The Tapestry of Time

Chapter 1-2

His father asked his son: “Are you ready, my boy? Have you put the nets on the cart?”

“All ready to go, father. I’m looking forward to today.”

They each took a handle and pushed the handcart out of the yard on to the track leading to the woods. Then: “Stop! Hush!” Father hissed, “I can hear them… they’re away in the woods but look here.” He pointed to snapped ferns and broken branches. “They use this track, see, and mark my words, they’ll be back tonight. Help me get the nets off the cart.” They tied three nets on to trees, securely, across the path at intervals and about waist high. That would give them a good chance of ensnaring one or more boars. Caught in the trap, the more they thrashed trying to escape, the more entangled they would become.

“Good job,” father declared, slapping his son on his shoulder, “we’ll be back tomorrow, at first light and, with luck, there will be boar meat for supper.”

Baudet and his father returned to the traps the next day. Hoar frost glistened white on the bushes and undergrowth, and the air was crisp and clean. Winter was approaching.

By the empty cart at the first net, everything was as they had set it the previous night, so they moved on to the second, but no joy there, either. Then, ahead, they could hear the distinctive squeals from the beast they had hoped to find. Sure enough, its legs were caught in the mesh, its jaws wide open with its sharp teeth biting into the net that imprisoned him – a fine fat boar awaited them.

Father’s face lit up as he moved towards his quarry. Baudet followed and, although he had seen this scene many times before, he was afraid. This creature seemed so large, its violent resistance easily sufficient to terrify the boy. Monsieur Desmarais turned around and reassured his boy: “Come on, this is what we’ve come for, a real prize if ever I saw one!”

Baudet stayed by his father’s side, hearing him say: “That’s better… I’ll finish it off… give me the spear.” The lad passed over a staff with a sharp iron tip and, with three hard thrusts, his father pierced the boar’s belly into its heart. Within a few moments it was still, apart from an occasional involuntary jerk as its nervous system closed down.

“Nothing to fear, now help me untangle its legs… that’s it… good… now, let’s fetch the cart…” They soon had the boar lying on their barrow and, with the nets tossed loosely over it, pushed the animal on its final journey to their cottage.

“A fine morning’s work, what say you, Baudet?”

“It is that and I can’t wait to tell my friends – they don’t have a master butcher like you for a father.” He smiled broadly, full of pride, “I’m meeting them this afternoon – we’re going fishing.”

The Petit Rhône river was an offshoot of the mighty Rhône some 20 miles upstream of Arles. Fast-flowing in its centre, this river teemed with pike, perch and trout. By its banks, in languid eddies, eels and carp basked under overhanging willow trees, in and out of the bulrushes. Walking along with his friends, he recounted his victory over the rabid boar – embellishment never did any harm – that had snarled and yelped at him, trying to escape from the net…

“Couldn’t let that happen though, could I?” His friends hung on his every word. “I finished it off, stabbing it at dangerous close quarters with my spear… I’m convinced that if I hadn’t summoned my strength and run it through, I’d be fatherless – he’d tripped and hurt his ankle and he’d have been grievously injured if the beast had got free.”

Open-mouthed, the boys swallowed the story. They were not to know he had exaggerated the tale hugely. In their eyes, he was a hero and he did nothing to disabuse them.

“Anyway,” he concluded, “it’s not the first time I’ve saved my father’s life… it just had to be done!” He tossed his head backwards and ran his fingers through his curly blond hair, adopting an imperious posture. “You see, I could have been Julius Caesar in a previous life.”

“Better than trying to land a slithery old fish,” one of the boys chipped in.

“Ay, I guess so.” Baudet replied, feigning modesty. Among his peers, he demonstrated all the qualities of a leader, attributes that would stand him in good stead in later life.

As they neared the wooden jetty, used to load and unload goods destined for the town, their attention turned to angling.

“I hope you’ve found us some decent worms?” Baudet directed his question to the boy carrying a small sack.

“I dug them up this morning. See, they’re still wriggling like anything,” and he held the sack open for Baudet to inspect.

“You’re right enough, well done.”

One by one, they reached inside the bag and withdrew their squirming bait that they impaled on to the barbed hook on the end of their line. A small stone tied securely a short distance from the hook would keep the line on the river bed but allow the worm to jerk around upwards so as to catch the bulbous eye of any greedy passing perch or pike.

A couple of hours elapsed with nobody landing anything and they were about to give up when Baudet felt his line tighten and ripples appeared on the water’s surface.

“Hey! Got a bite, I think,” he called out as he slowly pulled in the line, one hand after the other, gently, for too quickly and the fish had a good chance of breaking away. But success! A large fish dangled on the hook, struggling violently at first but slowly giving up the fight. He hauled his victim on to the river bank; it was the biggest pike he had ever seen.

“What about him, then!” he proclaimed as he removed the hook from its snapping jaws and dispatched it with two hard blows of a stone. His friends admired the catch and were not unduly surprised that his was the only triumph of the day – that was Baudet’s way.

As he entered their cottage, his father was dozing in his chair, his mother sitting at the table peeling carrots and potatoes. He ceremoniously slapped the fish down in front of her. She all but jumped out of her skin but her shock soon turned into joy as she ran her hand over its shiny brown body.

“I think it will go very well with yon vegetables,” her son blurted with pride. “What say you, mother?”

“It’s magnificent and pike are one of easiest to skin and bone. You’re a good boy, Baudet.” She pulled his head close to hers and planted a kiss on his forehead.

“Boy?” He exclaimed, embarrassed, giving her a pained look.

“Sorry, you’re a good man.”

man“I should think so.” And he returned her kiss and then set to unpacking his fishing tackle.

Time passed by and, as he grew, he adopted an increasingly important role in the family: his father’s health began to fail so, when he suddenly passed away one day, it fell to him to hunt, alone, in the woods, butcher the animal, then sell it at market. He was the principal source of income. Mother and Lorence grew vegetables and his sister even turned her hand to basket-weaving but all this made little money compared to the fine meat trade. He did not complain – it was his duty – but, secretly, he harboured yearnings for a life away from Vordan.

“You will achieve good things,” the cackling witch predicted, whenever their paths crossed, which seemed too often to be a coincidence.

You will achieve good things,” the cackling witch predicted, whenever their paths crossed, which seemed too often to be a coincidence.