Wisps of smoke rose aimlessly from the low chimney that could only be seen from our dormitory window. I knew I could not go alone Peter would have to go too. We said nothing just looked nodded and smiled.
The pathway by the side of Matrons block, was hidden from view, by a thorn bush. The cut thorns left scattered on the path to act as a deterrent. But we had a weapon, Shoes. All the children ran around shoeless in the summer months. In winter cast off sandals were issued, it was not cold enough for sandals but too cold for bare feet. Peter was the only child with shoes, large ugly bulky black leather. The shoes were attached to the callipers for his legs, keeping them in place. He moved slowly over the ground pushing the odd thorn twig with his crutch or shuffling them aside with his shoes, many thorns were impaled the soles. I followed slowly treading only where he led. Soon we were in the woods amidst the soft leaf litter and buoyant grass. The structure was in a clearing, hidden on the house side, by a lush green hedge.
It seemed deserted. The woodshed was not just one structure, there was a number of angular buildings conjoined. The walls were wood and the roof either thatched, wood tiled or bark. A rustic disturbing place that had no windows just half doors. No one was around so we went closer, and opened the top section of a door. The interior basked in a red glow from an oil drum brazier. Above the brazier was a large funnel that drew smoke into the metal chimney. Logs were piled against the walls; the large circular saw dominated the space with a splitting area for long logs beside it. There was large odd shaped wooded block at the other side for chopping. On further inspection it was the root of a tree that had been felled to create space, for the ramshackle building.
Should we go in?
We had come this far why not, but then we heard a sound, behind us, we turned around to see the tall stooping man looking at us. He was close, we could smell him but he did not move, as if waiting for us to run. Peter could not run, so I would not. We looked defiantly back at the man as if right was on our side, which it was not. He blinked first; ignoring us he opened the door pushing us aside and walked in. He was not that scary, he said nothing, did not tell us to go away, so we did not. We stood outside the building looking in. Ignoring us he opened the Hessian sack he was carrying, took out a dead rabbit, and began to skin, and prepare it. We watched. After he had completed his work, he placed the meat into a pot, collected water from a barrel with a ladle, and placed it directly on the fire, after removing a large kettle. The innards of the rabbit he wrapped in moss and put them on the fire. The smell was revolting. We continued watching. He tilted his head in a gesture we took as “ enter if you must”. He indicated for us to sit, so we pulled up a log each and sat opposite, feeling the warmth of the fire. The flickering flames lit up the features of the man. He wore a floppy felt hat with a cloth underneath that covered his shoulders. His face was distorted, his left eye half closed, and the skin on his face stretched as if pulled at the corner of his eye. He had facial hair on the right of his face the left side was smooth and shiny. He saw us looking. He poked the fire then busied himself with making a hot drink. After he made this, he removed the hat and cloth. We watched but said nothing, or made any sound of alarm. The left side of his face was badly burnt, with twisted skin from below the neck unseen, to three fingers wide, above the shrivelled ear. Grey hair covered the rest of his head as normal. He drank from his mug. We watched. After a while, drinking and watching, he passed us the mug to drink. It was hot with a strange grassy smell, more a hay meadow than tea. Small bits of stick floated on the top, but we drank filtering the floating debris with out lips. It tasted sweet and muddy. When the meat was cooked he placed some on a wooden bowl for himself and a wooden board for us. We ate and drank but did not talk. He looked at us and we looked at him, and for the first time in years I felt safe. After a while he started working and we rolled the logs for him to split. I say we, but only I was working Peter could not bend enough.
After what seemed like loads of chopping, the woodsman stopped and looked at Peter. He circled his fingers indicating for Peter to turn around, he pulled his shirt up over Peter's head and traced the curvature of Peter’s spine with his finger, then pulled down the shirt. He measured the distance from under Peter’s arm to the ground on one side and then on the other. They were not the same lengths. Peter had only one short crutch. No one except this strange silent man, noticed or cared. That was the first time we saw the woodsman. It was not the last. Many days we escaped, to the house in the wood, to help. Peter had new crutches made that were adjustable with holes and pegs. No one noticed his crutches, or the changes. It never occurred to any of those in charge, that Peter had one short crutch but now had two.
