The village fair was winding down, and the tinker had loaded up his cart with the goods he had peddled there. The small folding table, the canvas roll of penny knives he'd made, and his tools that he had used to repair the old pots brought out by the women. The tinker had been making his rounds in that area for years, and he was well known for the sharp edge he put on the scissors, and the quality folding knives he sold for a cheap price. His narrow cart was a marvel of self contained efficiency, holding all he needed to live on the road away from home. He'd just hitched up his donkey, when he noticed the boy.
The boy was standing in the light drizzle of rain, dressed in rags and shivering with the chill in the damp air. Thin and ragged, he looked like the lost orphan he was. The tinker looked at him carefully, wondering if he had any pursuers.
"Are ya hungry, lad?" the tinker asked the boy.
The boy nodded silently, almost as if he was afraid of some punishment for making a noise. The tinker knew what he had to do.
"Well, come on then, if you've a mind. I'll be making camp outside of the village with a nice stew on the fire." he told the boy. Then he picked up an old but still good wool blanket out of the cart, folded it in half lengthwise, and wrapped it over the shivering boys shoulders. Then he led his donkey cart out of the village by the muddy track that served as a road. After a moment hesitation, the boy followed.
Later that evening, the tinker had set up a nice snug camp under a canvas tarpaulin to shelter from the rain. An iron tripod held a pot over the fire and the rich smell of a meaty stew filled the air. The tinker had got the story, bit by bit, from the frightened boy. A runaway orphan from a work house. The tinker knew the story well, as it was repeated all too often. The children were slave labor, picking oakum for fibbers to make rope, working until their fingers were raw, with beatings for any infraction of the rules. Or sometimes for no reason at all. A bowl of gruel a day until they were of no use, and tossed into the river or a shallow grave. Now with a belly full of hot food. and a warm wool blanket over him, the boy had stopped shivering, but was still jumpy as a rabbit.
" Relax, lad. Nobody here is going to give you up, least of all me. You can tag along with us if you've a mind to. I could use an extra hand now and then, and you'll learn somethings." he told the boy.
And so the boy became the tinkers assistant, helping gather firewood, breaking up the kindling, feeding Abraham the donkey. The boy leaned why the tinkers cart was built narrow as it was, because once they were clear of any towns, the tinker wove back into the forest until they were hidden, and the camp out of sight.
"There's both good men and bad on the roads, lad. It pays to be out of sight while we rest and make what we can. The less people know about us, the better."
And it was during these hidden times, that the boy saw the tinker at his real trade. The making of knife blades. These were fitted into handles of plain wood, and were the penny knives that the tinker sold at village fairs and market squares across the land. From his small supply of tools in the cart he'd make the handles of wood, and in the fiery coals of the campfire, he'd heat and forge and shape the blades. Then, while the blade was still hot, he'd strike his mark on the fresh blade.
"The fire gives the blade it's life, lad. And only the fire can take it away again. All blades are born in the fire, for better or worse." the tinker told the boy.
Thin and sharp, he showed the boy why they tempered at night, the better to see the colors run the blade. The deep violet, brown and straw color, all the different levels of temper. The boy was put to work helping make the slotted wood handles that held the blades. There was seasoned oak in the cart, and the tinker showed the boy how to take the hand saw and slit just enough to fit the blade. The iron rivet was peened with the small hammer, and the boy learned how to judge the fit. Too much, and the knife was hard to open, too little and it was floppy.
As the months past, the boy became a good assistant to the tinker. He was young and had good hands, and learned fast. Together, they traveled the lanes of Norfolk, and stopped at every little village. It seemed to the boy that the tinker was well known, as every time they stopped, people came to get everything sharpened from sheep sheers to butcher knives. And the tinker would sharpen. He taught the boy how to sharpen on the stones he had in the cart, and soon the boy was taking some of the load off the tinker so he could make more penny knives. And at every village, the men lined up to get a penny knife or two with the tinker marked blade. His knives were known to hold an edge. After every stop, the tinkers purse jingled with coin. Once clear of towns and out on the road, the tinker pulled up a plank in the bottom of the cart and put half the coins in a bag in the hidden compartment.
"Most of the human race is trustworthy, lad. But it's hard to tell which ones they are, so best not to temp them."
But it was in the forest that the boy loved. The lessons were many and varied, and the tinker was a good teacher. The boy learned how to use the knife for all sort of tasks. Making a shelter, skinning and butchering the deer that the tinker would poach with a longbow. The boy learned how to make a bow, and arrows from reeds and dogwood shoots. How to build a frame of green willow to dry the thin sliced venison on. Everything came from the knife, the boy was taught. And the boy understood that with a good sharp blade and the thick forest around him, he could make what he needed.
"It's all about the knife, lad." the tinker told him, "if you have a sharp blade, you can make most of what you need in the forest."
"But what about an enemy? What if a highwayman with a sword is to rob us of our hard earned coin? Why not have a musket or a pistol?" the boy asked.
" The priming of the gun could get damp. And you'd only have that one shot. But I'll show you how to keep your silver." the tinker said.
It was then, while they were camped deep in the woods, the boy learned the staff. The tinker had him go and cut a staff, shoulder high, and then the learning started. From then on, not a day went by that they did not practice with the quarter staff. Small tricks and feints where taught and the low blow was included. The boy was quick to learn. Every night they would practice with the staff. One evening the boy asked the tinker a question.
"Why not just stab the man attacking you?" We make knives, and good ones at that."
"Keep one thing in mind, boy. You break a bully's arm, and people will laugh at him. But if you kill a man, it becomes a serous matter for the crown. It could lead to a noose at the dock for you." he told the boy.
Up and down the country lanes they went, selling their penny knives and sharpening everything from sheers and scissors to butcher knives. Then one day, the tinker looked around to make sure nobody was in sight, and he examined a small pile of stones by the roadside. Then he guided their donkey and cart into the forest. Once off the road, he had the boy help him erase any sign they had turned off there. Through the woods they went, and soon the boy could hear voices, and smell a campfire. They came to a clearing and there were other tinkers gathered in the clearing. They all greeted the newly arrived tinker by name, but cast a wary eye on the boy.
"This is my assistant and apprentice. He travels with me, and his mark is my mark." said the tinker. That was all that needed to be said.
They spent several days there, and all the tinkers shared tools and forging tricks, and shared information of where to go, where to be wary of. It was a time for relaxing and renewing old friendships, and a time of teaching. They welcomed the boy into their fold.
But as winter approached, they ended up near the Fens. The tinker led them deep into the salt water marshes, and they came to a small white washed cottage. A stout middle aged lady was washing clothes in a tub in the yard when they arrived, and she let out a yell of exited greeting. Throwing her arms around the tinker, she kissed him fiercely.
"It's about time you came home luv. Missed you terrible and I was afeared something had happened to ye!" she said. Then looked at the boy. "And who may this young man be?"
"A lost lamb, dear. I took him in and taught him the road so's he'd not starve. He has good hands, and learns fast."
So the boy became the son that they needed, and for the first time in his young life knew what having a loving family meant. The tinkers wife, who was named Mary, was milking the cow one moring, and the boy asked her about their life.
"Did you always live here in the Fens?" he asked.
"Aye, and we're blessed for it. The living off the eeling and fishing alone is a comfortable one. And it makes a good base for himself to peddle his knives from."
"You never had any children then?" he asked.
Mary stopped her work and looked sad.
"Aye, we had two lovely children, but God wasn't kind to them. Our daughter died giving birth to her own child, and our son died fighting Bonaparte last year in a place called Waterloo. He was going to follow his da's way of working the steel, but he took the king's shilling to fight for the crown. "
The boy was quiet for a bit.
"I never had a da nor mam that I know of." he told Mary. "All I ever remember was the work house. I'd be your son if you want."
Mary threw her arms around the boy and wept for the joy of having a son again.
So the boy became the son, and he became a tinker. He had good hands and after a few years his blades where as good as his adapted father's ever were. His knives sold well, and at the tinkers meetings in the forest he gained the respect of the fellow tinkers with his workmanship. But all things end, and such it was for the tinker and Mary. Years and time took them, and the young tinker took over the rounds made by the old tinker. The mark on the folding penny knives and pots were the same, and he did well. A local girl from the village at the edge of the fens kept his cottage while he was on the roads in the spring and summers. The young tinker made a good living peddling his wares up and own the country lanes, village to village.
Then one day as he was packing up after a good day at the market square, he saw the boy. The young boy was dressed in rags and was rail thin, and shivering in the light drizzling rain. He was obviously a run away from an orphanage or work house.
"Are ya hungry lad?" he asked the boy.
The boy nodded in a wary way, eyes not moving from the tinker. The tinker took a blanket from the cart and folded it length wise and draped it over the boys shoulders.
"Then come along lad. There'll be a warm pot of stew on the fire when I make camp away from here."
The tinker started off down the muddy road, and after a moments hesitation, the boy followed.
The boy was standing in the light drizzle of rain, dressed in rags and shivering with the chill in the damp air. Thin and ragged, he looked like the lost orphan he was. The tinker looked at him carefully, wondering if he had any pursuers.
"Are ya hungry, lad?" the tinker asked the boy.
The boy nodded silently, almost as if he was afraid of some punishment for making a noise. The tinker knew what he had to do.
"Well, come on then, if you've a mind. I'll be making camp outside of the village with a nice stew on the fire." he told the boy. Then he picked up an old but still good wool blanket out of the cart, folded it in half lengthwise, and wrapped it over the shivering boys shoulders. Then he led his donkey cart out of the village by the muddy track that served as a road. After a moment hesitation, the boy followed.
Later that evening, the tinker had set up a nice snug camp under a canvas tarpaulin to shelter from the rain. An iron tripod held a pot over the fire and the rich smell of a meaty stew filled the air. The tinker had got the story, bit by bit, from the frightened boy. A runaway orphan from a work house. The tinker knew the story well, as it was repeated all too often. The children were slave labor, picking oakum for fibbers to make rope, working until their fingers were raw, with beatings for any infraction of the rules. Or sometimes for no reason at all. A bowl of gruel a day until they were of no use, and tossed into the river or a shallow grave. Now with a belly full of hot food. and a warm wool blanket over him, the boy had stopped shivering, but was still jumpy as a rabbit.
" Relax, lad. Nobody here is going to give you up, least of all me. You can tag along with us if you've a mind to. I could use an extra hand now and then, and you'll learn somethings." he told the boy.
And so the boy became the tinkers assistant, helping gather firewood, breaking up the kindling, feeding Abraham the donkey. The boy leaned why the tinkers cart was built narrow as it was, because once they were clear of any towns, the tinker wove back into the forest until they were hidden, and the camp out of sight.
"There's both good men and bad on the roads, lad. It pays to be out of sight while we rest and make what we can. The less people know about us, the better."
And it was during these hidden times, that the boy saw the tinker at his real trade. The making of knife blades. These were fitted into handles of plain wood, and were the penny knives that the tinker sold at village fairs and market squares across the land. From his small supply of tools in the cart he'd make the handles of wood, and in the fiery coals of the campfire, he'd heat and forge and shape the blades. Then, while the blade was still hot, he'd strike his mark on the fresh blade.
"The fire gives the blade it's life, lad. And only the fire can take it away again. All blades are born in the fire, for better or worse." the tinker told the boy.
Thin and sharp, he showed the boy why they tempered at night, the better to see the colors run the blade. The deep violet, brown and straw color, all the different levels of temper. The boy was put to work helping make the slotted wood handles that held the blades. There was seasoned oak in the cart, and the tinker showed the boy how to take the hand saw and slit just enough to fit the blade. The iron rivet was peened with the small hammer, and the boy learned how to judge the fit. Too much, and the knife was hard to open, too little and it was floppy.
As the months past, the boy became a good assistant to the tinker. He was young and had good hands, and learned fast. Together, they traveled the lanes of Norfolk, and stopped at every little village. It seemed to the boy that the tinker was well known, as every time they stopped, people came to get everything sharpened from sheep sheers to butcher knives. And the tinker would sharpen. He taught the boy how to sharpen on the stones he had in the cart, and soon the boy was taking some of the load off the tinker so he could make more penny knives. And at every village, the men lined up to get a penny knife or two with the tinker marked blade. His knives were known to hold an edge. After every stop, the tinkers purse jingled with coin. Once clear of towns and out on the road, the tinker pulled up a plank in the bottom of the cart and put half the coins in a bag in the hidden compartment.
"Most of the human race is trustworthy, lad. But it's hard to tell which ones they are, so best not to temp them."
But it was in the forest that the boy loved. The lessons were many and varied, and the tinker was a good teacher. The boy learned how to use the knife for all sort of tasks. Making a shelter, skinning and butchering the deer that the tinker would poach with a longbow. The boy learned how to make a bow, and arrows from reeds and dogwood shoots. How to build a frame of green willow to dry the thin sliced venison on. Everything came from the knife, the boy was taught. And the boy understood that with a good sharp blade and the thick forest around him, he could make what he needed.
"It's all about the knife, lad." the tinker told him, "if you have a sharp blade, you can make most of what you need in the forest."
"But what about an enemy? What if a highwayman with a sword is to rob us of our hard earned coin? Why not have a musket or a pistol?" the boy asked.
" The priming of the gun could get damp. And you'd only have that one shot. But I'll show you how to keep your silver." the tinker said.
It was then, while they were camped deep in the woods, the boy learned the staff. The tinker had him go and cut a staff, shoulder high, and then the learning started. From then on, not a day went by that they did not practice with the quarter staff. Small tricks and feints where taught and the low blow was included. The boy was quick to learn. Every night they would practice with the staff. One evening the boy asked the tinker a question.
"Why not just stab the man attacking you?" We make knives, and good ones at that."
"Keep one thing in mind, boy. You break a bully's arm, and people will laugh at him. But if you kill a man, it becomes a serous matter for the crown. It could lead to a noose at the dock for you." he told the boy.
Up and down the country lanes they went, selling their penny knives and sharpening everything from sheers and scissors to butcher knives. Then one day, the tinker looked around to make sure nobody was in sight, and he examined a small pile of stones by the roadside. Then he guided their donkey and cart into the forest. Once off the road, he had the boy help him erase any sign they had turned off there. Through the woods they went, and soon the boy could hear voices, and smell a campfire. They came to a clearing and there were other tinkers gathered in the clearing. They all greeted the newly arrived tinker by name, but cast a wary eye on the boy.
"This is my assistant and apprentice. He travels with me, and his mark is my mark." said the tinker. That was all that needed to be said.
They spent several days there, and all the tinkers shared tools and forging tricks, and shared information of where to go, where to be wary of. It was a time for relaxing and renewing old friendships, and a time of teaching. They welcomed the boy into their fold.
But as winter approached, they ended up near the Fens. The tinker led them deep into the salt water marshes, and they came to a small white washed cottage. A stout middle aged lady was washing clothes in a tub in the yard when they arrived, and she let out a yell of exited greeting. Throwing her arms around the tinker, she kissed him fiercely.
"It's about time you came home luv. Missed you terrible and I was afeared something had happened to ye!" she said. Then looked at the boy. "And who may this young man be?"
"A lost lamb, dear. I took him in and taught him the road so's he'd not starve. He has good hands, and learns fast."
So the boy became the son that they needed, and for the first time in his young life knew what having a loving family meant. The tinkers wife, who was named Mary, was milking the cow one moring, and the boy asked her about their life.
"Did you always live here in the Fens?" he asked.
"Aye, and we're blessed for it. The living off the eeling and fishing alone is a comfortable one. And it makes a good base for himself to peddle his knives from."
"You never had any children then?" he asked.
Mary stopped her work and looked sad.
"Aye, we had two lovely children, but God wasn't kind to them. Our daughter died giving birth to her own child, and our son died fighting Bonaparte last year in a place called Waterloo. He was going to follow his da's way of working the steel, but he took the king's shilling to fight for the crown. "
The boy was quiet for a bit.
"I never had a da nor mam that I know of." he told Mary. "All I ever remember was the work house. I'd be your son if you want."
Mary threw her arms around the boy and wept for the joy of having a son again.
So the boy became the son, and he became a tinker. He had good hands and after a few years his blades where as good as his adapted father's ever were. His knives sold well, and at the tinkers meetings in the forest he gained the respect of the fellow tinkers with his workmanship. But all things end, and such it was for the tinker and Mary. Years and time took them, and the young tinker took over the rounds made by the old tinker. The mark on the folding penny knives and pots were the same, and he did well. A local girl from the village at the edge of the fens kept his cottage while he was on the roads in the spring and summers. The young tinker made a good living peddling his wares up and own the country lanes, village to village.
Then one day as he was packing up after a good day at the market square, he saw the boy. The young boy was dressed in rags and was rail thin, and shivering in the light drizzling rain. He was obviously a run away from an orphanage or work house.
"Are ya hungry lad?" he asked the boy.
The boy nodded in a wary way, eyes not moving from the tinker. The tinker took a blanket from the cart and folded it length wise and draped it over the boys shoulders.
"Then come along lad. There'll be a warm pot of stew on the fire when I make camp away from here."
The tinker started off down the muddy road, and after a moments hesitation, the boy followed.
when i first joined the traditionals i read all your stories, a pain to wait so long for the next!
