carried along by the river of dreams.

Barrett · 07-18-2011, 04:30 PM

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This post spans roughly a week, thus why it's super ridiculous. #1159

Barrett's paws fell light and tentatively on the Crimson Dreams soil, as if the very earth might open up beneath him without warning, eager to swallow him whole. He had good reason to be wary—he was (yet again) missing longer than intended, and he'd left a broken vase swept under the carpet, so to speak. But no stern rebukes or questioning faces rushed to greet him, only silence, and the further he went, the more his confidence grew. He came to realise what he already knew: he had gotten away with it. Somehow it hadn't felt completely real until just now. What a mad world they lived in! He found it... positively delightful.

He rolled freely through Cottontail Valley, encouraging the pack's scent to mingle with his own. He lingered around the Manor briefly before marching onward to the serene shores of Rabbit Lake. He paddled through the still waters and sought refuge on one of the closest islets for the night. The steady thrum of insects, the hushed lap of the water against the land, and the countless stars prickling through the clear black night lulled him into a restful slumber. He had half a mind to set up shop here permanently, but no—that wouldn't do. It was too inconvenient. He'd abandoned his belongings on the mainland and he wasn't sure if any wintertime ice would form thick enough to make a suitable bridge in the colder months ('cause he certainly wasn't going for a casual dip then).

Nevertheless, the small island proved to be an adequate pit stop, and once he awoke, he was sure to catch a fish to fuel him through the next day. He returned to the shore, collected his things, and wandered on. He moved with the slow, thoughtful gait and meandering path of a soul searching for some unknown prize. He passed by several of Crimson Dreams' more prominent landmarks, but he didn't heed a single one. If nothing else, he knew they wouldn't have what he was looking for. He sought privacy and comfortable distance; he sought a place uniquely his own. He looked high and low for the better part of the day, and still he did not find it. When a summer storm rolled through that night, the weary and travel-worn wolf found refuge under the leaky roof of an unassuming covered bridge. His Place had found him.

Yes—though this bridge wasn't in tip-top shape, it could easily be salvaged with some will power and a little elbow grease. The next day, he returned to the Manor. It was the first time he'd been inside the expansive building since rejoining nearly two months ago, and it felt a little strange to push open that heavy door and walk within those walls. He understood it to be a communal place—the abundance of fresh, unique scents made that clear—but he still breathed a sigh of relief when nobody seemed to notice his entrance. He slipped through the common room into Ehno's workshop, stuffed some supplies into his bag, grabbed a bucket of nails, and left a sloppily penned note in their stead:

Ehno,

Borrowed some things; I'll have 'em back within a few days.
Thanks again!
Barrett

PS – Did you see the pole lathe in the village south of the lake?

With that, he stole away from the estate and back into the surrounding wilderness.

The youth made fast work of the simpler, ground level repairs. He nailed down loose boards and removed any which had to be replaced entirely. He crafted a simple mortar from clay-rich mud, dry grasses, and water from the creek; he then used this primitive cement to seal off any cracks in the foundation. Before long, it became evident he would need more materials. Fetching fresh timber was back breaking work (and always a little sad—Barrett hated the idea of taking the life of anything, if not for food), and so he recovered beams and planks from a nearby cottage that had collapsed in on itself during the past winter. He found it easiest to rig up a rope to one of the larger pieces of plywood and use it as a pallet. When he had several loaded with supplies (including, in a remarkable bout of foresight, plenty of spare shingles), he took advantage of the halfling's workhorse-like strength and hauled them back to the construction site. Needless to say, he slept well that night.

With the scavenged lumber on hand, the next two days went smoother. He fixed the new boards into place and began to reinforce the vertical beams. He sawed several pieces of wood to matching lengths and fabricated a ladder so he could access the roof. Several panels had to be replaced and reshingled; it was awkward trying to finagle the hefty planks around by himself, but he refashioned the ropes he used to pull the pallets earlier into an impromptu pulley system. While the roof was gutted he had better access to the rafters, too. The sharp sound of his hammering could be heard throughout the daylight hours, and only when his arm could take no more did he bother to rest. All of this work was using a lot more hardware than he first anticipated—he realised he'd have to swing by Halifax eventually to replace the nails. Luckily he had taken only one of several pails; undoubtedly there was no rush.

This was fortunate, indeed, because by the fourth day of work he was beginning to run out of steam, youthful fortitude or no. He stuck to minor touch-ups he overlooked on the first pass and mostly allowed his body to rest. The boy even managed to snag several small fish from the underlying stream, but mostly he lay on his back, staring up at the criss-crossing beams of the rafters. For all intents and purposes, his task was complete. Nobody could call the old structure pristine, but it was none too shabby, either. Were he more artistically inclined or concerned with aesthetics, he might paint the “new” woodwork to match the old—but he realised he liked how unassuming the structure looked. Despite the ruckus, nobody had bothered him here in days (which was exactly what he wanted). Even so, it would be better if he could hide away in the rafters, he mused. How did the saying go? Out of sight; out of mind.

His dreams that night inspired him. He would build a loft! There was still enough material left—and now the broad pieces he used as pallets could become a part of the finished product. Unfortunately, they were too cumbersome to position single-handedly, even with the aid of his pulleys. Damn. His ears fell back and he peered down the dusty roadway stretching in either direction. For the first time, he wished somebody might happen upon him and lend a helping hand. He huffed softly and leaned against one of the support beams. Now what?

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