The Anthill

Neither individuals moved for a moment, they stood motionless as they eyed a log of wood that sat equally motionless in the carpenter’s workshop. Master Carpenter Grey slowly twirled his spiraling moustache with the same hand he occasionally scratched his backside with, bushy eyebrows lifting the many wrinkles on his forehead as the only sign of considerable concentration. Pilgrim stared at the wood with varying emotions he hoped would make a difference, sometimes hurling a look of anger at it in the hope it would bend to his will and sometimes closing his eyes hoping the wood would disappear once opened. They stood inert for such a lengthy period that Pilgrim noticed how a layer of dust settled on Mr Grey’s large red nose and on his small round spectacles, that his master could tolerate so much on his face without sneezing was impressive in its own right. Still they stood and still no sign from the master carpenter as to what his decision would be, Pilgrim thought of asking him if he made up his mind and just as his lips parted to speak the old maestro nodded in disagreement with a loud grunt, shaking off dust that now hung still among its peers in the air around them. While rubbing the dust off from his spectacles Master Carpenter Grey mumbled things Pilgrim couldn’t understand, as far as everyone knew nobody in Littledale spoke another language yet Pilgrim nodded and waited for intervals between his master’s words(?) to say “Yes, yes.” or “I agree.” With a hand waving in equal parts dismissal and disapproval Mr Grey ordered the log to be carried out where the others awaited his consent so that they may be used on future projects and, after clicking his heels, Pilgrim brought out the wood with difficulty just as the dog drags a large branch by his side. As the young man approached the entrance he crossed lines of sunlight that seeped between the old wooden boards on the walls, so dense with dust they were that they could be just as solid as any other object nearby. The smell of freshly-cut wood gave way to the green smell of dew-topped leaves when Pilgrim placed the log outside, a heavy moisture filled his lungs and sporadic droplets were flung onto his face from the high branches as they heaved and shook from the wind. Master Carpenter Grey concealed the fact that he was sniffing his large calloused fingers by twirling the caterpillar on his face and rearranging the round spectacles when Pilgrim returned to him and clicked his heels. “That piece was not ready to be cut just like the others.” Mr Grey’s mouth moved out of sight beneath his facial hair. “We must give them time to decide and then try again, was that the last one for today?” Pilgrim taught himself to ignore what odd things the old man would say and to instead listen for the intonation of his voice when asking questions or requiring advice and, having heard the tone of the maestro’s voice ascend before going quiet, he answered. “I believe there aren’t any more, we asked all of them, Master Carpenter.” The young man was unsure if Mr Grey heard, or listened to, him or if he was too deep in thought as the old maestro blurted out words while a runny bead of snot leaked on his moustache. “Nails! We need nails! I forgot to get them earlier today, pray fetch me those nails at the blacksmith’s, lad.”

Pilgrim clicked his heels and made his way out and onto the cobbled paths of Littledale where every stone shone as its own little mirror, all facing skywards to reveal a Heaven of their own beneath them. Most locals sat within their small dwellings and away from the rain that showered the village in the morning, some already emerging from small doors to find that the clouds had since been scattering away. He walked on to the beat of a distant hammering whose sound he could only recognize through memory, whether he did hear it at all or if he made up the sounds in his head he could not tell. Master Blacksmith Handy’s hammering had kept the heart of Littledale beating for just about as long as the oldest people who still lived, his age unknown to most. He had been present for every funeral service that Pilgrim could remember and he was no doubt there at every service long before the young man was born, the old blacksmith had seen many of his friends and family pass away. Despite this, Mr Handy never appeared to be sullen or cheerless and only his powerful guffaws could rival the sound of his hammering, his blackened lungs could shake every tool in his forge and he no doubt wiped tears away from laughter more often than Pilgrim ever witnessed him cry in pain. The master carpenter’s pupil clicked his heels by the entrance of Mr Handy’s forge after following the tower of black smoke above it and waited for the old blacksmith to turn around from the bucket in which he was drenching what must have been today’s project. The maestro’s nostrils expanded before he spun to find the source of the sawdust he smelled, Pilgrim’s expectations were met when an ear-piercing laughter echoed through smoke and flames as the round blacksmith barreled his way to him with arms outstretched to embrace his visitor. Pilgrim considered moving though he could not let instinct prevail over discipline and stood motionless until he was crushed in Mr Handy’s powerful grip. “Well, if it isn’t the little sentry! The world could burn around you and still you’d click your heels and wait for orders! How’s ol’ Mr Grey doing, still barking at wood?” The blacksmith said, still chuckling and holding Pilgrim by the shoulders. “We just looked at it today. He’s still teaching me his ways, Master Blacksmith. I’m actually here because he said he forgot to get nails, would you happen to have them?” Mr Handy turned and waddled to the back of his forge where he kept orders clients never came to collect, some so old the dates written on their labels were smeared away with time. “That’s right, trooper! I was wondering when he’d come pick them up, I guess he must be too busy, loses himself in his work just like all of us, eh? Well, here they are, they are already paid for so don’t worry. Oh, and tell your mother she forgot her dentures at my place.” Pilgrim took the small box Mr Handy handed him, clicked his heels, and made his way back to the workshop. “Must be another woman’s dentures, Master Blacksmith. My mother forgot hers at the corner store!” They both erupted in laughter and went their way, one back to his forge and the other to his master’s workshop.

Pilgrim took the long way back, slowly walking along small alleys and between people’s backyards. The little village lay dormant and peaceful as it always had, far from the capital and cushioned between rolling hills. A voice called out to Pilgrim from a small garden, a voice whose every word resounded with authority, a voice that only spoke when absolutely necessary. There sat Rittmeister Mills, daily papers resting on his knees and golden medals resting on his chest. It appeared to Pilgrim that the former officer never moved from his little stool, a stool that sat empty for years during the last war. When Mr Mills galloped away to lead a cavalry detachment he did so promising he would return and never leave his wife, he told her to keep it clean for his return and, when he finally did return, she threw it at him in pent up anger for leaving her. Now Rittmeister Mills spent his days surrounded by his wife’s garden and sending military officials back empty-handed. “Well, if it isn’t the gallant carpenter. I take it you haven’t heard the news, Pilgrim? It’s a mess and they’ll be coming for every able-bodied boy in Littledale, I wouldn’t put it past them to carry off old geezers like me too!” Rittmeister Mills laughed to himself as Pilgrim approached, clicked his heels, and answered. “I’m sorry but i haven’t heard, Rittmeister. I’ve been busy learning the ways of the wood all day and I'm only now returning to the workshop. What do they say?” Pilgrim accepted the papers that were handed to him and read while Mr Mills spoke. “War, Pilgrim. Something about a king and another king and now one of them is dead. It’s always the same and always will be. They always ask of Littledale all her boys, just watch they’ll be knocking on doors tomorrow for those who won’t be already lining the recruitment offices. Knowing your mother she’ll chase them to the woods before they get you, she never got over losing her husband in the last war. I wouldn’t push her buttons, we’d win this war by the end of the week if she were at the front!” Mr Mills laughed while remembering the wrath he faced upon his return but slowly straightened back his face when more memories returned. It was not enough to remember the look his wife gave him when he led an equally battered horse home, a look of the purest anger and betrayal held together by a stronger faith in love. He remembered his best friend’s wife running to him with such momentum she nearly knocked every war-torn soldier to the ground as they marched in slouched columns, she could ruin a whole company with more devastation than artillery shells. She came to him as though he were the enemy and he couldn’t answer the question she asked. They both knew the answer and Mr Mills was afraid she was just looking for someone to blame, her wrathful, unmoving gaze convinced him that he was the one who had killed her husband himself. “Sounds neat, Rittmeister. I confess I don’t care much for politics but it sounds interesting nonetheless!” Pilgrim handed Mr Mills back the papers in a nicely folded square. “Thank you for sharing the news with me, Rittmeister. I must return to the workshop before Master Carpenter Grey substitutes me for a plank. See you, Rittmeister!” Pilgrim clicked his heels and continued his way back as Mr Mills gave a half-hearted salute and read on.