Link to NaNoWriMo 2013, Day 1: Bren gathers mushrooms; lunch with Alina; they walk to the spring
Link to NaNoWriMo 2013, Day 2: Magda muses on trades; delivers a message to Bren
Link to NaNoWriMo 2013, Day 3: Bren wanders the forest and heads home, but veers too far south; has an accident
***
Rain fell steadily for the three days it took Bren to recover from the incident in the forest. For those days, he was relegated to his paternal grandmother's house for observation, as head wounds were sometimes known to cause strange behaviors--or death. During this time, he was questioned by most of the village about the accident, but he could not give any more definitive answers than he had first had when he woke. The mark that he made on the window-rock had been found. No one had explored the southern half of the forest. It would have taken a special party, and no one could be spared in the week leading up to the gathering. They had to hope that the incident was an isolated one, if trees were being felled. As for Bren--no one quite knew what to make of his injury, and they collectively decided that he had moved through the forest to the place of the most communal significance--the clearing--in his injured delirium.
Bren did not have a better theory. The only thing that bothered him was his bag. It had been found in a different part of the forest--nearer to the eastern edge--hanging from a low branch, close to the trunk of the tree. It dangled about a meter or a meter and a half from the ground. There were no mushrooms in it, around it, nor anywhere between the window rock and where the bag was found, nor between where the bag hung, and where Bren lay unconscious. The cheese, likewise, was gone, leading Magda and many others to suspect an animal--except for the small but important fact that the bag was found hanging. Bren's knife, and his fine napkin-cloth, and his bowl--still sticky from the figs--were there. He was, at least, glad to have the knife.
He was confined to a room on the upper floor of his grandmother's--well, house did not begin to describe it. It was a meeting place and a hospital, a library and a school. But the room he was in was more infirmary than research- or meeting place. He could have visitors, but these soon wearied him. Alina came, and Magda, and Damir, his brother. Many more official visitors came to hear what he had to report. More than one of the healers came to assess when he might be able to return to the forest. He might have been sent out sooner, had the rain not been so steady.
He slept, and was well tended. They made a special effort to give him something other than mushroom broths, though he did suspect that this was due, in part, to his inability to supply the necessary mushrooms for the broth. Well, the rain would not last, and he would not be in bed forever.
Bren considered what lay ahead--almost certainly, on the day of the Gathering, he would be well enough to be released and resume his job. He was a gatherer, and some thought the Gathering was an acknowledgment of sorts of the work of the gatherers. His specialty was mushrooms, but others gathered bark, or plants. Some gathered whatever useful item they could identify--because there needed to be a place, even for those who were suited to little. It was good to feel useful; often this was the only consolation he found in the work that he hated. That, and walking in the forest. He frowned. Not a good consolation this time.
As he rested, he was permitted only one visitor per hour. Most did not stay that long. When he could, then, he was permitted his knife and a small block of wood, and traced intricate designs in the soft butternut wood. It was the master woodworker who brought him the wood--mostly Bren contented himself with broken branches that he gathered when he was out on his daily hunt. But the old man, Stolar, recognized Bren's talent, and also saw the desire of his soul--to create. And so he slipped him a finer piece of wood when he could, feeding his former apprentice's metier. No one could deny Bren's usefulness to the community, but woodworking was an art, and when true artistry was wasted, someone in the community mourned--usually the posessor of the talent.
So he worked, for three days, paring away fine curls of wood, shaping the hair of a young woman on one face of the block, the fine lines of her chin and mouth, and bringing life to her bright eyes. On the opposite face of the wood, he carved his own likeness, and on the edges, a scrolling vine pattern with leaves and stars. It was purely decorative, and would be lovely to more eyes than his own. He would give it to Alina at the Gathering.
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