The Beast Who Makes Things

[Zevka]

Name: Aldridge Moor
Species: Stoat
Age: 38
Gender: Male
Category: The Beast who Makes Things

Sun?s a scant paw-breadth from touching the horizon; the summer day?s coming to a close. Clouds are streaked in dark grey against a vivid blue and red mess of a sky, whirling along in the wind of the birds.

The scent of smoked fish wafts over my workshop. I remember the first time I caught the smell on the wind, and how I had become so distracted that my knife had slipped and cut my paw.

Medic Aera had tended to me that day, despite the misgivings of the rest of the village. That phrase? came to define her.

When the sun touches the horizon, she?ll be the one to come and tell me that dinner?s ready. A habit, left over from the time when the others didn?t trust me to eat at the same fire, let alone live nearby.

Aera?s daughter is eight seasons too young for a militia-grade longbow, so I?m making something easier. Yew responds to even the lightest touch, and will help her build up the strength in her arms.

She likes bluebells. A trip to the blacksmith for a branding tool and a trip to the dyers for just a tiny bit of blue, and now a small bluebell motif rests at the tip of the bow, and a pawful of sky-blue hempen cord in my beltpouch.

It is the work of a few moments to bind the cord around the handle and apply a little wax. A few more moments, and the bow is tucked away behind the tarpaulin divider that separates my bed from my work area.

As I close the divider, my eye falls on one of the black-branded patterns on the wooden beams of my home. Ten seasons it had taken, until one day the beasts of the village came to me and offered to build me a home. I was quite certain they could have lasted twenty seasons more, had it not been for Medic Aera?s earnestness and trust.

In what has become a little ritual, I remember each mark and the beast who put it there. A pestle and mortar with a mint leaf at their base ? the mark of Apothecary Ennis, who had been one of the first beasts to trust Aera in her trust of me.  A knife and a loaf, Old Baker Cricken, passed away four seasons hence and succeeded by her son. A fire and a hammer, Blacksmith Ulrich, foul of temper but an outstanding craftsbeast. A bandaged paw, Medic Aera.

I can hear her stomping down the path toward my house. She has the pawsteps of a badger, which for a mouse is quite impressive.

I step back out into the rapidly-darkening twilight, push my door closed behind me, nod to her in greeting.  ?Your daughter?s bow is ready, Medic,? I say.

Her smile doubles in intensity. ?Thank you, again and so much! Shall I bring her tomorrow? Oh! Smoked fish and pea soup and bread, by the way!?

I sniff at the air. ?And Brack?s got to the pepper again? Any time tomorrow, I?m not going out for more wood for a few days yet.?

She chuckles. ?He?s only allowed to do that to his own bowl now, don?t worry.?

We proceed. She tells me of how Young Cricken nearly burned down the bakery again, of how Blacksmith Ulrich shouted at him until he cried, of how Hunter Tanra had been the one to catch tonight?s fish ? with one of my own bows, no less! I feel the old swell of pride in my chest, of knowing that I, too, have a use. That I, too, am needed.

The town square is where everyone sits for the evening meal. Woodsbeast Breven worked for a full season to make it what it is today: a huge covered space with four cooking fire-pits, twenty large tables, forty large benches, all contained within the Mark Walls, which are branded with every townsbeast?s mark.

Even my own. I remember the signing with exquisite detail ? Ulrich?s gruff nod, as he passed me the white-hot metal. The scent of char, as I carved a simple bow and feather pattern into the wall, contained in a circle of twine. The applause, thin at first but growing in strength as more and more of the beasts around me finally decided I was one of them.

I take my seat, and the villagers start to pass the food around. Hunter Tanra nods to me from the next bench along.

I belong.

-----

Name: Strathcomb Piccadilly
Category: The Beast who Makes things
Species: Mole
Age: 32
Gender: Male
 
 
A crowd of dusty moles gathered tightly in a lumpy gray circle. Strathcomb Piccadilly stood at the center, a full head taller than his peers, presenting a shining new pickaxe. Choruses of ?ooo?s and ?arr?s rumbled through the secondary tunnel as the gleaming tool reflected yellow lanternlight.
Strath turned the instrument in his heavy paws as he explained the modifications. ?Oi?ve added a steel casin? to ee top o? ee ?andle, an? keys what ?old it toight.? He spun the pick in a circle. ?Et be roightly balanced an? weighded furr maxermum impact.? The crowd of moles split at a gesture and Strathcomb slammed the tool into the earth with a satisfying thud. A hail of cheers erupted around him.
 
?Ee be a gurt genius, burr hurr!? A mole named Darwul commented. ?Be the ?ead steel too, Strathcoom?
 
?Yurr hurr,? Strath confirmed with a note of pride. ?Et?ll last ee a loiftoime.?
 
?Roight then, oi?ll be gettin? three!? Darwul announced.
 
?Three?? Strath looked confused.
 
?Yurr ? one furr oi, one furr ee missus an? one furr ee choild!?
 
The moles all laughed heartily. One miner reached down to pick up the prototype, but had trouble lifting it. ?Strath, be you?m makin? a gurtly anchor or an axe?? he teased.
 
The burly-shouldered smith scratched at his thick, velvety neck. ?Burr hurrrrm. Oi serpose oi?d bedder make a loiter version.?
 
A loud steam whistle sounded and all the miners hurried out to the main portal where the foremole stood high up on a metal walkway just outside the big boss?s office.
 
?Burr hurr hrm! Attention all workerbeasts. Et?s been parsed down t?oi t?let all o? ee know, wages?ve been trimmed back, due t?new polersy.?
 
The moles below gaped with disbelief.
 
?Again??
 
?Boi ?ow mooch??
 
?Et doan?t marter ?ow mooch, Cobb ? uzn?s a?ready be empovershed!?
 
General growls and grunts of agreement filled the portal.
 
?Burr, each o? ee diggers?ll be earnin? six coppers a day. No more,? the foremole stated.
 
Outrage took hold of the crowd of moles and the grumbling amped to a roar. Several miners began shaking their tools threateningly and a chunk of rock bounced off the railing with a loud clang. The foremole jumped back in alarm.
 
?Naow ?old oop, ee guddbeasts.? Strathcomb stepped forward, holding up a huge paw. ?Ain?t roight t? take out uzn's furstrations on ee messenger. Let oi speak t? Urthrow.? The moles churned in place like a boiling cauldron as Strath climbed the iron staircase. The foremole, grateful for the intervention, let him approach the business badger?s office without protest.
 
Urthrow looked up at Strath as he pushed through the door. ?Piccadilly. What can I do for you??
 
Strathcomb jabbed a thumbclaw at the outside. ?Beggum yer pardon, zurr, but you?m can?t be cootin? wages again. Nobeast c?n be lervin? offa six coppers a day. We?m ?aven families t? surport.?
 
The badger leaned back in his oversized chair, steepling his long claws. ?I think you misunderstand. Your wages aren?t being cut, Piccadilly. Just the diggers.? He made an offpaw gesture. ?Those who are unhappy with the rate can quit. They?re not indentured, after all.?
 
?They?m moight as well be. Moinin? be all they know, zurr.?
 
?Then they?ll adapt, won?t they?? The badger motioned for Strath to leave.
 
A growl rose from deep in Strath?s chest. ?May?aps they won?t.?
 
Urthrow glared coolly at the oversized mole. ?I have a list thirty beasts long just waiting for openings. You?re a skilled smith, Piccadilly, but even you can be replaced. Go back to your forge.?
 
Strathcomb walked out of the musty office onto the grid walkway. He looked out across the crowd of his kin, their pink noses raised hopefully toward him. He leaned forward then, paws braced against the railing. ?Uz molers bain?t prone t? voylence,? he began. ?We?m beasts what loiks peace!?
 
The miners ?Arr?d and ?Burr?d their gloomy assent.
 
?But thurr be toimes,? Strath continued, ?when uzn?s be threatened.?
 
The crowd grew attentively silent.
 
?An? in toimes loik that uz molers be a-stickin? tergether.?
 
Several whoops broke the silence.
 
?An? when we?m be unoited, uzn?s c?n move gurtly mountains, by ?okey! An? that bain?t no zaggeration!?
 
A raucous cheer arose.
 
?Urthrow Moinin? ain?t nothin? wi?outen uz molers, an? it be ?oigh toime et be a-learnin? that thur fact!?
 
As enthused cries reverberated the walls, the foremole slipped silently back into Urthrow?s office, wincing apologetically. The boss badger glared hatefully at the only mole left in his claws.
 
?Mark my words. Piccadilly will pay for this.?