Where the Path Leads-Chapter 9
Hidden Surprises
Emily had never realized how hard it was to find your way in the woods, where there were no street signs or even landmarks, only too many trees that all looked alike. And according to Will, this wasn’t even the big forest, Blackwood, just the small woods around Sophia’s cottage which she called Cooper’s woods after her father, a barrel maker. It took less than a morning to walk across it, but somehow she had managed to get lost in it, or at least turned around. Will found that amusing.
“See that big oak tree over there?” he said. “It’s west of Sophia’s cottage, and there’s a big ravine down there you can’t get across, so when you see that tree, it’s best to head north, follow the Mouse river, and cross over farther up, where it gets shallow. Here, I’ll show you. But don’t go too far north, or you’ll run into the water meadow.”
“The what ?”
“You know. . .water meadow. Where the Mouse river slows way down and turns marshy and wet. Many plants grow in it, so everyone brings animals to graze there in the summer, but it gets messy.”
“You mean, like a swamp?”
He frowned, seeming not to understand, but then they were crossing the Mouse river, which was really only a stream at that point, and they were parting, he going back to the village, she, to Sophia’s. Clutching the basket of mushrooms she thanked him again for the shoe oil. “And thanks for taking me to the castle.” She smiled. “It was amazing.”
“I’m just glad no one noticed us.”
She thought he was referring to the Bailiff.
Then, with a boyish grin, he added in a soft voice, “You’re pretty when you smile.”
Why did she always blush and give her feelings away? From the way he just stood there she thought he might want to kiss her, so without waiting to find out, she ducked her head and turned to head home, without looking back. Her feelings were all in turmoil.
When she reached the cottage, Sophia was still inside warping the loom that she was supposed to have done. Late afternoon sunlight slanted through the open door.
Without looking up, Sophia said, “Blossom’s waiting.”
Guiltily, she picked up the bucket and went outside. Blossom was in the clearing and she set the three-legged wooden stool beside the cow, sat down and lay her head against her warm, soft coat inhaling the scent of grass and earth. A dove cooed in the woods nearby and Emily relaxed into the job, hoping Blossom would relax too and let down her milk. After only a few squirts into the bucket, however, she was thwacked with Blossom’s tail which hit her across the cheek.
“Blossom!” she scolded, “What was that for? What’s the matter with you?” She held her hand to her stinging cheek for a minute, then cautiously continued, but a few seconds later–thwack!–the evil tail found her again, and this time Blossom also managed to lift a back leg just enough to knock over the bucket, spilling the milk already in it. Emily jumped up with a cry of dismay.
“It’s all right,” said Sophia, who had appeared behind her.
Was she comforting her or the cow?
Sophia stroked her work-worn hand over the cow’s huge belly, then felt carefully around her udder. Blossom lifted a back leg again and turned her head to look at Sophia, who righted the bucket and sat down on the milking stool.
“It’s getting close to her time,” she said, sliding her long fingers down the cow’s teats. “Her udder is tender and warm to the touch, so you must take extra care.” When Emily looked puzzled, Sophia added, “She’s near calving.”
Emily was awestruck. “A calf? How do you know?”
Sophia smiled.
“Well, for one, she’s grown much rounder.”
“She’s always looks round.”
“More than normal. And, I’ve watched her udder grow larger, though she’s giving less milk.”
Emily felt a rush of relief. So it wasn’t just her ineptitude at milking. A calf! Now that was something to look forward to.
The mushrooms that Sophia cooked in the continuous cauldron that evening weren’t half bad. Emily didn’t think she liked mushrooms, but mixed with vegetables they tasted a little meaty, despite the spongy texture. Although it probably helped that she was starving.
After supper, they sat in companionable silence by the fireside. Sophia didn’t ask how she and Will had gotten on, and Emily didn’t mention that they had gone to the castle. She could still see it in her mind’s eye. Sophia fed twigs to the fire as if it were a pet which responded with crackles and jumps. The older woman looked tired but the furrow between her brows had smoothed and she stretched her legs out in front of her. Emily relaxed too and knew that after all the walking she would certainly sleep tonight.
The next day, the loom was ready for weaving since Sophia had warped it and wound the shuttles with thread. Now the older woman sat on the bench demonstrating how to raise and lower the heddles using the foot pedals, how to throw the shuttle through the space between the threads–the shed–created by moving the pedals, and how to push the weft and warp threads together with the beater bar. As Emily leaned in to watch, all Sophia’s movements flowed together like a single step, her careworn face intent on the threads as if there were some secret to be found there. Strands of hair slipped from the bun at the back of her neck. Flecks of dirt and grass clung to her dress from her morning search for chicken eggs. But these things ceased to matter.
“The important thing to remember,” she was saying, “is to use consistent pressure with the beater bar, otherwise the fabric will be tightly woven in some places and loose in others. It helps to get a rhythm going.”
Emily had seen Sophia when she had a rhythm going. She seemed to be in a zone, almost hypnotized by her own movements, the loom an extension of her hands and feet. The result was a finely woven cloth, though it helped when the thread was a beautiful emerald green with shots of gold. This grey homespun stuff wasn’t at all lovely.
“I wish I could’ve used some of that green yarn you used before.”
“That was too fine for inexperienced fingers. This is good yarn to learn with and will make a sturdy garment. Just remember, consistent pressure.”
Emily was left to her weaving while Sophia went to work in the vegetable garden. At first, it was a novelty, hearing the foot pedals clank, the heddles with all the threads swish against each other going up and down at opposite times, the shuttle slide through the shed as she passed it from one side to the other. It thrilled her to see the fabric created before her own eyes. But as cloth appeared on the loom it was unlovely, clumped in places, loose in others. Emily tried for the consistent pressure, as Sophia had said, but her arms began to tire and her back ached. Her mind wandered too–out to the wood, which wasn’t far from the doorway, and to Will. The cottage suddenly felt stifling, no air stirring. As if teasing her, a breeze tickled the treetops and a cardinal somewhere trilled about the splendor of the day.
She tried to remember why she had wanted to weave. Oh yes, because Sophia made it look effortless, because the fabric she had woven was glistening green like a fathomless emerald.
Emily wasn’t making anything like that. “Sturdy,” Sophia had called it. Dull grey and scratchy. Her first pass with the shuttle had created a lump right at the beginning. Now, with the sun nearly overhead, she counted six more lumps and three places where the thread gaped loosely along the edges.
She sighed and stood up, walking outside.
“Why are you stopped?” Sophia asked, on her knees harvesting and weeding the onions.
“Oh, I just, you know, got tired.” She didn’t want to say bored. “It looks so much easier when you do it.”
Sophia paused to wipe sweat from her forehead.
“It just takes practice.”
Annoyance crept into Emily’s voice. “Like everything else.”
“Yes. Like everything else,” Sophia echoed, and began picking spinach.
“Is there something else I can do?”
Sophia looked up again. “Of course, there’s always work to be done, Emilia. But if you want to finish the cloth, you’ll have to keep weaving.”
It wasn’t the answer she had wanted, and she still thought the cloth ugly. She went back grudgingly. She continued weaving, but half heartedly, and she couldn’t help losing her focus sometimes and staring outside.
She was actually grateful when it was time to collect firewood and milk the cow.
That night she crawled into bed with a sore back, stiff neck, and tired arms, tossing on the straw mattress before drifting into an uneasy sleep.
Sometime during the night, she was awoken by something–a soft sound. Or was it the movement that awoke her? She lay still, with her eyes closed, listening. Swish, clank, swish, clank. Was it the sounds of the heddles? Or the whispering of a breeze in the treetops? But treetops didn’t clank, the foot pedals did. Raising her head and peering through the darkness, Emily thought she saw Sophia sitting at the loom. But in the dark? If she hadn’t been so tired, she would have asked her what was going on. Instead, she rolled over with a sigh and went back to sleep.
“Ready to return to your weaving?” Sophia asked the next morning after breakfast.
She remembered waking up during the night. “What were you doing at the loom last night?”
Sophia didn’t look up from the bucket where she was rinsing out their bowls.
“During the night?”
“I heard you at the loom during the night.”
Sophia straightened and fixed Emily with her piercing blue eyes.
“I told you, Emilia, we’re not allowed to work in the evening after sol bajo. There’s not enough light. Besides, it would give some an advantage over others.”
Emily frowned, puzzled. She was sure she hadn’t been dreaming. But why would Sophia lie? As she sat down at the loom, the grey cloth from the day before waited for her, plain as ever, but the weaving seemed more even, not as lumpy and loose. Had she done better than she thought? Maintained her pressure on the beater bar? Controlled the shuttle sufficiently? Or had Sophia done something to it? “Are you sure you didn’t fix this?”
“You’re not giving yourself enough credit, Emilia. You’re an apt pupil. Best get back to work now, though.
And Sophia left to go feed the chickens.
