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."