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The chisel dug across the plain, steep quakes of pale, flabby country rippling underneath. The cliffs and depths twisted every way round, sometimes bunching in creased formation, sometimes some grisly vent disgorged sticky red fruits and left little lakes of jelly. This was rare, though, and most every tap found its way to buckle and chastise its terrain by the steady beat of him holding the hammer.
You raised your head from down level with the body, satisfied. The better part of an hour spent here with hammer and blunt chisel, pounding muscle beneath the skin, encouraging it to lose shape and form so it would be easier to extract, to manipulate, to work. The noise of the <span class="mu-i">pèstal</span> swirled around you, though you sat at the eye of the pitch and yaw. Last night had been the beginning, but today the greater share was being done. Frames broken down, chests sorted, wagons accounted for, tarpaulins, carpets, blankets, silverware, tables, toys, tools, clothing, and drapery all packed and organized in a format at least mildly recognizable in case of emergency. The food, the meat, the feed and livestock, the chickens, the leeks and onions, the carrots and beans and the great earthen jars of stock and soup and the butter and treacle and fat. Each family’s tent and their belongings, their money if they had it, their treasures and heirlooms and things that were worth nothing but for the memories engraved there on.
