mud hut man - chapter one

8/8/2019 Mud Hut Man - Chapter One

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Mud Hut Man

by Luke James

Ulf! Ulf! Get up you lazy sod!

Mom!

Cmon. Get that turnip head out of the window, see if its raining.

I roll out of my straw, away from our dog, Old Tess. My leggings are

covered in a frozen crust of dog piss. Nice and warm it was when she first

curled up with me, but the old bugger must have leaked in her sleep. I

scratch my fleas good morning and head for the window. I can hear Mom

in the darkness, struggling to get the fire going.

Ow! For fucks sake!

I trip over old Uncle Jack whos not in his usual place, propped up by the

door. Hes always propped up by the door like a useless bundle of old

shit tied up wrong. Fiddling with himself.

I get the window board down and grey light floods the hut. What a dismal

sight. The light gets up my nose and I let out a huge sneeze. No one says

bless you. I peer down at old Uncle Jack, whos lying sprawled on his

back.

Mom, Mom! I think Uncle Jacks dead. I yell.

Theres no need to yell so. Im only on the other side of the hut. Not in

the next county.


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She leaves the smoldering lumps of dung under the still cold cooking pot

and comes across to check on Uncle Jack. She gets her head down onto

his chest, one eye staring up at the hut roof, and listens.

Is he

Shush! No. I think he had one of his turns again. Smells like he shit

himself.

How can she tell?

Give me a hand get him back by the door.

Just as we get him propped up he starts to cough.

See? Mom says, Told you. hell be right as rain before we know it.

Oh good.

And talking of rain, didnt I ask you five minutes ago to get your head

out of that window and see if its raining.

But why? I ask, What difference does it make?

Dont you back chat me young man. You might be fifteen and taking up

more space that we have but I can still give you what for with this!

She brandishes the family heirloom, a dull metal ladle. I shuffle back to

the window.

Probably just them up on the battlements. Emptying the lords chamber

pots and what not. I grumble.

All the more reason to know then isnt it.

We often have to put up with rain seeping through the huts daub and

wattle but often as not the patter of water will be them up on the


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battlements, emptying the royal bedpans and chamber pots. I sometimes

wonder why no one has come up with a little shelter you could carry

around with you. Its probably because most of us are a right thick

bunch of twonks.

Our hut is one of the hundreds that cluster round the foot of

Kidderminster Castle walls. Wherever that might be. No business of mine

where I am, is it. In relation to other places I also know nothing about, I

mean. I know my place. I should do, ever since I can remember Ive had it

beaten and, on a couple of occasions, flogged into me.

Dung. Thats our familys life. We look after the royal dung heaps so the

fine lords and ladies in the castle can have pretty flowers aplenty in their

gardens. So of course, we are special. I mean compared to those poor

buggers who have to shovel and fetch it to the royal heaps. Those heaps

are our both our livelihood and our birthright and we are grateful for

them. At least, I used to be. But lately Ive been having these strange

thoughts, dreams sometimes.

But first, let me tell you about our hut. Proud of our hut we are. And

rightly so. The smoke hole in the middle of our roof is a feat of cunning in

and of itself. Built by my Uncle Jack that was, many years before I was

born, before he turned into a worthless bundle of old rags and bones.

Then theres our walls, you should see the quality of the weaving, like

baskets they are. Hardly any holes. Mind you, that does mean we dont

get as many mice, which is a shame because I am partial to a plump


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little mouse now and then. Makes a welcome change from cabbage stalks

and gruel does a nice mouse of a holy day.

Last week, our Rose announces she wants to marry to that old stable

boy, Ranulf.

But hes hes thirty or something. Dad splutters, If hes a sodding

day.

I dont care. I love him and he loves me.

And youre up the duff. I say.

And Im up the duh- Ulf!

Youre what?!! Dad roars.

Now Odo. Its about time. Mom says. Shes not a little girl any more.

Shes twelve after all. All growed up she is.

Yes, and growing by the day! I say with a smirk, that Mom knocks off

my face with her ladle.

Im just saying, Dad says, that Ranulf will likely only see another ten

years. If hes lucky. If the Black Death doesnt come back before then.


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Even though we havent had Black Death in a couple or three years

theres a lot of crossing, curtseying and muttering of the blessed name of

Saint Pustule.

You know what I always say. Dad says.

Yes, yes - the longer we go without it the more likely it is well be wiped

out by it. Mom says, You miserable old bugger.

I stare at Dad. I do love him, I suppose. Well fear might be a better word

for it. Its all a bit mixed-up. But I can't help but wonder, why is he still

alive? Hes got to be fifty or something. Bloody hell, rules is rules. And

his malicious flaunting of those rules could stand between me and an

education. Ive heard tell the friars out at Bromsgrove Abbey will

occasionally descend and pluck a naturally gifted child from the huts

and educate him. But not if they think theres even a sniff of the

unnatural about the family. Like living too long.

Id love to do all that monk stuff. Wandering around with a dirty great

wooden cross banging against my chest, the old bald spot feeling

Winters creep as I thrust both hands inside my sleeves and smile

happily at all of Gods creation. Thats me mate, smiling beatifically, with

a place guaranteed in Heaven when I die. Strolling around with a head

full of words that Id know how to write down.

Well, if shes getting married, then I want to learn how to read and

write. I blurt out.


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Mistake. Dads up across the hut, swinging that dirty, great fossilized

dung club of his at my head. I dont have time to fart, much less duck.

He catches me on the side of the face and I go flying. Right into old Uncle

Jack. Who takes this as his cue to wake up and start rubbing between

his legs. I roll away from him, groaning. My head is suddenly full of

cathedral bells.

Might as well try to teach a cabbage to sit atop a bishops shoulders and

recite the Holy Scriptures. Dad bawls down at me.

I think about telling him you only have to look at the bishops who come

to the castle to know this miracle has already happened. But I think

better of it.

Just you remember your place young man. Dad says, and goes over to

kick Uncle Jack.

I wobble up onto my feet and see Rose and Mom are over by the fire now,

muttering womens things at each other.

My place. My fucking place. On the dung heap until I become part of it.

And that fucking club of his. He calls it his badge of office, says it gets

him respect from his fellow dung wardens. Silly old sod. Nobody takes

the blindest bit of notice of him, not even the sodding blind.


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I love the blind though. Theyre entertaining. Theres nothing I love more

than to settle down and watch some poor old blind man stumble

unseeingly towards some catastrophe or other. Last winter I was lucky

enough to see one wander in front of one of our lords carriages. Made a

right old mess of him I can tell you. Hilarious! Like a Yuletide present

that was, special like. So much so, I got to thinking one day we might

somehow be able to control a whole load of blind geezers and have them

tap their way into oblivion on demand.

I swear by St. Alphonse's finger bones, sometimes I get the daftest ideas.

But thats part of why I reckon I belong in Bromsgrove Abbey. Ill bet the

good friars have all sorts of ideas in their heads that are a deal dafter

than that!

Dad strides over to the women.

And what are we supposed to do about the drot de singer? he demands.

The what of what? Rose asks.

The young lords right to come and shag you on your wedding night.

Before old Ranulf has at you. Again.

I wont do it! Rose says and crosses her arms.

I notice they rest quite handily on top of her stomach.


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Youll do it, young lady. Dad says, I wont have shame brought on this

hut.

Now Rose, Mom says, itll be alright. I mean, its not as if itll be your

first time. And those young lords well, I wouldnt mind.

They expect a virgin you know! Dad says, Get all our bleedin eads cut

orf if were bleedin lucky, he yells. Then to Mom, What do you mean,

you wouldnt mind.?

Calm down, dear. Mom says. She has a very strange smile on her face.

No one from the Castle is likely to waste a good cutting edge on the likes

of any of our necks.

Besides, I pipe up, The young lords will be so full of wine they wont

even notice if our Rose has her maidenhead.

You hush your mouth young Ulf. Mom snaps, I dont know where you

get such words, really I dont. Now, were not to worry because I have

this.

She fumbles in her rags and eventually produces a small red bag.

Its a lambs bladder full of blood. I got it off of Alf as works in the castle

abattoir.

She hands it with great solemnity to Rose.


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This is our wedding present to you and Ranulf. You know how to use it,

Im sure. And when.

Do you have any idea how much that bag is worth! Dad erupts out his

suspicious eying of Mom.

I dont care. Its my gift. I wont have our Roses happy day spoiled by us

all getting butchered.

When I think of the amount of dung that would buy. Dad moans.

See the limit of his ambition? Less vision than that old sod that walked

in front of the lords carriage.

Now then, Mom says, we have to plan the wedding. First things first,

youll need a good scrub down young lady.

But Mom, Rose wails, I had a bath just last Spring. Its only November.

Im not due another one until Yuletide.

Youll do as youre to, young lady. Youve caused quite enough trouble

already. Dad bellows.

And that is that.


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So even though its colder than a cardinals heart, its the river for Rose.

Im sure most of the village will turn out to see that, and those that dont

will hear it! Naturally, theyll keep her hair and hands covered, after all

we want to get her clean (and have a laugh) not inflame any lustful ideas

among the lads and dads.

The Lords dont like it if you stink too much when they come a-shagging

the likes of us. Well, most of them don't. Its not normal though, is it, not

smelling all nice and ripe. What I say is, theres a difference between

being nicely comfortable and stinking.

The priest tells us the Lords arent the same as us though, on account of

them coming directly from God, like the king. Us lot are just the fruits of

Adam and Eves sinful disobedience. Well, I reckon if Im supposed to be

the result of forbidden fruit, then it stands to reason Id do daft,

disobedient things and think terrible thoughts like oh, I dont know,

what if the Lords are just men like us, only they get to live longer than us

on account of they eat fresh food, with meat, and ale and wine, and slept

on beds stuffed with the feathers of our fowl. What if we only live to our

twenties, if were lucky, cos we eat cabbage and oatmeal and work from

light to dark, day after miserable fucking day our whole lives, shoveling

dung.

See? With thoughts like that, I should definitely not be soiling my tender

eleven year old hands with any dung other than my own.


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One day we learn the Lords are going to ride forth and do battle. This

usually only happens a couple of times a year and its a right pain up the

arse for us in the huts. You see, theres a general sweep by Castle

officials through the huts to gather up anything of even the slightest

value.

War is a costly business and dire indeed would be the consequences

should the Lords lose their war and the Castle come under the rule of

some other Lords. Lords with their own set of surfs and peasants, Lords

who wouldnt be needing all of us. A lot of us would get laid-off, with

sword and torch. So, woe betide anyone trying to hide anything from the

tax sweep.

Twilight is seeping like sewerage into the hut as Dad calls a family

meeting.

The tax wagon will be here in the morning. Mother, make sure we have

everything of value set out in front. Bright and early mind.

Well be leaving Uncle Jack where he is then. I say, and the dung club

catches me a friendly cuff against my ear.

You have some respect. You little sod. Thats my brother. Dad says.

No. says Mom, Jacks my brother.


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Dad looks confused. Well, whoevers sodding brother he is, you show

some sodding respect.

Ill have everything ready. Mom promises, After all, none of us wants to

be a Wally!

A year ago last Yuletide they caught my mate Alfie Scrotes old Dad,

Walter, with a small carved figure of Saint Ron, the patron saint of

turnips. When Walter insists hes carved the likeness himself from a

small piece of fossilized dung, they drag him away on two counts; hiding

valuables and stealing dung. Both capital crimes. Then again, there

arent really any other kind, are there. Half the poor buggers hanged,

drawn, and quartered have no idea why, and little difference it would

make if they did.

So, back to Alfies Dad, seeing as it was only three days to the feast of

Mickelmas they take him and use him as a Yule log in one of the

fireplaces in the Great Hall. A great honor. Alfie is comforted in his loss

by word from a kitchen dogsbody, temporarily promoted to door holder-

opener on account of an outbreak of cholera, that the sound of his old

Dads screams have for the most part been covered by the revels,

dancing, and music. He is further told that the few screams that do rise

above the sounds of merriment are in the same key as the music being

played. So at least Alfie knows that his old Dad has died with dignity and

further has been in the Great Feasting Hall with all the castle knobs,

lords and ladies all. Not many of us ever get to say that, not even about a

dead relative.


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That night I lie in the fart-decorated darkness of our hut and listen to my

family snore, grunt, and groan like beasts in their sleep. Every now and

then one of the buggers, I never can tell which one, whinnies like a

sodding horse. Gods Blood, I hate that! SBlood, I hate them! More than

that, I fear spending the rest of my life with them, becoming like them.

I have to get away. But where? And how? Running off into the forest is

no good. Full of outlaws. I dont fancy living up a tree. Im no squirrel and

anyway, knowing my luck, Id only get eaten by wolves or a bear my first

night out.

No, the only answer is to somehow get inside the Castle. The very

thought is both thrilling and impossible all at the same time. But I tell

myself over and over, there in the festering darkness, that it is the only

other place to go. I mean, Im not likely to suddenly grow wings and

sodding fly away am I.

The last time the tax wagons rolled through the huts, nigh on nine

months ago, I seem to remember one of the tax collectors looked about

my size and age. If they send the same people as last time, perhaps I can

somehow take this fuckers place, knock him out, steal his clothes. If I

can help push the tax wagon back through the Castle gates Ill be in! I lie

there, my heart hammering, my head spinning. Im sure it will work. It

has to fucking work!

By the time the tax wagon reaches our hut I have everything worked out.

It all hinges on them sending the same people they did last time. I hold


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my breath and peer through the window hole. Sure enough, there he is. I

slip round the back of the hut next to ours and set it on fire. Just as the

pandemonium reaches its height, with everybody trying to stop the hut

fire spreading to other huts, I sneak up behind the lad and lay him out

with a good wallop from the old mans dung club.

I drag him into our hut and swap my rags for his clothes. I daub his face

with fresh dung and ashes, and prop him up against old Uncle Jack,

whos fast asleep, snoring away through all the excitement. The deaf old

git.

I use couple of handfuls of rainwater/royal piss from our bucket to wash

the shit off my own face, and slip out to join the other officials busy

trying to put the fire out.

By the time its getting dark, Im further along the wall than Ive ever

been in my life. Darkness falls and the boss calls out something I dont

understand at all. I think it might have been that there French I hear tell

they talk inside the Castle. Anyway whatever he says, everyone relaxes

for a few minutes, so I do the same.

We turn the tax wagon and begin to push it toward the wall. Peering

round the back, I see a huge pair of double doors set in the wall. Studded

with great iron rivets they are. The boss pulls an enormous key from

under his tunic. He struggles, grunting and twisting the key, metal

grates on metal. Two lads lean their shoulders against the doors and


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push them open. The rest of us shove the cart in through the doors. The

doors creak like crows on their hinges, then slam shut behind me.

I am inside the Castle.

mud hut man - chapter one

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