Read Online Something Red by Douglas Nicholas - Free Book Online Page A

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    “. . . then tha hast, after all is done, tae hang un up tae dry, hard as a board it comes, then ye put un aside and do nowt tae un for near a month, it lets t’ alum set, sithee, then tae t’ sawdust, t’ which tha wets just a wee bit, and then tae t’ stake, a sort of knife on a wooden horse it is, but not a sharp knife, sithee, more dull or blunt-like . . . ”
    Behind the cheery voice was the creak of the wheels, the clop of hooves. Hob listened for rustling behind the trees, for the click of claws, for that cry that had caused his heart to check in his breast. Yet there was nothing. He glanced back at Molly. She leaned a bit to hear Aylwin’s instruction, and she seemed calm enough, but her eyes roved the corridors of the forest as did Hob’s. Hob wondered at the sanguine nature of the pilgrim, as he strode along, carefree, absorbed in his topic. Surely all at the monastery had heard that there was some unknown danger abroad.
    “. . . and tha mun work thy hide this way and that ower t’ knife, ower and ower, swinking and toiling a long weary time till t’ stiffness come out and then yon hide, ’tis like butter, like summer butter, sithee, and then it’s for my goodwife and her sister and their cousin, and they t’ three finest glovers in Carlisle.”
    “And what is it ye dye it with—oak bark, say, or elderberry juice?” asked Molly. The reins were in her right hand and she braced herself with her left as she leaned toward him, swaying a bit with the bumping of the wagon over the rutted path, but every so often she would straighten and sweep her glance over the woods to the right of the path. She always watched everything and at times it had been what kept them all alive.
    “Oak bark, t’ juice of t’ elderberry, logwood; then theer’s thy sumac, fustic, or cochineal, and what we call Persian berries, but beforehand tha mun give yon hide a piss-wash, t’ piss being stale, sithee, fresh is no good, and then tha’rt ready for thy dye-dip or brushing on, ower and ower . . . ”
    Hob found he was clinging so tightly to the ox’s bridle rope that he was causing it to veer from the path. His breath came short and fast, and he looked from side to side faster and faster. When he looked left, his skin crawled with fear that when he turned back to the right he would see . . . he knew not what.
    “Hob.”
    “. . . and if tha dip it in t’ dye tha mun egg t’ hide again, and dry and stake it again . . . ”
    “Hob, a chuisle, come back here a moment.”
    He became aware that Molly was summoning him to her side. He paid out some slack on the rope and dropped back between Molly and Aylwin, who had paused from politeness while Molly spoke, or perhaps to regain some breath.
    Molly put a firm hand on his shoulder and pulled him a little toward her. She leaned farther down to her left so she could speak quietly in his ear. “There is nothing,” she said. “I’d be knowing by now and no mistake. Now be of good cheer and enjoy your walk.”
    He looked up at her; the relief from fear he felt was so immediate he almost stumbled: it was as though a wind he had been walking against had ceased. She patted him a few times and he moved to the ox’s head, his spirits bounding up. Behind him he heard the pilgrim resume happily.
    “. . . and anyroad tha mun give it afterward a wash wi’ copper salts, brings out t’ blue, or iron salts for t’ black, or tin salts as brings out t’ red, sithee, and t’ salts sets t’ colors stronger as well.”
    They came upon a small knot of pilgrims who had paused beside a roadside shrine, the crudely made cross in a little roofed box fastened to a large oak just off the trail. There was a simple wooden bench on which to kneel, and two of the group were just rising, signing themselves with the cross. They had left some small items of devotion at the foot of the shrine, coins and ribbons, little crosses the pilgrims fashioned for the purpose from