“In Poitiers I had the opportunity to examine a wooden leg of extraordinary worth. Nothing like those sticks that cripples tie to their stumps in order to walk around like snails.” He measured the diameter of the stump again and then measured a piece of wood. “The leg I speak of was a miracle of engineering, an articulated device that they said belonged to an Arab general who died in the terrible battle. Fortunately a monk pulled it from the body and kept it at the abbey.” He measured Olaf’s good leg and transposed the measurements to the wood again. Then he pulled out a strange mechanism that seemed to Theresa like some kind of knee joint. “It took me two days to make this, so I hope it works.”
Olaf let Izam do his work while Lucille led away the children, who were fighting with each other over whatever pieces of wood they could get their hands on. Theresa was transfixed.
Izam chose a cylindrical piece of wood, adjusted it at one end to the wooden joint, and positioned it beside the good leg. Then he cut the other end until it was level with Olaf’s heel.
“Now the thigh.”
He took a wooden pot and pushed it onto the stump. As soon as he let go, it fell to the floor, but he picked it up as if nothing had happened and continued carving into it until it fit the limb. Then he removed it to empty it a little more and line the inside with a piece of cloth and some leather.
“Right. I think that’s it.” He pulled the socket over the stump and then secured it in place with some belts that he had brought with him. Then he calculated the length of the wood he would have to cut for the space between the socket and the knee mechanism.
“How does it work?” Olaf asked.
“I don’t know if it will.”
He helped the slave up and Olaf stood, wobbling slightly with his weight resting on the wooden limb.
“The foot still needs to go on, but I need to see if the spring holds. Now try to walk.”
Olaf stepped forward unsteadily, holding on to Izam, but to his surprise the wooden leg bent at the knee and after the stride it straightened again as if by magic.
“It has a slat of yew,” Izam explained, “the wood used to make good bows. When it receives the weight it flexes, allowing for articulation. When it reaches its limit, it then returns to its initial position and you can take your next stride. See these slots?” He pointed at four holes drilled into the knee. “With this pin you can select the amount of resistance. And if you take it out,” he said as he demonstrated, “the mechanism will move freely, so you will be able to ride with the leg bent.”
Olaf looked at him in disbelief. He was hesitant to try walking without the crutch, but Izam encouraged him. After a couple of attempts he managed to cross the room. When he reached Lucille’s arms, the woman burst into tears as though he had really grown a leg.
They spent some time adjusting the mechanisms and commenting on the simplicity of the joint. Izam explained that, using slats of different thicknesses, he could calibrate the flexibility and resistance.
Then they went outside to test out the wooden leg. Olaf found that he could walk on stone without difficulty, but when he tested his footing on the fields, the leg sank into the soil.
“We’ll attach a foot to solve the problem,” Izam promised.
On the way back to the hut, Lucille offered Izam the rabbit she had stewed for Olaf and the boys. But Izam realized it was the only food they had, so he declined. As he whittled the foot, the young engineer had to admit to himself that he was going through all this trouble for the slave family because of his interest in Theresa. He was intrigued by how a girl so young and pretty could be capable of undertaking a task of such a magnitude, and the fact was, now that he really thought about it, from the very first moment he met her, he had tried hard to please her and be near her.
He tested the wooden foot for the last time before fixing it to the end of the leg. Once attached, he turned it backward and forward to make sure it wouldn’t jam. He explained to Olaf that the foot could move freely, but if it bothered him, he could remove it himself.
Then they discussed the plow.
Izam mentioned the advantages of an iron plowshare and the use of a moldboard. Timber plows like Olaf’s brake easily, he explained, and hardly penetrate the land. As for the moldboard, it would push aside the churned up earth and leave a wide furrow, aerating the land so that the seed takes a firm hold. Spring would be the sowing season, so they would have to be quick if they wanted to finish plowing the fields.
Olaf told him that as soon as he had finished plowing, he would start to clear the land that was still wild.
After praising the cleanliness of the hut and the remarkable channel that supplied it with water, Izam took his leave. He didn’t say that he would return, but Theresa hoped he would.
By the second week, Olaf was certain that his new leg was far superior to his old crutch. In fact, he was so pleased with it that, despite the chafing that it caused on his stump, he wore it for several days without taking it off. He had learned to drive the plow into the earth by supporting himself with his real leg and using the rigidity of the artificial one to balance himself as he pushed. Sometimes, when he had to do heavy work, he would insert the pin to jam the knee, which would make better use of his strength.
Lucille and the children were happy. And Olaf was even happier.
At dawn they rose to plow the fields. Olaf would open up the soil and then Lucille would sow the rye, while the boys ran behind them scaring off the birds that tried to eat the seeds. After the sowing, they covered the furrows with earth that had been broken up with a mallet. In the afternoon, once they had finished their work, Theresa and Helga would travel from town to bring some implement, food, or old fabric with which to make clothes for the young lads.
Lucille and Helga soon became good friends. They spoke tirelessly of children, pregnancy, stews, and the gossip from the town. Sometimes Helga had a feeling of importance, ordering Lucille to sort out the hut.
Though she devoted less time to it, Theresa continued to help Alcuin copy and translate documents. She went early to the scriptorium and stayed there until midday, transcribing whatever texts the monk entrusted to her. However, Alcuin had moved from his calligraphy work on to theological matters that Theresa hardly participated in, which made her think that the day would come when she would no longer be needed.
Sometimes various haughty-looking priests visited the scriptorium, entering without warning and sitting with Alcuin. They were Romans and they were part of the papal delegation that always accompanied Charlemagne. Theresa decided to call them “the beetles,” because they were always dressed in black. When the beetles came to the scriptorium, she had to leave the room.
“The religious men who come to the scriptorium… are they monks too?” she inquired one day.
“No,” said Alcuin with a smile. “They might have been once, but now they’re clerics of the Roman chapter.”
“Monasteries… chapters… it’s all the same thing isn’t it?”