Storytime: German Woodshop

I thought I would share with you today a memory I have of a past life when several of my family members and I incarnated/stepped down in Germany. This is a very fond memory, and one of those that can come through clear as day as if it was yesterday. While I can remember everything, there are some moments that my soul hangs on to like a holocapture. She likes to look at them from time to time. (Sometimes these moments come from events that haven't happened yet in this lifetime, and it can get a little weird.)

The Setting

Bavaria, Germany. Earth year 1436. I lived in a village called Hildegarten, which means "Battle Garden". There are many places in Germany with "hildegard" or something of the like. I specifically remember this was the name of this village. I was in the foothills of the Alps, close enough that I could see them in the distance sometimes, but not so close that I could easily travel to them. My name at the time was Auda.

My life started out fairly straight forward. I lived on a farm with my parents where we kept goats and pigs. At 12 I was married off to a man in Munich, so I traveled to the "big city" as I saw it. I remember looking at all the houses clustered so tightly together, so tall overhead. So many people everywhere. Not many gardens, except where the rich people lived. My husband was a textile weaver who was a friend/associate of my parents and had lost his wife some years before. She had bore him no children, so I was sent over to do the job. At least that was the intention.

During that era, marriage was never done with love in mind. It was always political in some capacity. This is the most vexing part of incarnating on Earth, especially if you bring soulmates/counterparts with you. It was almost always a guarantee that I would get married off before I could find my counterpart. So annoying. No matter how we arranged things, how carefully we coordinated with other souls, inevitably, I'd find myself not with the one I intended for that lifetime. Sometimes, it would work out correctly. This lifetime was not one of those.​

My marriage was not a bad one, though. He wasn't a bad man by any means. He just wasn't the one I wanted. But I'm dutiful and I did my duty as requested. Life was fairly harmonious. In my spare time, I'd carve pipes for my husband and his friends or other small wooden accessories. I developed a bit of a talent for it. We had a child, a boy, who died of cholera when he was 2. That was not uncommon for the day, but still sad.

One day, my husband made friends with a new woodworker in town. He was a man of excellent skill and prowess who noticed my talent and asked if he could apprentice me. I was 16 at the time. It was unusual for a woman to be taken as an apprentice, but I was so good at what I did, my husband thought it'd be a good idea if I helped make us a little richer with my skills. So I was apprenticed out.

The woodworker's name was Kirilŭ. He had a wife named Greta. I loved Greta and Kirilŭ. They rapidly became my closest friends, and I'd spend a lot of time at their house. Greta was always cooking something wonderful, and she taught me a lot of her recipes. I felt like they already knew me, and sometimes, they'd look at me a little strangely. Sometimes, they'd look a little strange themselves. I couldn't explain it, just sometimes their eyes would look a little different or their faces...sometimes it felt like they were pretending to be someone else and I was seeing through their masks. Not that what I saw was alarming, but I wondered if they wore a mask why they did so.

One time, I called Kirilŭ "Kiri" for short, and he laughed so hard he almost fell out of his chair. I asked him what was so funny, but he just kept grinning every time he'd stop laughing and look at me. "Just Kir if you must," I remember him saying. I never found out what was so funny (of course, you can see yourselves why).

Kirilŭ shortly thereafter took on a second apprentice named Mikero. I remember him introducing me to him, and my whole world stopped when I looked at Mikero. I think the same thing happened to him, because we just stood there staring at each other. I remember thinking, "There you are. I found you!" We both got a long very well as apprentices. And then more than very well. Kirilŭ and Greta never said anything to anyone about us beyond professional statements. In fact, sometimes they'd run interference without us asking.

This all leads up to the specific memory...

The Memory

Kirilŭ, Mikero, and I are sitting in Kir's study. We're on the first floor of their three-story house in Munich. The floor is hard-packed, oiled earth as all first floors are at the time. The study is to the left of a short hallway when you walk in the front door. There's another door to the right, across from the study, that's a storeroom and entrance to the root cellar underneath. At the end of the hall are six steps of oak up to the kitchen. When you walk in the door, you can always see the mica window in the ktichen that looks out into the shared herb garden between the house behind this one. To the left of the kitchen short steps is a longer staircase that goes to the living areas. I remember two bedrooms, and then one more staircase up to the attic at the top of the house.

The house always smells like Greta's cooking or a particular blend of spices. Cardamom, clove, cinnamon, and nutmeg. I didn't know some of those spices at the time, because they didn't exist in Germany. But I know them for what they are now. How did Greta and Kirilŭ get them? One of the many curiosities about my dearest friends. They would often have things in their home that looked...unique. Whenever Mikero or I would ask about them, they'd hastily put them away and brush off the explanation. Out of respect for our friends and master, we did not pry. Though Mikero and I were sorely tempted to and sometimes dared each other to go looking around.

Still, that smell is something I associate with Greta particularly. And whenever I smell that particular mixture now, I'm transported right back to this moment.

Kir is sitting on his "throne" as we like to call it. It's a gorgeous masterpiece of woodworking, a chair he made for himself. Kirilŭ always liked to keep the best pieces for himself, and he often encouraged us to do the same. "No, don't sell that one. Take that one for you." Anyway, I sewed up a goat hide seat for him, and Mikero made a footstool to match it. This was all done for Kirilŭ's birthday one year.

He's sitting across from Mikero and I, smoking a pipe. This is a habit he picked up shortly after apprenticing us, and sometimes I see Greta giving him a look that says, "That's not good for you." I am often puzzled by this sentiment, because as far as I know smoking keeps the bad spirits out of your lungs. Keeps you healthy. The light from the fire is making his beard and hair look much redder than usual, and his green eyes are almost glowing in his head. It's one of those moments where he looks a little "strange". And he's looking at us a little strangely. Almost nostalgic.

Mikero is to my right, and to the right of him is a stone fireplace. Each of us has a ceramic cup of beer. It's been a long day of work, and we're taking a break. I can smell Greta cooking something in the kitchen. It smells like minced meat pastries, which are my favorite of hers. Mikero and I are sitting in chairs Mikero made, though I did some of the scrollwork on the arms as practice. We're holding hands. Something we can only do when we're at Kir's house. We cannot do this in public or anywhere else. We always have to be careful of our affections for one another. (Wow, that just made me sad to type. Excuse me a minute.)

​(Okay.)

Behind Kir is a table with a large, green, leather-bound book. It's a rare commodity in those days to have a book like that, but it's his business ledger and he's meticulous about the keeping of it. Mostly, though he's meticulous about the book itself rather than the actual ledger part. Sometimes we get to write the entries for orders. There are other scrolls stored in cubbies, and these are mostly notes and sketches.

To my left high up in the wall is another mica window, this one of lower grade quality as it's level with the street. It lets a little bit of natural light into the room so it's not completely dark during the day.

One of us makes a joke and we laugh. Mikero starts telling a story, and Greta comes down the steps and into the room. She has a platter of minced meat pastries. She puts it down on a low table in between us and takes her own seat next to Kirilŭ.


There are many variations of this memory. Sometimes we're sitting in different places. Sometimes there's no fire. Sometimes it's raining. Sometimes it's dark. But it's always the four of us sitting in fellowship. It's one of the memories I cherish the most, and I am quite blessed to have found all of my friends in this memory this lifetime. Greta and Kirilŭ's (not their current names) quarters, by the way, smell just like their house in Germany did. The smell comes from a little tree that grows on Erra.

I thank you for your time. Adiamas.

--Kyriel