The sharp bitter smell of wood spirits filled the air. Even with the windows open the heavy smell of pine oil was considerably strong in the cool spring breeze. The floor had been swept, and the dishes cleaned. All the windows were thrown open for the spring air. Even the ragged thread-worn carpets and bed sheets hung outside on wooden racks to air in the cleanliness of spring.

The only thing of note was to refinish the furniture.

Of the few things Hugh had managed to learn in the sprint to prepare for spring was the preparation of wood spirits. Outside of Village walls within the hills to the north the village men had dug a great pit, lined with rocks. Here while clearing the land they had dumped the trunks and the saplings of their work. Having covered the clearing with moss and peat from the river-side they set it ablaze, smoldering the wood for its oils to drip down along the channel in the hillside until it dripped out the far end for it to be collected. For the several old farmers this was a regular practice, it had for them merely been a way to make extra money. But for the future it was decided it would be necessary for their survival.

This was the simple trade of tar making. The patriarch of the house had taught him where and how to use use it. In finishing furniture to give it a protected sheen. Or on boats to prevent the wood from water logging. If men were to fish they would need tar, else the wood would become soaked and they would sink.

And now he stood leaning over the table, applying with a filthy rag a fresh coat of varnish onto the rough ax and knife carved furniture. A mask of burlap wrapped around his face sealed his nose to the offensive odor as he vigorously applied the crude varnish besides the window. He'd gotten through the chairs, it was the table's turn.

He ran the rag over the scratches. Filling the knots, the cuts, and the gouges with the watery oil. The wood soaked it in, going dark as he went. When the door opened he stopped.

He looked up to the front door to see the wife of the family standing in the doorway. A simple gray and white dress hid her wide figure. Splotches of clay and dirt caked the front and bottom, a sign she had been working.

“Hello.” she said nervously, stepping inside. She was a gentle woman in her homeliness. A round youthful face watched the monk, her apprehensive blue eyes darting from he to the varnish.

“Good morn'.” Hugh politely greeted, lowering his head to continue refinishing the table.

“You know, my husband would normally do that outside...” she whispered, dismayed.

Hugh looked up, shocked. “Oh, I'm terribly sorry,” he stuttered, “Ms. Valouis. You see, I would have if I could carry it out the door...” he explained timidly, stepping back and nervously wringing the cloth between his hands.

“No, no.” she sighed, “I guess it's alright.” she sighed, putting down her purse of gardening equipment down by the door. She looked over the house floor, and its over all cleanliness.

“You really did a good job.” Ms. Valouis complimented. But her fervor was subdued, still shy.

“Thank you, I had a good day to myself to do it.”

“I'm sure, your honor. Have you seen my children?” she asked.

Hugh shook his head, “I imagined they might still be out playing.”

“Oh it's fair.” she answered with a soft breath, “Mr. McTrenkel, you've done some good work. Should you take the rest of the day off to catch your breath?”

“I would m'lady. But I'm hardly done.” he said defensively, “Though if I could finish the table at least.”

“I suppose you should.” the wife obliged, “You've done good, I don't want you exhausting yourself.”

“Don't worry, if I haven't died yet then it has not been my time.” Hugh humbly replied, turning back to his work.