4 Ymiden, 720
Darbyton
Darbyton
Bond circled his wagon, checking for any irregularities that needed to be tended to before he harnessed the oxen. His gear had already been stowed away in the two storage chests strapped underneath the wagon, and the remnants of his camp had been disposed of or doused. He bent down, inspecting the wheels, the axles, and the frame for any damages. Not that he was equipped to fix anything but the simplest of issues; it was still nice to be aware of impending delays. Everything looked in order, thankfully, and there was nothing stopping him from pulling out this morning, once he got the animals yoked.
“Oy, you the vagabond?” A grizzled voice called out, muffled somewhat by the wagon between the wayfarer and the figure on the other side. Bond stepped around the back, holding a hand over his eyes to shield it from the bright morning sunrise. A man sat in a single-horse drawn wagon, a rolled cigarette between his dried lips emitting a strong, earthy odor where it burned. What few wisps of white hair the man had left peeked out from beneath a wide brim hat, shielding the man’s wrinkled face from much of the sunlight. Bond hazarded a guess that the man was twice his age, a farmer whose fortunes had never allowed him to retire, even well into his later years. He couldn’t see what was in the wagon, besides the butt ends of some lumber.
“Aye,” the wayfarer responded, bowing with a flourish of his left hand, “My friends call me Bond for short.”
The man grunted, blowing out puffs of the smoke out his nostrils. “Terey” he said, before jabbing a thumb behind him at the wagon. “Some of the rangers have said you’re usually up to the odd job. Got a bridge that needs building over a ditch, and I wouldn’t mind a second pair of hands.”
Bond glanced at this wagon once before shrugging. The beauty of his lifestyle is he rarely had anywhere to be. “For a bit of nel and one of those cigarettes, Terey, my hands are yours, though I will forewarn you that they’re better at the heavy lifting as opposed to the finer details.”
Terey, who had noticed Bond’s wayward glance, grinned, revealing a row of teeth not all there. “I’ll point, you hammer, and I’ll be sure to get you back to your lady friends before nightfall.”
Bond chuckled as he walked to take the seat beside Terey on the wagon. “Seems you’ve spoken to Missus Rewyn as well as some of the rangers.” The farmer pulled out a rolled cigarette from his breast pocket, but the wayfarer shook his head. “After. A celebratory toke after a job well done.”
It didn’t take long for the draft horse to carry the pair and their cargo down the path and into what was obviously farmland. Terey guided the horse up towards one particular field, which was separated from this stretch they drove upon by a wide, shallow ditch. It was a simple enough crossing for someone on foot, but too difficult to manage a cart across. Grass grew up on either side in tuft, except in one spot where it had been ripped away and the banks leveled. The construction site if Bond had ever seen one. Terey let the horse pull the cart past this spot until the back end of the wagon was perpendicular to the corner, and then pulled the beast short. The pair climbed out and circled around to the back.
“First thing we’re going to need to do,” the farmer said, pulling out a pair of shovels from the top of the lumber pile, “is dig footings on the four corners and two in the middle of the ditch. Earth shifts and erodes, so these will provide more reliable stability over time.” Terey walked over to the corner closest to the wagon, and took a moment to mark the outline of the first footing. Then, he moved to the next corner, leaving the shovel embedded upright in the soil. Now it was Bond’s turn.
The wayfarer watched the farmer out the corner of his eye while they dug the holes. The objective, Bond surmised, was depth, so he made sure to drive the lip of the shovel as deep into the dirt as he could, working his way down. The excess dirt was dumped in a pile close to the whole, as opposed to well out of the way; why, Bond wasn’t certain the reason yet, but that was what Terey was doing so he mirrored him. Bond worked slow and deliberately, knowing that haste on his part was not going to make the process any faster, because they were on the farmer’s schedule. Plus, he was not in the same sort of shape the old man was; he was only halfway through the first hole and Bond could feel the strain of labor in his breathing and his arms. Pacing himself was serve him in the long run.
The pair moved from this bank to the ditch center, digging a second set of holes, and then to the far bank for the final set of holes. Then, they retrieved the posts that would act as the footings for the bridge, carrying them to their final resting places. Terey’s holes were the of a consistent depth, all of his posts sitting the same height above the mouth of the holes. Bond’s, not so much. Thankfully, this didn’t seem to bother the farmer as he pulled out two more of the posts, as well as a handsaw, some metal stakes, and a long wooden rod. The latter he passed to the wayfarer, gesturing to the holes. “Tamp the excess dirt back into the holes while I layout the cross sections.”
Tamping was a simple enough process, requiring the same repetitive arm motions to pack the dirt back into the holes in the space not filled by the posts. It was still tiring on the arm, reminding Bond that he was by no means an expert on endurance, so he had to pause here and there to revive his arm and catch his breath. In those momentary breaks, he watched the farmer run the post up against the footings, nailing the long metal stakes them through the side so they were held together. “For rigidity and extra stability, if the ditch ever washes out,” the man had said at one point, to no one in particular. Once the cross section was settled, he cut the excess footing posts away with the hand saw, leaving about a foot above the cross section boards. This part, Bond was able to help out with once he had finished the tamping, but only on the last pair of footing boards on the far bank. Terey’s pace was quickening and Bond was struggling to keep up.
“Alright, now for the main beams,” Terey declared, gesturing to the longest boards in the wagon. These required both men to lift and carry at once, with Bond handling the end that would rest on the far bank. He clambered in and out of the ditch carrying his end of the beam, setting the first one down on the exterior side of the footing. Three more beams followed, so that there were two on the exterior and interior of the footing lines. More stakes were driven through the layers of wood, a lengthy process given the thickness. Again, Bond was only able to do two of these to the old man’s four. A humbling experience to say the least.
“Need to catch your breath, kid?” Terey asked as Bond stepped back on the near bank.
Bond shook his head. “Breath’s still there, Terey, but I’m having trouble holding on to my self-respect.”
The old man chuckled, pulling out another cigarette. He was barely breathing hard after all of it. “Nothing good ever comes out of comparison, especially when the scale is weighted so lopsided. I’ve done this kind of work for over sixty arcs, kid, whereas you only do this kind of stuff on occasion. Find your worth in the things you do all the time, not the things you do here and there.”
Bond nodded, looking out over the half-finished bridge. “Got an idea what that might be for me?”
Terey shrugged. “Hard to say, really, given that I only met you today. Though, despite not knowing anything about me, you were willing to delay your departure to help me build this, no questions asked. If I was gonna direct my introspection anywhere, I’d start with that, try to figure out if to-trial was an exception or the rule.”
After a moment, Bond nodded again. “What’s next, then?”
The foundation and frame had been established, so now it was time to actually lay down the boards that would individuals and carts would move over. Each man had a hammer and, one by one, they laid the slats downing, leaving no gap between so an animal making the crossing could step through and snap its ankle. Four nails on each end, two per beam, and it took twenty-five boards the cross the expanse. They set and leveled the board, knelt to hammer it in his place, and rose again to fetch the next one. By the end of it, Bond’s back was throbbing, but he felt something else as well, there inside his chest. Pride. Even if his contribution had been less compared to that of Terey, he still appreciated the end result.
The farmer walked down the center of the bridge, testing the individual boards for any sort of bend or bow. Then, returning to the near bank, he passed the wayfarer a cigarette and his matchbox. “Got a slight bend at the moment, but I’ll come back later with two final boards that I’ll run along the two edges. Nail them to each slat and they’ll bear the weight together as opposed to individually. Just something to keep in mind the next time you build one of these.”
Bond lit the cigarette and took a long drag of it. “Eh, I’ll make sure to drive my wagons on the roads I already know there are bridges built.” Pulling the cigarette from his lips to release the smoke, he gestured to the bank. “The bridge is higher than the bank right now. How you gonna fix that?”
“Nothing a load or two of soil won’t level out, if you’re up to a bit more work.”
Bond shrugged, taking another drag of the cigarette. “Well, we’re gonna have to renegotiate our terms a bit,” tossing the tools into the back of the wagon. “Gonna cost another one of these cigarettes for starter, and perhaps some lunch.”
Terey grinned, moving to the driver’s side. “I have not doubt we’ll figure something out,” he replied.
Bond took one final drag before dropping the cigarette to the ground, snuffing it out with the heel of his boot. “Indeed, no doubts at all.”
“Oy, you the vagabond?” A grizzled voice called out, muffled somewhat by the wagon between the wayfarer and the figure on the other side. Bond stepped around the back, holding a hand over his eyes to shield it from the bright morning sunrise. A man sat in a single-horse drawn wagon, a rolled cigarette between his dried lips emitting a strong, earthy odor where it burned. What few wisps of white hair the man had left peeked out from beneath a wide brim hat, shielding the man’s wrinkled face from much of the sunlight. Bond hazarded a guess that the man was twice his age, a farmer whose fortunes had never allowed him to retire, even well into his later years. He couldn’t see what was in the wagon, besides the butt ends of some lumber.
“Aye,” the wayfarer responded, bowing with a flourish of his left hand, “My friends call me Bond for short.”
The man grunted, blowing out puffs of the smoke out his nostrils. “Terey” he said, before jabbing a thumb behind him at the wagon. “Some of the rangers have said you’re usually up to the odd job. Got a bridge that needs building over a ditch, and I wouldn’t mind a second pair of hands.”
Bond glanced at this wagon once before shrugging. The beauty of his lifestyle is he rarely had anywhere to be. “For a bit of nel and one of those cigarettes, Terey, my hands are yours, though I will forewarn you that they’re better at the heavy lifting as opposed to the finer details.”
Terey, who had noticed Bond’s wayward glance, grinned, revealing a row of teeth not all there. “I’ll point, you hammer, and I’ll be sure to get you back to your lady friends before nightfall.”
Bond chuckled as he walked to take the seat beside Terey on the wagon. “Seems you’ve spoken to Missus Rewyn as well as some of the rangers.” The farmer pulled out a rolled cigarette from his breast pocket, but the wayfarer shook his head. “After. A celebratory toke after a job well done.”
It didn’t take long for the draft horse to carry the pair and their cargo down the path and into what was obviously farmland. Terey guided the horse up towards one particular field, which was separated from this stretch they drove upon by a wide, shallow ditch. It was a simple enough crossing for someone on foot, but too difficult to manage a cart across. Grass grew up on either side in tuft, except in one spot where it had been ripped away and the banks leveled. The construction site if Bond had ever seen one. Terey let the horse pull the cart past this spot until the back end of the wagon was perpendicular to the corner, and then pulled the beast short. The pair climbed out and circled around to the back.
“First thing we’re going to need to do,” the farmer said, pulling out a pair of shovels from the top of the lumber pile, “is dig footings on the four corners and two in the middle of the ditch. Earth shifts and erodes, so these will provide more reliable stability over time.” Terey walked over to the corner closest to the wagon, and took a moment to mark the outline of the first footing. Then, he moved to the next corner, leaving the shovel embedded upright in the soil. Now it was Bond’s turn.
The wayfarer watched the farmer out the corner of his eye while they dug the holes. The objective, Bond surmised, was depth, so he made sure to drive the lip of the shovel as deep into the dirt as he could, working his way down. The excess dirt was dumped in a pile close to the whole, as opposed to well out of the way; why, Bond wasn’t certain the reason yet, but that was what Terey was doing so he mirrored him. Bond worked slow and deliberately, knowing that haste on his part was not going to make the process any faster, because they were on the farmer’s schedule. Plus, he was not in the same sort of shape the old man was; he was only halfway through the first hole and Bond could feel the strain of labor in his breathing and his arms. Pacing himself was serve him in the long run.
The pair moved from this bank to the ditch center, digging a second set of holes, and then to the far bank for the final set of holes. Then, they retrieved the posts that would act as the footings for the bridge, carrying them to their final resting places. Terey’s holes were the of a consistent depth, all of his posts sitting the same height above the mouth of the holes. Bond’s, not so much. Thankfully, this didn’t seem to bother the farmer as he pulled out two more of the posts, as well as a handsaw, some metal stakes, and a long wooden rod. The latter he passed to the wayfarer, gesturing to the holes. “Tamp the excess dirt back into the holes while I layout the cross sections.”
Tamping was a simple enough process, requiring the same repetitive arm motions to pack the dirt back into the holes in the space not filled by the posts. It was still tiring on the arm, reminding Bond that he was by no means an expert on endurance, so he had to pause here and there to revive his arm and catch his breath. In those momentary breaks, he watched the farmer run the post up against the footings, nailing the long metal stakes them through the side so they were held together. “For rigidity and extra stability, if the ditch ever washes out,” the man had said at one point, to no one in particular. Once the cross section was settled, he cut the excess footing posts away with the hand saw, leaving about a foot above the cross section boards. This part, Bond was able to help out with once he had finished the tamping, but only on the last pair of footing boards on the far bank. Terey’s pace was quickening and Bond was struggling to keep up.
“Alright, now for the main beams,” Terey declared, gesturing to the longest boards in the wagon. These required both men to lift and carry at once, with Bond handling the end that would rest on the far bank. He clambered in and out of the ditch carrying his end of the beam, setting the first one down on the exterior side of the footing. Three more beams followed, so that there were two on the exterior and interior of the footing lines. More stakes were driven through the layers of wood, a lengthy process given the thickness. Again, Bond was only able to do two of these to the old man’s four. A humbling experience to say the least.
“Need to catch your breath, kid?” Terey asked as Bond stepped back on the near bank.
Bond shook his head. “Breath’s still there, Terey, but I’m having trouble holding on to my self-respect.”
The old man chuckled, pulling out another cigarette. He was barely breathing hard after all of it. “Nothing good ever comes out of comparison, especially when the scale is weighted so lopsided. I’ve done this kind of work for over sixty arcs, kid, whereas you only do this kind of stuff on occasion. Find your worth in the things you do all the time, not the things you do here and there.”
Bond nodded, looking out over the half-finished bridge. “Got an idea what that might be for me?”
Terey shrugged. “Hard to say, really, given that I only met you today. Though, despite not knowing anything about me, you were willing to delay your departure to help me build this, no questions asked. If I was gonna direct my introspection anywhere, I’d start with that, try to figure out if to-trial was an exception or the rule.”
After a moment, Bond nodded again. “What’s next, then?”
The foundation and frame had been established, so now it was time to actually lay down the boards that would individuals and carts would move over. Each man had a hammer and, one by one, they laid the slats downing, leaving no gap between so an animal making the crossing could step through and snap its ankle. Four nails on each end, two per beam, and it took twenty-five boards the cross the expanse. They set and leveled the board, knelt to hammer it in his place, and rose again to fetch the next one. By the end of it, Bond’s back was throbbing, but he felt something else as well, there inside his chest. Pride. Even if his contribution had been less compared to that of Terey, he still appreciated the end result.
The farmer walked down the center of the bridge, testing the individual boards for any sort of bend or bow. Then, returning to the near bank, he passed the wayfarer a cigarette and his matchbox. “Got a slight bend at the moment, but I’ll come back later with two final boards that I’ll run along the two edges. Nail them to each slat and they’ll bear the weight together as opposed to individually. Just something to keep in mind the next time you build one of these.”
Bond lit the cigarette and took a long drag of it. “Eh, I’ll make sure to drive my wagons on the roads I already know there are bridges built.” Pulling the cigarette from his lips to release the smoke, he gestured to the bank. “The bridge is higher than the bank right now. How you gonna fix that?”
“Nothing a load or two of soil won’t level out, if you’re up to a bit more work.”
Bond shrugged, taking another drag of the cigarette. “Well, we’re gonna have to renegotiate our terms a bit,” tossing the tools into the back of the wagon. “Gonna cost another one of these cigarettes for starter, and perhaps some lunch.”
Terey grinned, moving to the driver’s side. “I have not doubt we’ll figure something out,” he replied.
Bond took one final drag before dropping the cigarette to the ground, snuffing it out with the heel of his boot. “Indeed, no doubts at all.”
