the belgariad pawn of prophecy 3

The center of the kitchen and everything that happened there was Aunt

Pol. She seemed somehow to be able to be everywhere at once. The

finishing touch that plumped a goose in its roasting pan or deftly

shaped a rising loaf or garnished a smoking ham fresh from the oven was

always hers. Though there were several others who worked in the kitchen,

no loaf, stew, soup, roast, or vegetable ever went out of it that had

not been touched at least once by Aunt Pol. She knew by smell, taste, or

some higher instinct what each dish required, and she seasoned them all

by pinch or trace or a negligent-seeming shake from earthenware spice

pots. It was as if there was a kind of magic about her, a knowledge and

power beyond that of ordinary people. And yet, even at her busiest, she

always knew precisely where Garion was. In the very midst of crimping a

pie crust or decorating a special cake or stitching up a freshly stuffed

chicken she could, without looking, reach out a leg and hook him back

out from under the feet of others with heel or ankle.

As he grew a bit older, it even became a game. Garion would watch

until she seemed far too busy to notice him, and then, laughing, he

would run on his sturdy little legs toward a door. But she would always

catch him. And he would laugh and throw his arms around her neck and

kiss her and then go back to watching for his next chance to run away

again.

He was quite convinced in those early years that his Aunt Pol was

quite the most important and beautiful woman in the world. For one

thing, she was taller than the other women on Faldor's farm-very nearly

as tall as a man-and her face was always serious-even sternexcept with

him, of course. Her hair was long and very dark-almost black-all but one

lock just above her left brow which was white as new snow. At night

when she tucked him into the little bed close beside her own in their

private room above the kitchen, he would reach out and touch that white

lock; she would smile at him and touch his face with a soft hand. Then

he would sleep, content in the knowledge that she was there, watching

over him.

Faldor's farm lay very nearly in the center of Sendaria, a misty

kingdom bordered on the west by the Sea of the Winds and on the east by

the Gulf of Cherek. Like all farmhouses in that particular time and

place, Faldor's farmstead was not one building or two, but rather was a

solidly constructed complex of sheds and barns and hen roosts and

dovecotes all facing inward upon a central yard with a stout gate at the

front. Along the second story gallery were the rooms, some spacious,

some quite tiny, in which lived the farmhands who tilled and planted and

weeded the extensive fields beyond the walls. Faldor himself lived in

quarters in the square tower above the central dining hall where his

workers assembled three times a day-sometimes four during harvest

time-to feast on the bounty of Aunt Pol's kitchen.

All in all, it was quite a happy and harmonious place. Farmer Faldor

was a good master. He was a tall, serious man with a long nose and an

even longer jaw. Though he seldom laughed or even smiled, he was kindly

to those who worked for him and seemed more intent on maintaining them

all in health and well-being than extracting the last possible ounce of

sweat from them. In many ways he was more like a father than a master to

the sixty-odd people who lived on his freeholding. He ate with

them-which was unusual, since many farmers in the district sought to

hold themselves aloof from their workers-and his presence at the head of

the central table in the dining hall exerted a restraining influence on

some of the younger ones who tended sometimes to be boisterous. Farmer

Faldor was a devout man, and he invariably invoked with simple eloquence

the blessing of the Gods before each meal. The people of his farm,

knowing this, filed with some decorum into the dining hall before each

meal and sat in the semblance at least of piety before attacking the

heaping platters and bowls of food that Aunt Pol and her helpers had

placed before them.

Because of Faldor's good heart-and the magic of Aunt Pol's deft

fingers-the farm was known throughout the district as the finest place

to live and work for twenty leagues in any direction. Whole evenings

were spent in the tavern in the nearby village of Upper Gralt in minute

descriptions of the near-miraculous meals served regularly in Faldor's

dining hall. Less fortunate men who worked at other farms were

frequently seen, after several pots of ale, to weep openly at

descriptions of one of Aunt Pol's roasted geese, and the fame of

Faldor's farm spread wide throughout the district.

The most important man on the farm, aside from Faldor, was Durnik the

smith. As Garion grew older and was allowed to move out from under Aunt

Pol's watchful eye, he found his way inevitably to the smithy. The

glowing iron that came from Durnik's forge had an almost hypnotic

attraction for him. Durnik was an ordinary-looking man with plain brown

hair and a plain face, ruddy from the heat of his forge. He was neither

tall nor short, nor was he thin or stout. He was sober and quiet, and

like most men who follow his trade, he was enormously strong. He wore a

rough leather jerkin and an apron of the same material. Both were

spotted with burns from the sparks which flew from his forge. He also

wore tight-fitting hose and soft leather boots as was the custom in that

part of Sendaria. At first Durnik's only words to Garion were warnings

to keep his fingers away from the forge and the glowing metal which came

from it. In time, however, he and the boy became friends, and he spoke

more frequently.

"Always finish what you set your hand to," he would advise. "It's bad

for the iron if you set it aside and then take it back to the fire more

than is needful."

"Why is that?" Garion would ask.

Durnik would shrug. "It just is."

"Always do the very best job you can," he said on another occasion as

he put a last few finishing touches with a file on the metal parts of a

wagon tongue he was repairing.

"But that piece goes underneath," Garion said. "No one will ever see it."

"But I know it's there," Durnik said, still smoothing the metal. "If

it isn't done as well as I can do it, I'll be ashamed every time I see

this wagon go by-and I'll see the wagon every day."

And so it went. Without even intending to, Durnik instructed the

small boy in those solid Sendarian virtues of work, thrift, sobriety,

good manners, and practicality which formed the backbone of the society.

At first Aunt Pol worried about Garion's attraction to the smithy

with its obvious dangers; but after watching from her kitchen door for a

while, she realized that Durnik was almost as watchful of Garion's

safety as she was herself and she became less concerned.

"If the boy becomes pestersome, Goodman Durnik, send him away," she

told the smith on one occasion when she had brought a large copper

kettle to the smithy to be patched, "or tell me, and I'll keep him

closer to the kitchen."