Story for the Day: Gran's Pie

No one should ever bother Gran Baba Connridh when she's perusing the fields and doin' a pie fer the Gods. 'Specially when the person doin' the botherin's a thief.
Ain't nobody got time fer that.

Read Baba's first book HERE

                On the other side of Frewyn, amidst the rippling downs of southeastern Tyfferim, Frewyn’s oldest farmer ventured beyond the confines of the farmhouse and the byre, and walked through the fields, to peruse the rows and judge how good a job the boy she had hired to plough them had done. The stones had been tolerably cleared away, the plough had been driven somewhat straight, the top soil turned and loam exposed, and she was only waiting for the final thaw to begin planting for the season. She ambled along the fence and  wondered whether she ought to put in the carrot and the mangold this year, but after inspecting ground, after tasting it and spying it with fervent frowns, she decided against root vegetables and thought it best to put the brassicas in the large field whilst leaving the southern rows for the beets and potatoes.

                “Aye,” she humphed. “That’ll do.”

                She folded her arms, made a satisfied nod, and turned back to the house, when a sudden rustling her caught her ear. A switch somewhere tripped, a metal twang echoed over the field, and the grating sound of two metal bars grinding against one another ended in a sharp snap and an “Ow!”

                A whimper followed, someone was grunting and straining away, and knowing exactly what had happened, Baba Connridh sighed and marched to the side of the house, whereupon she found a young man kneeling at her window sill, frantically trying to free himself from the bear trap he had just stepped in. Fortunately for himself, which was unfortunate for the old woman, he had pulled his foot away just in time to be caught by the pant leg. A broken ankle or a snapped leg is what he deserved for trespassing on hallowed ground, but all he received was a pair of torn overalls and a grim flout from an agitated old woman, one who would like very much to know what this young man was doing on her land.

                “You ain’t one o’ the wee-uns from town,” Baba observed, narrowing her gaze.

                The young man turned and pointed feverishly at the trap. “Why’s there a bear trap at the window?” he panted.

                Baba shrugged. “Gotta keep the wee-un’s from town aff my land somehow.”

                “With bear traps?”

                “Does a better job than tellin’ their ma’s not to let ‘em traipse over my fields. They lose a few legs tryna steal pies from my sill, they won’t come back again, I’m tellin’ ya that.”

                The young man grew distressed, and as the old woman glunched at him, he cowered and felt afraid of something.

                “Why’re you at my window, son?” Baba asked, planting her fists on her hips.

                The young man made no answer, and Baba gave him a thorough appraisal. “You a thief, or you just hungry?”  

                He was looking a little forlorn: his choice in dress had little to do with the mud or the cold, ignoring the time of year in favour of efficiency; his dark shirt, light shoes, and fitted overalls were meant for slipping silently in and out of houses, and in a desperate attempt to save himself from the remonstrances of an indignant and probably precarious old lady, he paused, recollected himself, and then settled on, “…Both?”

                Baba was exceedingly unimpressed. “Well,” she exhaled, “guess a hungry thief is better than the wee-uns from town.” The business of all old Frewyn women was to marry, ask how everyone’s mother was, and feed everyone, and when the former two offices failed, the third must always endure. Even common palliards needed to eat, and Frewyns farmers would feed them, for even if civility was scarce, a good dinner could always be found on a farm. “Well, pie’s almost done,” Baba sniffed, “so whatever you came here to steal, it’ll have to wait. You want a slice?”

                The young man was seriously confused. “But, I was here tryin’ to rob you—“

                “Aye, well, you’ll rob me later. Got a pie to look after.” Baba began crambling back toward the house. “Yer thievein’s shite anyhow.”

                The young man felt somewhat offended here.

                “Better look for somethin’ else to do other than thievin’,” Baba continued. “Plenty o’ farmwork round the farms what needs doin’. Get yerself to ploughin’ fields and fixin’ fences. There’s money in that.” She stopped when she reached the flagstone and turned back. “You wantin’ pie or not, son?”

                The bear trap and the old woman’s disquieting indifference to being robbed made him reconsider his life. He glanced down at his torn pant leg and scratched the back of his neck. “Well, if you’re offerin’…” was all his reply, and he followed Baba into the house, who immediately scolded him for not removing his shoes when he stepped over the threshold.

                “Bhi Borras—all that whimperin’ and nonsense about a pant leg and you can’t even take yer shoes aff before comin’ in the house,” said Baba, taking the man’s shoes to the flagstone after he had tripped out of them. “Who raised you, boy? Even the sows at the manger know how to mind themselves when they’re outside the pen. You make a mess o’ this here floor, yer gonna be moppin’ it with yer tongue, so you will.”

                She went to the door and tossed the shoes outside, muttering to herself about the poor manners of nearly everybody nowadays and how nobody could bother to raise their children to conduct themselves with decency-- not at all like how things were when she was a girl, back when everybody minded their children, prized good behaviour, and ate nothing but salt and dirt and liked it-- and just as she was about to reenter to the house, she stopped and turned back to the field.