, onions, and vegetables. Others parts were devoted to herbs and various other plants that were used in Agnes's brews.

Agnes pointed out various plants and showed me what to keep and what to weed out. To my satisfaction, she did keep the milkweed plants.

Sixth Son: Villager in Another World 10

Ten.

Helen frowned as Agnes tried to lead her through the multiples of eight. Helen scribbled down her answers to Agnes’s questions in what looked to be a sloppy hand. Agnes must have noticed my stare, because she began addressing me.

“Those are Arabic numerals. Once you get used to them, they are far more convenient than the Old Roman system. “Why don’t you try it out?”

She took a second piece of canvas and charcoal and carefully wrote the numbers out. She flipped turned the piece of cloth toward me.

I studied the numbers quickly. They looked familiar, except for the five, which looked more like a long letter ‘y’. I held the angular piece of charcoal similar to how Agnes had held it, between the middle finger and thumb, while supported by the middle finger. It was the first time I had something like that, but the grip felt natural.

When I began writing, the process was awkward. The charcoal spread unevenly, while the canvas moved and pulled oddly. Also, my hand wasn’t used to writing, so it quickly cramped up.

“You write with a neat hand,” Agnes said approvingly.

She showed me how to write the tens places, then went through the products of eight. It all seemed familiar enough, so that I passed her quiz on the first try. Partway through, Agnes left the table to answer a knock at the door with light steps. One of the neighbors had come by for some herbs.

In the meantime, a glare bored into my side. I glanced to see Helen glaring at me.

"I'm surrounded by traitors," she grumbled. "I don't get why this is wrong."

Intrigued by her question, I looked over at her sail cloth. She had gotten up to four by eight well enough, but the problem started with five by eight. Instead of the expected 40, she had written 15.

I scribbled the roman numerals XL on the canvas before me.

"That's right," Helen said. "I'm doing the same thing with these funny numbers. Oh, why couldn't they just use the same numbers?"

I wrote out XL into 50 less 10. She seemed to get it then.

"Show me the others," Helen said.

After Agnes came back, she quizzed her daughter. With a sigh of relief after she had completed her lesson, she waved us outside to play. Helen grabbed me by the arm and dragged me after her.

Sixth Son: Villager in Another World 9

Nine.

Helen gave her fraternal twin a glare, but still patted herself off. I pulled a few strands of grass off of her back.

“I did finish my lesson,” she protested.

“Tell that to Mum. Come on. If she has to come find you, who knows what will happen to supper.”

Helen’s face twisted. I gave them a quizzical look, but they did not elaborate. She followed him grudgingly. I stood bemused. Helen paused for a moment in thought, then gestured with her chin for me to follow. I retrieved my staff and trailed after the gangly duo.

“I’ve brought her,” he said as he ducked into the house.

“Get in here Helen Katherine and don’t forget to wipe your shoes,” Agnes ordered sternly.

“We’ve got company,” Helen said as she wiped her shoes.

The lines on Agnes’s face relaxed once she saw me.

“Who? Oh, it’s you Sextus. Helen can’t play right now, since she left her lessons undone,” Agnes said.

“I did do them,” the girl protested.

“They were all wrong.”

“But I did do them.”

“The purpose is for you to learn.”

Just then, Alden appeared from an inner room with a pole over his shoulder. He grabbed a slice of dark bread from the table and wrapped it in a cloth. He gave Agnes a peck on the cheek.

“Be back before dark,” Agnes said.

“Yes, Mum,” he said.

“Traitor,” Helen hissed.

“Later, sis,” he said as he jauntily left.

“This is so not fair.”

Agnes studied her sulking daughter and me. I began to feel awkward and shifted in place, wondering if I should leave.

“Why don’t you come in, Sextus? You can leave your stick at the doorway.”

I nodded in assent, carefully wiped my wooden shoes, and crossed the doorway. The door closed behind me. Helen slouched over the heavy plank table near the fireplace. A piece of coarse cloth & charcoal were set before her. I sat next to her, while her mother took the seat opposite of her.

And so her lesson resumed, while my first one began.

Sixth Son: Villager in Another World 8

Eight.

By early summer, my exercise with the stones paid off and I was able to draw water and carry a bucket back to the house. My walks extended into the copse of trees behind my house. I still used the staff that Tertius had cut for walking, but had found another purpose for it.

Behind the curtain of trees, I practiced strikes and deflections. The motions and patters came like memories that became stronger as I followed the echo of a stern voice exhorting his students to give a shout with each blow.

One morning, I felt a movement to my right. I turned to see a small stone thrown my way. I deflected it with a swing of my staff. Helen’s waifish figure swiftly followed the stone with a branch in hand. She gave a shout that I defended against.

Her head was clean shaven. A feral grin split her thin face. She was a full head taller than me, so her overhead blows landed heavily. However, her attacks grew monotonous and I poked her stomach.

She paused to recover, then drove forward wildly. I tried to repeat the same move, but she twisted aside and attacked. I parried and retreated from her advance. She pursued until her foot got too close. I swept that foot from her, but she dropped to a three point stance and pounced with nary a pause.

Once I caught her with a move, she didn’t fall for it a second time. Her foot movement became more controlled as did her movements. Several minutes into our bout, she begin mixing in feints with her blows, circled when I defended, then resumed her stalking.

My breath blew hotly from my mouth. My limbs grew heavier with every exchange. Though her face was red, she did not slow. Instead, she pressed harder with a flurry of smaller thrusts that aimed at my face, left torso, leg, then back up. In the middle of my defense, she caught up with my leaden legs and crossed her branch with the middle of my staff.

She grabbed the two ends of her arm’s length branch and pressed down. With her greater height and weight, I fell backward with my arms splayed into a bush. She knocked my staff out of my hand, tossed her stick aside, and wrestled me to the ground. Once there, she administered her punishment as my laughter rang through the woods.

Helen didn’t stop until I was thoroughly out of breath.

“At least you can laugh,” she said.

Thinking about it, I don’t think that I’d made a sound since falling ill. I took her proffered hand and then dusted myself off.

A voice cut if from behind her. “You’ll want to dust yourself off, too, Hellcat. Mum said that you’re to finish your lessons.”

Sixth Son: Villager in Another World 7

Seven.

My family didn’t have a proper surname like the nobles did, but we were known as the Woodby’s, because we lived by the woods. Our neighbors were the Archers. I had been moved over to their place, so that their mother Agnes could watch over me during my illness. After my fever had stayed down for a full day and night, I was brought back home. I was week, but made it back with some help. My parents thanked Agnes profusely.

Our families had always gotten along well. Primus and, last season, Tertius had helped them harvest their fields. Their father Zeno Archer shared venison with us after the hunt. A well that sat between our fields.

I regained my strength by walking to the well and back. I was weak after my bed rest, which lasted two weeks. Tertius cut a pole of bamboo for me that was as tall as I was. Even with the walking stick, I needed to rest often.

After the third day, I tried to drag the bucket up from the well, but could not budge it. I would need to find another way to get stronger. I tried to help Ma garden, but she didn’t like it when left the milkweeds and plantago between her vegetables, so she told me to go play with Quartus and Quintus.

Before I fell ill, Quartus and Quintus used to run with a gang of boys around the village after finishing their chores. It was one of their group who had egged Quintus on to sticking me with his beastly nail. Quartus had stayed away from them since, and Quintus followed. Today, they headed into the woods with their fishing poles over their shoulders. Quartus invited me with a wave of his arm, but I shook my head and waved him off.

Instead, I headed to the edge of my family’s fields, where it met the road. There was an outcropping of stone. I found a pair of fist sized stones that would serve as weights to exercise my arms.

Sixth Son: Villager in Another World 6

Six.

My family crowded around the straw bed that I lay in.

“Do you know who I am?” Dad asked.

I nodded.

“Ma?”

Another nod. As Ma pointed to each of my brothers, I showed an appropriate number of fingers for each of them, then six for myself. They seemed relieved that I could recognized them all.

However, I did not recognized my surroundings. The house was a wood with daub walls, and a sloped, thatched roof similar to our own. Unlike ours, the smoke air carried the scent of the grass and herbs that hung from pegs on the walls and the rafters. I also caught a whiff of my sweaty body and made a face.

I struggled to rise, but Ma pushed stopped me with a hand.

“Primus, get a basin of water,” Ma said.

My eldest brother left. He excused himself from someone as my brothers and Dad parted. My matronly mother yielded her position to a lovely woman with an olive complexion and curly strands that escaped from her head scarf. She was the village herbalist and our neighbor Agnes. I had probably been carried her.

“How are you feeling?” Agnes asked.

I opened my mouth to answer, but no sound would not come out. I licked my dried lips. My mother gave me a cup of water. I drank, but the words were stuck.

“Are you feeling feverish?” she asked as she felt my brow with a calloused hand.

I shook my head to fever, nausea, and each of the symptoms that she named.

“Can you do something besides shake your head?”

I nodded.

“He can count,” Ma interjected.

“That’s a good idea. Let us test his wits with math. What is two and two?”

I answered with my fingers. A few questions in, a voice that was high for a girl, but deep for a boy interjected.

“What is five times five?”

“Helen!” Agnes scolded.

“You made me learn that by that age, Mother,” her sullen answered.

The girl was thin with smudged, knobby knees and pointed elbows. Leaves, grass, and even a sizeable twig stuck from her disheveled hair. Her shirt and pants were dirtied to match. Agnes turned and blocked Helen’s path.

“Don’t come a step closer,” Agnes challenge.

“I just want to see how the pint is doing,” Helen answered innocently.

“I forbid it, I won’t have his head shaved, because you gave him nits.”

“Nits? I don’t have nits,” after scratching her head, she amended her statement. “Well, not many.”

“Step outside and stay outside for the time being,” Agnes hissed.

My brothers noisily shuffled against the walls as Helen noisily stomped out of the house. Meantime, I had pulled out straw from my bed and arranged them into a pair of X’s and a V. Agnes saw the straw and patted my head with a smile. Primus returned with a basin of water and a piece of cloth.

My father stroked my head before heading for the fields. Except for Quintus, my other brothers clasped me on the shoulder before leaving me to my bath time.

Sixth Son: Villager in Another World 5

Five.

I awoke tired, ate, and tried to do my chores. Ma checked on my partway through the morning, felt my forehead, and sent me back to bed.

The wound became a turgid, red spot. I tried to keep my hand away from it, but it itched and heated up. The heat spread until it lay heavily over my entire body. It became difficult to even breath.

I slipped into a sticky, restless drowsing, and soon opened my eyes halfway to waking before slipping under again. Day and night became a blur. Regardless of the time, the only constant was the oppressive heat. Pungent poultices appeared on my chest and brow. Someone propped me up to sip some water that I could barely swallow.

Between being half-waking and half-sleeping, I saw things that could only be dreams. Massive cities full of strangely smooth towers of white stone and unnaturally smooth ice. There was a cacophony of people who I didn't recognize and a crowd of alien noise against a riot of color. There were even faint scents and flavors that I could almost grasp as if they were faded memories. I let the impressions wash over me; they distracted me from the fever and pain.

I probably spoke, but I could not recall the words the moment I spoke them. My family and the neighbors appeared before me as did a white robed priestess.

Days must have passed, when I awoke one cool morning. The oppressive heat had finally passed. I sat up in daze. Tertius was the first to see me. He ran out of the room excitedly calling for Ma and Dad.

Ma clung to me tearfully, while Dad asked me how I was. When I opened my mouth to answer, I could not find any words. My head felt stuffed so full, that I could not reach the words. I tried to speak several times, then closed my mouth and shook my head. Dad turned pale as he grasped my head to look me in the eyes.

Sixth Son: Villager in Another World 4

Four.

The pain didn’t hit until the object had been pulled free. I bit down on my lip as Tertius pulled me close. Dad and Ma came in and demanded from Primus to know what the commotion was.

He led them over to us. It grew too crowded with everyone near us, so Dad tried to send everyone else away, but Tertius refused to leave my side. It took some convincing, but he got Tertius to pass me over to Ma.

Dad took over putting pressure on the wound. Ma left the room and came back with linen and a some leaves that she used to dress the wound. I bit my lip and a whimper down as she worked on the wound.

Tertius stood close to my side of the room with his arms crossed. His usually gentle features were furrowed in a stony glare that was bathed in garish red light as the fire was banked. Quintus shrank in the opposite corner near the fireplace.

“What happened?” Dad growled.

“I woke up to see Quintus holding my arm, and then he stabbed me with that,” I answered.

I pointed to the thin object with a darkened tip. It resembled a somewhat long nail and looked smaller on the ground.

“Is that true?”

“I didn’t mean to,” he answered.

My other brothers were surprised, but Quartus’s eyes popped in shock.”

“What did you do?”

“Well, I meant to just give him a poke, but then he struggled. Then I accidentally stuck him when he swung his arm at me, I didn’t mean to stick him so deeply. I swear to the Gods,” Quintus said in a soft voice.

Dad rose. He trembled in rage as Quintus flinched. Ma laid her hand on Dad’s arm.

“Why?” Ma asked quietly. “Why did you hurt your brother?”

“This morning, Markus said that Sextus didn’t look like the rest of us and might be a changeling.”

“I birthed him myself as I did you, you fool,” Ma said in disgust.

“I thought to prove that he wasn’t a changeling by poking Sextus with an iron nail.”

“Did Markus give you the nail?” Quartus asked.

Quintus nodded. Quartus slapped the back of his head.

“You’re an idiot, don’t you see that he was egging you on?” Quartus asked.

“I see it, now,” Quintus said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t really mean to hurt you Sextus.”

“Father, you’re in ire,” Ma warned.

Dad screwed his eyes close in thought. When he was finished, he grunted with a late response to Ma, before pulling away from her gentle hand. He strode across the room to Quintus, then gestured for him to step forward. He did so reluctantly. We all knew that if we didn’t step forward, it would only make it worst.

With one swift motion, Dad cuffed him on his right ear, causing Quintus to stumble.

“That’s to start,” he said. “Stand, boy.”

Once Quintus regained his balance, he was immediately struck on his other ear.

“That one’s for blaspheming. You’ll get the remainder tomorrow. Never raise your hand against your brother ever again, do you understand?”

Quintus nodded. He continued to wilt underneath the glare until he answered with his voice.

“Yes, Father.”

“Pray to the gods that you keep your promise.”

Dad then crossed the room and knelt before me. He looked me in the eyes.

“Get some sleep. I’ll check on your arm in the morning,” he said quietly. “Come on, Mother, we need to get some sleep, too.”

Dad left the room. Ma reluctantly followed him.

Tertius perched himself on the edge of the bed near me and patted my head.

“How are you feeling?”

I just shook my head.

“You can kip with me. I’ll make sure that no other fool will do anything to you.”

I nodded. I took my blanket over to Tertius’s bed. Since he had inherited it from the broad shouldered Secondus, it was wide enough for both of us.

“I’ll make sure that nothing happens either,” Quartus said with a glare at Quintus.

“Don’t cause anymore trouble,” Primus warned.

Secondus grunted in ascent, and we all laid back down.

“Thank you,” I whispered to Tertius.

“Anytime,” he replied.

The night dragged long as the wound stung. It seemed like I had only just fallen asleep when Dad roused us early. Tertius had to borrow a shirt from Dad, because his was soaking to get out the blood from the night before. Once he was squared away, we were assembled to see Quintus get his back stripped, then striped.

Dad and Ma checked my arm, which seemed to be healing. We went through our day’s chores. Quintus did my share of chores. I picked out the blood stained straw from my bed. We were unusually quite, but things seemed to settle back down until the next morning, when I was stricken with a fever.

Sixth Son: Villager in Another World 3

Three.

The thin and narrow object protruded from his fist.

"Hold still," he hissed.

"Let go," I snapped as I struggled.

He jabbed down. I gave a yelp more from surprise than pain. I tried to twist out and pry off his hand, but still could not get free.

"I said hold still," he ordered.

"Who would?" I demanded.

I kicked at him with my heel. I was rewarded with a solid blow and an exclaim of surprise, but he held on. He let go of my arm during and caught my foot during the next kick. He grabbed a fist full of my night dress with his other hand and roughly tossed me on my face. He jumped on the small of my back, crushing the wind from me.

"Now hold still," he said through gritted teeth.

His hand reached for my left arm again. I thrashed to try to get him off. He must have stabbed down as I tried to twist to face him. Both Quintus and I froze as I looked at the piece of metal embedded in my arm. It looked like a large a nail. It took a moment for the pain to register. He looked as surprised as I was. He did not resist as I pushed him off.

"Ow, ow! What was that for?" I shouted.

"I only meant to stick you a little," Quintus protested.

"A little? iI's stuck in my arm!"

"What's going on?" Primus demanded sleepily.

Tertius was quickest to my side. He studied my arm with wide eyes for a moment.

"I'll be right back," he said.

True to his word, he was back by my side holding a cloth.

"Clench your teeth," he advised.

He gripped my arm in one hand and pulled out the weapon. He held a wadded cloth over the wound. It darkened with my blood. It was his shirt. He stroked my hair, while telling me that it would be all right.

Sixth Son: Villager in Another World 2

Two.

After we ate, we pushed back our bowls and sat a bit. Father continued to talk to Primus a bit about the upcoming season, but he was not the talkative sort, so he took down his clay pipe from near the stone fireplace and chomped down on it, though he rarely lit it. That was the signal that dinner was over.

The rest of us went into action. Primus brought the dishes to the kitchen. Mother followed him to do the washing. Secondus wiped the table. I fetched tea dregs from the kitchen and scattered the damp, spent leaves to keep the dust down, while Tertius swept. The Q’s, Quartus and Quintus, took the scraps to the dog. Both of them got along with the old mutt well, while it growled at me. Oddly, it only growled at me.

Since my chore was done the fastest, I returned to our room to prepare for bed first, so I wouldn’t hold up my older brothers. I poured some water into a basin from an earthenware pitcher, stripped, and wiped myself while standing. I wrung out my cloth as well as I could and left it to hang dry near the fire. Fortunately, the weather had warmed a bit.

Two beds occupied most of the room. They were troughs of wood that contained hay. Three of us slept in each.

My part of the bed was the furthest for the door. Pegs projected from the each posts for our clothes. I hung up my shirt, pants, and under linen and swapped them out for my nightdress. My brothers filed in to complete their nightly routines.

“You’re a neat one,” Tertius observed from his bed from the odds side.

“It’s gets itchy if I don’t do this,” I answered as I finished.

By the time that I was nestled in my box of straw with my sheet drawn over me.

“Everyone in bed?” Primus asked.

Secondus gave his usual grunt, while the rest of us called out.

“Sleep well, brothers,” Primus concluded.

So we went to bed like any other night. However, unlike other nights, I awoke soon after I went to sleep. I slowly made out, Quintus’s lean form next to my bed. Could not see his expression in the low, ruddy light. However, I could make out the dull gloss from the thin metal object in his right hand.

Sixth Son: Villager in Another World 1

One.

It was Sunday night, and as was family tradition, we had stew. Barring holiday foods, it was our favorite. The best soup had a broth made from soup bones. Tonight we had some luck with mutton bones. Onions and brown mushrooms gave the base depth. Parsnips layered on sweetness to the just cooked cabbage. Overcooking the cabbage would make it smell, but the barely wilted leaves were essential to a hearty meal. A few broad beans lent depth.

While the cast could get quite large depending on the season, the star was always the meat when we could get it. The best was the rare boar, but any meat was welcome. Often there was none to be had, and tonight was a good night, since there was a bit of mutton that came off the bone. A pinch of salt brought out all of the flavors.

At the head of the rustic table, our solid and stolid Dad gave a prayer to the gods of the hearth and the fields. After concluding, he turned his final thanks to Ma, who sat at the end of the table.

“Ma, your soup is always the best. My thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied simply.

My brothers and I gave a quick thanks, tore chunks of dark, hearty bread, and set into the meal. Each day, Ma had to bake at least two loaves for her, Dad, and six growing sons.

To keep track of us, we had been simply named following Latin. All of my brothers were tall for their age, had Dad’s sandy hair, and some shade of gray.

Next to Dad sat the eldest brother Primus. At fifteen, he was almost as tall as Dad, but still growing. He shared the same rugged features, down to the wave of their hair and the shade of their eyes. They both doled out their words sparingly. Though nine years separated us, we got along well.

Across from Primus sat Secondus who was stouter, stronger, but slower than Primus. After Secondus hit his growth spurt, Primus had quickly decided that wrestling was for children. He was smaller than Primus by two years.

There was a gap of three years between stout Secondus and the thin Tertius, who was clever with his hands. Back on the evens side, Quartus sat between Secondus and me. He was only a year separated from Quintus and they were as thick as thieves. I was the baby of the family. Three years separated Quintus from me, so I got left behind while Quart & Quint ran with a group of village boys.

Unlike the older five of my brothers, I was slight and short for my age. My hair and eyes were dark, verging on black, and my eyes had a slight angle to them.

Our calm and usually placid Ma sat at the foot of the table next to Quintus & I, though we could eat by ourselves. She asked Quintus about his day, since he was outside until the sun came low. That was a bit odd, since he usually jabbered with Quartus throughout dinner. Quartus had tried to speak to him a couple of times, but stopped with a shrug at his one word answers. He seemed to glance at me several times, though. I thought nothing of it. It seemed like another ordinary Sunday dinner.

Launching 100 Steps Fiction

I was listening to a podcast that came on after my usual dose of Captain Capitalism. Mr. Piggott from Pushing Rubber Downhill thanked the good Captain for his advice on his 100th podcast. The best advice was consistency.

So I've thought about it, and I'm going to put out 100 posts of ONE fiction, minimum 500 words, once a week here. Post deadline will be Sunday midnight Eastern Time.

I will store up some posts for off weeks & vacations, but I will get into the swing of things.