Then Mr. Turn, the blacksmith, hired me to stack logs for the fire and to haul away spent ashes. His was my favorite place to work, although it was also the hottest because he kept the forge going most of the time. But he treated me like an adult, asking my opinion about things. Sometimes he even asked me to tell him what a letter said or to summarize the village newsletter since he’d never learned to read.
Mr. Brown was the third person to take pity on my need. He allowed me to stack merchandise and to help out with the customers in his mercantile business. Mr. Brown was the owner of the marmalade cat that I admired. He kept the cat for rat and mouse patrol, but mainly the pudgy animal slept on the low counter under the cash drawer. Marmalade did not become a friend, but I enjoyed the occasional petting under the chin he permitted.
Thus, after Old Mother’s death, I began to chisel out a new beginning. And for a few years, I had a goal. I wanted to restore the shack where I was living. So, doing odd jobs allowed me to earn a few wooden boards, nails, and other materials. Thanks to Mr. Brown’s generosity, I was even able to borrow the tools I needed.
During that time, I dodged the Council, just in case they were still searching for me. I was only thirteen, and I worried that they’d insist I be supervised by a house owner. Perhaps the Council forgot about me, or, maybe, they knew that I was working with the three businessmen. I have no idea, but I was allowed to go my own way, and no one tried to apprehend me during those years.
Of course, I still returned each day to work in at least three different households. There, I did chores in an attempt to repay the people who’d taken me in during my earlier years: gardening, babysitting, cleaning, cooking or whatever they requested. I worked a total of three hours each day for them, one hour at each house unless they wanted me to manage a team sport for the village. That usually took more time than the three hours I’d mentally scheduled, but it was good for children.