# Boar Four
## Coming Soon
The chronicle of four young people from the Hamlet of Boar.
The original title of Boarham Wood Tales was to cover a far bigger story than is detailed in this first story.
The details of events described are pieced together from the songs, poems, and scribblings made since.
While all rumours, mutterings, and tellings were checked thrice, as with all stories of the past, some aspects may be distorted, or exaggerated.
I make no apologies for this, as these enhancements are what makes a tale worth telling and sharing.
Start reading the first chapter of the story below.
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# Wald in the Woods
Rays of golden light thrust almost horizontally between the ever darkening trunks in the wood. The daylight hours were few enough at this time of year. Wald was the last of the loggers left in the clearing, the others had packed and left, as the quiet before the dark approached, their rough chattering no longer audible in the west.
Peace broke with a crack that echoed around the clearing. Wald stuffed the last of his items into his faded green canvas pack, and slung the pack over his broad shoulder. Deftly he flicked the hickory shaft of his axe with his right foot, stopping the end of the handle in his large, calloused, grimy right hand, momentum forced the axe head to pivot, from the ground and over his shoulder. Wald could feel something was different this evening. If his vocabulary was bigger, Wald would have used the word foreboding, however Wald is a woodsman, not a playwright.
Another crack in the woods to the east broke the silence. The silence bothered Wald more than the sound of a snapping stick in the woods. During the day the woods were alive with sounds; birds, bees, dragonflies, squirrels, rabbits, boars, badgers, and deer. Life squawking, squeaking, scratching, sniffing, scuttling. Silence was wrong, different, strange. Wald did not like strange.
With his pack and axe over his shoulder, Wald broke into a trot down the track, westerly, towards the East Gate. The light was fading fast. Wald picked up his pace, heavy steps crunching through the dead leaves, echoing in the silence of the coming night.
It was probably a badger, Wald told himself. Wald was sweating by the time the track reached the open ground, out of the woods, and the East Gate was visible.
The small hamlet of Boar was twinkling with fires, and lamps, as the last rays of the sun dipped behind the walls of the hamlet. Wald was sprinting to the thick wooden gate as he saw it being pushed closed.
Old man Frano took his responsibilities seriously. Forty five summers of working the woods, logging, hunting, and foraging had taught him the joys of world are accompanied by the reality that not everything is blue skies, and dandelion tea. The winter days felt harsher now, than when he was still earning his first axe. An apprentice logger in Boar is loaned an old axe to get started, however as a young man gains skills and confidence, he is given his first axe, and allowed to operate on his own terms. Frano had seen the logging party return some minutes back, loud and rambunctious as ever, with big Georgie standing a head taller than the rest and being teased for having to duck under the gateway. Frano missed the comradery of the group. The responsibility of being a Gate Warden was not bestowed lightly upon residents of the hamlet, and Frano was proud to have been chosen as the Warden of the East Gate.
The days were getting longer now, however the early dusk was still bringing the chill to his bones faster than he would like. Looking out from the gate house towards the woods, the last rays of sun streaking in from behind his slightly balding head. The light struck the trunks of the trees, golden columns before the ever darkening shadows of the woods. The shadow of the wall stretched across the field and licked against the base of the woods. The arch formed by the open gateway, bathed the East Gate Path with the last light of the day, as a beacon for any weary worker making their way home at the end of the day.
Behind him, Frano could hear the noise of the people of Boar, coming towards the end of their day, bustling, chopping, sizzling, boiling, and bolting. Ahead the Woods were quiet, a little too quiet. Frano felt the difference, yet could not quantify it. Something was not right, he knew he did not like it. He lifted his sore bones, unhooked the thick rope holding the door closed. Frano put his back to the huge solid gate, pushing with his feet, to hinge the portal to the world outside closed. The gate did not close easily, nor did it open easily, and that was the point. As Frano felt the gate reach the jamb, he knew a little extra shove was needed to push the gate into place, so the bolts could be closed.
A loud crack, of wood on wood, repeated, knock, knock, knock.
"Uncle Frano, hold on, not so fast old friend", Frano recognized the raspy voice of Wald.
'Damn!' he thought, now he had to open the gate, and close it, again.
"Wald? Can you help and push?" Frano asked.
Frano began to feel the gate opening, and stepped out of the way. Frano wondered, if when he was younger, he was as strong as Wald. Wald was pushing the gate open with one of his big, grimy hands, until the gap was wide enough for the big man to step into civilization.
Wald threw his pack and axe to the ground beside to the gatehouse, spun on his heals, put both hands to the door, and shoved it closed, then proceeded to shut the three bolts. Each bolt was as thick as his axe handle, when shut, a twist of the bolt locked it in place.
Frano and Wald looked at each other in silence for a few moments. Frano could see the sweat dribbling down Wald's forehead, onto his unshaven face. Frano had known Wald from birth, Frano's sisters first boy. Wald was not the fastest fox in the forest, yet solid, honest and dependable. Wald had inherited many traits from Frano's side of the family.
They understood each other without saying a word.
Frano had been in Wald's life, all his life. Frano was a constant, a solid, dependable member of the community. Wald could see the look in Frano's eye, stating, "sorry I closed the gate before you were home", and reading his face, Frano was non-verbally saying "something out there is not right this evening."
"See you at the 'Head later", Wald stated as he was picking up his pack and axe. No need to ask, The Boars Head Inn. was the only place anyone would be on a cold evening. This was also an invitation, to talk about what they each felt, and sound out other members of the community on the undisclosed feeling they both had.
"Sure will", Frano replied, nodding, while entering the gatehouse to finish his duties for the day.
---
To get a feeling for Boar and the people, here is an old rhyme that was often heard sung by the people.
*We are the people from Boar,*
*Where the Fast River does roar,*
*Into our nets jump the fish,*
*Ready for pan, and then dish,*
—
*From the acorn grows oak,*
*Providing for folk,*
*Work hard through the day,*
*So our thirst we may slay,*
*As each evening it's said*
*See ya down the Boars Head.*
—
*From the mountains, the winter do blow,*
*First the rain and then snow,*
*But have patience my friends,*
*For every winter ends,*
—
*From the acorn grows oak,*
*Providing for folk,*
*Work hard through the day,*
*So our thirst we may slay,*
*As each evening it's said*
*See ya down the Boars Head.*
—
*From the south spring will start,*
*Brought to Boar by the hart,*
*His horns will grow stronger,*
*As the days will get longer,*
—
*From the acorn grows oak,*
*Providing for folk,*
*Work hard through the day,*
*So our thirst we may slay,*
*As each evening it's said*
*See ya down the Boars Head.*
—
*Summer flowers bloom in heat,*
*Making the bee's honey sweet*,
*The thrush song lasts the longest*
*As the days warmth gets strongest*
—
*From the acorn grows oak,*
*Providing for folk,*
*Work hard through the day,*
*So our thirst we may slay,*
*As each evening it's said*
*See ya down the Boars Head.*
—
*Grains green and yellow leaf,*
*Ready to scythe into sheaf,*
*Thresh, winnow, flail and fan,*
*Take it all to the Miller man.*
—
*From the acorn grows oak,*
*Providing for folk,*
*Work hard through the day,*
*So our thirst we may slay,*
*As each evening it's said*
*See ya down the Boars Head.*
—
*We are the people from Boar,*
*Where the Fast River does roar,*
*As long as the seasons keep turning*
*From the world we'll keep earning*
—
*From the acorn grows oak,*
*Providing for folk,*
*Work hard through the day,*
*So our thirst we may slay,*
*As each evening it's said*
*See ya down the Boars Head.*
