Where the Path Leads-Chapter 4

• By MARY DRAKE –

In the last chapter, Emily goes with her class to a Renaissance Faire and enters a labyrinth that turns out to be more fantasy than reality. When she comes to the exit, she is in a primitive and unfamiliar place, one that strangely resembles the Middle Ages.        

Chapter 4: A Day Off

That is how she’d come to be sitting here weaving in this rustic cottage in the middle of a forest. She had become part of the medieval world depicted on the murals of the labyrinth, and she no longer had to wonder how people had lived back then. Only in all her imaginings, she had been a noble lady with ample leisure. She was very far from that.

When she had reached another clearing filled with slanting rays of afternoon sun and a small, thatched roof cottage, relief had flooded through her.  She was certain she’d found her way back to the Faire, only why did the place seem so empty? The familiar smell of woodsmoke reassured her, though, and the cow stopped near a small shed where it stood placidly chewing its cud. Emily approached the cottage, tripping over a chicken that ran across her path. When it squawked and hurried away, a woman’s voice came from within.

“Is that you Blossom?” A middle aged woman in a plain grey shift appeared in the doorway, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back. Emily thought she must have been pretty when younger. Now her face seemed slightly worn as a piece of fabric frayed at the edges. Her blue eyes, however, were irresistible, like the way you couldn’t stop looking at a pure blue sky on a cloudless spring day.

“I . . . I’m sorry,” Emily stammered. “I’m lost.”

“Indeed. Please, come in.” She stood aside for Emily to enter. 

The cottage was darker than the outdoors since it had no windows, only the doorway and a hole in the roof to let smoke out. 

“I don’t know what happened,” Emily hastened to say. “I was in the labyrinth at the Renaissance Faire one minute, then . . . I must have come out in the wrong place.” 

The woman pulled a rough wooden bench over near the fire for her to sit on. 

“I don’t know of any faires around here.”  She put a coarse woolen blanket around Emily, who hadn’t realized she was shivering, though whether from the coolness of the early evening or from nerves, she wasn’t sure.

“I’m called Sophia, the weaver. At your service.”

“I’m Emily . . . Smith.”

The woman bent over the fire, ladling something out of a black cauldron into a wooden bowl. “Dangerous, Emilia, for a young maiden like yourself to be wandering alone in the woods.” She handed her the bowl. “Have some repast.”

Her language sounded so strange that Emily didn’t bother correcting the mispronunciation of her name.

“I hope you will please feel that my home is also yours and excuse me while I go milk.”  She picked up a wooden bucket and disappeared outside.

The bench had no back, and Emily’s shoulders hunched wearily beneath the scratchy blanket. The steaming bowl of stew smelled good, but Sophia had forgotten to give her a spoon. She cradled the bowl in her hands, eyeing the strange cottage. From inside, the thatched roof looked cobwebby and blackened. Was something scratching around up there? As she looked up, dust and stems of dried grass filtered down. Brushing it off, she inched over. Not much furniture either: two rough-hewn benches, one of which she was sitting on, and a trestle table, a mattress on the floor and, what took up most of the room, a wooden contraption with something on it.  Cloth? The woman had said she was a weaver. Did she live here alone?  A recluse, a re-enactor, some kind of primitivist?

She wanted to text Lyn about where she was and reached automatically for her genius phone, then recalled with dismay that Mr. Endicott had made them leave their cell phones on the bus. It might destroy the atmosphere, he’d said, but it was helpful when you got lost. She wondered what he would say about this recreated hut.

Sophia returned with the bucket half full of frothy milk. Seeing that Emily hadn’t eaten, she tilted her head questioningly. “Aren’t you hungry? Is something wrong?”

“Oh, I need a spoon.”

A wry smile crossed her face. “I have no spoon to give you. Just sip from the bowl.”

After Emily was done, Sophia rinsed out the bowl, filled it with fresh milk, warm from the cow, and handed it back.

“Drink,” she urged. “It will help you sleep.”

“Sleep?”

“It will be dark soon. Certainly you will stay the night.”

After all the walking she had done, Emily doubted she would have trouble sleeping, but she hadn’t planned an overnight. What about her parents? Plus, she hated milk when it wasn’t ice cold, but it would be rude to refuse Sophia’s hospitality. Taking a deep breath, Emily drained the bowl quickly. To her surprise, she didn’t even gag. It wasn’t bad.

“Thank you,” she said. “But if I stay, how will I get home tomorrow?” She did hope her parents would worry about her a little and stop just thinking about themselves. But she didn’t want to be stuck here too long.

“I have no idea.”  Sophia shook her head.

“Can you call someone?”

Sophia looked up quizzically from rinsing the bowls. “Who would hear me?”

Was she being deliberately unhelpful? Or was there something wrong with her? Emily looked around doubtfully. Not seeing any napkins, she wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her costume when Sophia wasn’t looking. “Well, I’ll have to leave in the morning.”

“The morning,” Sophia echoed, “brings a whole new day. You said you became lost.  Were you trying to get away from something?”

The question surprised her, but she had to admit that, yes, there were many things she had wanted to escape from. She nodded without looking at her.

The older woman must have sensed her discomfort because her voice softened. “Then you have gotten away.” 

But to what kind of place, Emily wondered? 

“Now it’s time to sleep.” Sophia got up stiffly from beside the water bucket where she’d rinsed the bowls. “There is much to do on the morrow, as always.”

She didn’t know what Sophia’s plans were, but her first concern was sleeping arrangements. She looked askance at the lone mattress in the corner. “Where am I going to sleep?” 

Sophia nodded towards the mattress.

“Oh, but . . . ,” she stammered, embarrassed at putting the older woman out of her bed. All that was left was the hard-packed dirt floor. “Where will you sleep?”

“Me?” Sophia smiled. “Right beside you. Where else?”

It was awkward lying down together fully clothed, back to back, straw crackling and poking up through the worn fabric of the mattress, through Emily’s thin costume, scratching her skin.  It made her itchy and uncomfortable, aware more than ever that she was in a strange place. The hut was very dark and quiet, except for the occasional crackle from the dying fire. Again she thought, so this was how they lived in back in medieval times—uncomfortably. She wondered if Mr. Endicott would give her extra credit for enduring living history.

The next morning, a shaft of sunlight coming through the chimney-hole in the thatch crept under her eyelids. Blinking awake, she didn’t remember at first where she was, until the scratchiness of the wool blanket and the crunching straw in the mattress reminded her. She sat up, stretching. A sudden gust of cool air swept through the doorway making smoke billow into her face, and she was coughing when Sophia came in, pink cheeked, hair still disheveled from sleep, carrying a basket of eggs and some twigs.              “Ah, finally awake, sleepyhead. Morning is well on its way. Have some porridge.”  Sophia fed twigs to the fire, which made it crackle and smoke even more. In the daylight her eyes looked even more blue, piercing and expressive.They animated her tired face.

She couldn’t believe how primitively this woman lived.  Her simple lifestyle, the lack of modern conveniences, were definitely weird. Was she trying out for a reality show?

“I’m up,” she said, though not fully awake. She wasn’t a morning person. Getting up for school was always a struggle. At least she didn’t have to worry about that today. “I guess I have the day off,” she said, thinking out loud, then realized it was the weekend anyway.

Sophia wiped her hands on her dress and leaned over the pot suspended above the fire, stirring the porridge with a long stick, which didn’t seem very sanitary to Emily. Dipping the bowl in and scooping some out, she handed it, dripping, to Emily. “Day off?” Sophia echoed. “It’s not a feast day, that I know of.”

Emily licked the dripping porridge from the side of the bowl, still concerned about germs from the stick, then burned her lip again when she tried drinking from the bowl. Surely there must be a spoon around here somewhere.

“Well, I just thought . . . I don’t have school today,” she added. What was she going to do today? Find her way back to the labyrinth? Back home? Her parents might be worried, but then again they were busy with their private war.  And Sunday was housecleaning day. Maybe it was better not to go back right away. At least here she didn’t have to scrub the bathroom and write a five-page essay for Endicott on medieval life. Instead, she was living it. That thought made her smile, and she looked outside, wriggling her toes. Maybe she’d explore the forest.

But Sophia broke her reverie. “Perhaps before you leave you can do a few chores around here?”

“Oh, sure,” she agreed.  How much could there be to do?  The place was tiny.

“Good.”  Sophia rinsed her bowl.  “You can start by milking Blossom.”

“What?  Uh . . . wait a minute. I can’t do that. I don’t know anything about cows.”

Sophia handed her the wooden bucket. “Then you’d best get acquainted,” and, taking Emily’s other hand, pulled her upright and led the way out to the little shed where the brown and white cow still stood chewing her cud, as if she hadn’t moved since last night. Sophia put a small, three-legged stool beside Blossom and sat down.

“So, first you kind of massage her udder, to let her know you’re here. Then, close your thumb and forefinger around the top of the teat and gently slide your whole hand down the teat.” As she demonstrated, milk squirted into the bucket below. “Use both hands and alternate, first one hand slides down, then the other.  Now you try,” and Sophia stood up.

“Uh, I don’t think I can do this.”  Emily didn’t add that she really didn’t want to, either.

Sophia put her hands on Emily’s shoulders and gently pushed her down onto the stool. “Yes, you can.”

“But. . . she’s so big.” Sitting this close, on the little stool, made the cow tower over her even more.

“She’s fond of people. Go ahead and try. Like I showed you.” 

Tentatively, Emily touched the teats. They were soft and pliable, like warm wax.  The cow turned her head and looked at Emily with saucer-like, inquisitive eyes. Would pulling on the teats hurt her?  She made a quick pull. Nothing happened.  She pulled a little harder. Still nothing. Finally she yanked on two of them, squeezing hard, and something came out, though she didn’t get to see how much because just then Blossom’s tail came swinging around and slapped her stingingly across the face.          

Emily jumped up and cried, “Why’d she do that?”

“She lets you know if you’re doing it wrong,” Sophia said. “You’re yanking instead of sliding. Be patient and start from the top, just slide your fingers down firmly but gently. Try again.”

After several more tries and remembering to be gentle, Emily finally got milk to come hissing out, but then it missed the bucket. 

“Take your time,” Sophia said.  “You’ll do fine,” and she went back inside.

This was going to take time. Maybe a long time.

When her hands started aching, she took the bucket inside. Sophia was sitting at the weaving contraption throwing something back and forth, her feet going up and down.  So absorbed was she in what she was doing that she didn’t look up right away. When she finally noticed her, Sophia looked at the small amount of milk in the bucket and shook her head. “You’re not done,” and she sent her back to try for more.

After that, there was the floor to sweep. (Who would’ve thought a dirt floor needed sweeping?)  The garden to weed. Butter to churn. Water to carry. Carrying water from the stream to the cottage was easily her least favorite chore. She had to set the buckets down many times to rest her aching shoulders and hands, amazed at how heavy water was.  No wonder running water had been invented. Her rented costume looked thoroughly ruined: snagged, dirty, and now wet. There seemed no end to the chores.

All the while, Sophia sat at her weaving, intent, rarely speaking, except to give her the next direction. Finally, the older woman appeared in the open doorway putting both hands on her lower back and stretching backwards. It was the first time she’d gotten up from her loom since early morning.

“Hungry?” she asked.

“You bet.” 

Sophia frowned.  “Does that mean yes?”

When Emily nodded, Sophia went to the little garden, pulled up some spring onions, and scooped water to wash them off from the bucket Emily had just carried. She offered her a handful.

“That’s it?”  Emily didn’t mean to be rude but, c’mon, raw onions? That was her idea of lunch? Emily didn’t yet know that while she was here, hunger would be a constant companion.

Sophia nodded, popping an onion into her mouth, chewing the bulb as well as the green stem. 

“How do you live like this?” Emily wondered aloud. 

“Like what?”

“So . . . simply

Sophia tilted her head. “I don’t need a lot. I just use what I have.”

“Do you have anything for washing?” Emily thought she already knew the answer, though she had gotten the costume so dirty that she would probably have to pay for it.

“We have these.” Sophia putting up her hands. “But don’t worry about your clothes. It’s natural to be dirty during the mud season. Besides, there’s more work.”

Emily’s shoulders slumped.  “More?”  The way her body felt, schoolwork was beginning to look a lot better.     

“Surely you are of gentle birth, Emilia, sleeping late, wishing for clean clothes, wanting a day off.  I can offer you none of these luxuries. 

Sophia requested that she water the tender spinaches and onions in the garden, then go fetch more water. 

“After that, would you please sweep the cottage floor again?”

“Again!?”

“It needs to be very clean, Emilia, because of the weaving. Sprinkle a little water on it when you’re done. To keep down the dust.”

“But I swept it already,” she protested.

Sophia shook her head in gentle reproof. “Not quite well enough I’m afraid.”

Emily flushed, picking up the heavy water pail. This woman was worse than her mother. So much for getting a day off.

“And my name is Emily,” she said. If she was going to be ordered around, the least Sophia could do was call her by the correct name. “E–M–I–L–Y.”

“Oh, you know letters. That’s an amazing talent. But I shall call you Emilia, anyway. It sounds more musical.”  Sophia popped the last onion in her mouth and returned to her weaving.

The novelty of this place was wearing off quickly.