Brickmaker
It's a long journey ahead. At least it'll feel long. Not a single road between here and the western frontiers, and the homesteads are so few and far between. Makes sense they can afford to hire me to go there, 'cause I can't for the life of me imagine the oh-so-high-and-mighty tax man making the trip through the woods. I'm bringing my boy, my trusty partner in clay. It'll do him some good to get out there and see the world. So they'll be paying for two. And it's a good investment. The work we put in this year, they can do on their own next year. Give it a decade and the humble homestead could well be a thriving community, not built with tiny log shacks prone to rot, but with sturdy red bricks.
Got four new molds for the job. Iron banded, so they won't deform. Saints willing, they'll last me a few years. I'm hoping the homesteaders can provide a decent tub or two, 'cause the Greymarsh will dry before I haul mine out there. Won't have to bring a shovel, knowing they've been digging and hauling clay for weeks. We can travel light. Only packing the basics.
A mound of clay rests at the far end of a table. In this arid and scorching weather, we've had to cover our long workstation with a makeshift roof fashioned from cheese- and pudding cloth to get some shade. I would gladly offer my shirt to escape the stench, but even under cover, I dread the sunburn I'd get whilst making fifteen hundred bricks every day. Discomfort aside, we've established an efficient production line, two men working at every station. Two lads sifting sticks and stones from the clay, while the family foremen fashion the clay into loaves. My boy and I sanding and tossing them into the molds, scraping away the excess before passing them to the children, who tap the fresh bricks out for drying. This is our life for two weeks at least.
Six homes on the frontier. Four months of hard work. Two months of nothing but traversing the wilderness. Now, full circle, we stand where we started. Our handiwork, the sun-dried bricks, are ready to meet their fiery baptism. They've stored them properly, and lost no more than 250 to the weather. Building the kilns takes time. Stack the bricks wrong and they won't get hot enough. Worse yet, they might crack from the heat. Nevertheless, this final task feels light compared to the mountainous work we've conquered to reach this point. All we've got to do now is watch the fires through the night, and we may as well be drunk while we do so. Filling the air with songs and laughter to keep the shadows at bay. For every job a brickmaker completes deserves a feast in the end.
Got four new molds for the job. Iron banded, so they won't deform. Saints willing, they'll last me a few years. I'm hoping the homesteaders can provide a decent tub or two, 'cause the Greymarsh will dry before I haul mine out there. Won't have to bring a shovel, knowing they've been digging and hauling clay for weeks. We can travel light. Only packing the basics.
A mound of clay rests at the far end of a table. In this arid and scorching weather, we've had to cover our long workstation with a makeshift roof fashioned from cheese- and pudding cloth to get some shade. I would gladly offer my shirt to escape the stench, but even under cover, I dread the sunburn I'd get whilst making fifteen hundred bricks every day. Discomfort aside, we've established an efficient production line, two men working at every station. Two lads sifting sticks and stones from the clay, while the family foremen fashion the clay into loaves. My boy and I sanding and tossing them into the molds, scraping away the excess before passing them to the children, who tap the fresh bricks out for drying. This is our life for two weeks at least.
Six homes on the frontier. Four months of hard work. Two months of nothing but traversing the wilderness. Now, full circle, we stand where we started. Our handiwork, the sun-dried bricks, are ready to meet their fiery baptism. They've stored them properly, and lost no more than 250 to the weather. Building the kilns takes time. Stack the bricks wrong and they won't get hot enough. Worse yet, they might crack from the heat. Nevertheless, this final task feels light compared to the mountainous work we've conquered to reach this point. All we've got to do now is watch the fires through the night, and we may as well be drunk while we do so. Filling the air with songs and laughter to keep the shadows at bay. For every job a brickmaker completes deserves a feast in the end.
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