[Arry]

Most of those who had been injured in the fire were now healed enough to either travel on or to stay and help with the reconstruction of the Inn. Alwin had put away his box of herbs and unguents, save for the now occasional use when they were needed for fingers bruised by errant hammer blows, or heads gone achy from bumping into sharp corners of the framing. He had rolled up his sleeves and helped out now in other ways.

His old back was not strong enough to carry rock for the Dwarf craftsman, nor were his arms used to carrying the heavy beams needed for the framing or flooring. He helped out where he saw the need. The garden first, cleared of ashy debris. The weeds plucked and the rows hoed; the thirsty plants watered. The two serving girls bobbed their heads to him early each morning as they came to gather what was needed for the day’s soup, oft times bringing him a griddle-cake or two and a mug of hot tea to drive away the morning chill.

Afternoons were spent in a shaded area by the stable. The Hobbit who had brought in the cedar logs had brought the two handled, draw-knives for removing bark. Astride a log, Alwin moved in a slow determined manner, scraping off the bark down to the fragrant wood below. One done, the Hobbit and his sons bucked the long log into bolts with their two-man bow saws – bolts being more manageable sections, their length determined by the length of the shingles needed. From there, the brawny young men split the bolts into wedges, stacking them to the side of the stable until they were ready to rive them into shingles.

Alwin watched them as he pulled the bark from the second log, fascinated by the rhythm of their movements. The bolt was turned on end, the froe, like a thin bladed ax, positioned to split a thin tapered plank of wood along the grain. The steady, sturdy thunks of their wooden mallets against the metal heads of the froes as they rived the wood. Then flip the bolt and begin again. A syncopated rhythm ran round his mind, punctuated by the voices of the workers as they spoke in short phrases to each other. His draw knife moved in time with them, and he began to hum the tune now forming, thinking how his fingers might pluck it out on his little harp. He smiled, the tune now coursing through his blood.

Soon, he knew the words would form; the scene be captured. Played and sung round the fire, it would be, for those who would listen and remember . . .