A/N: This chapter really isn't very interesting, but an apprentice does need to clean before the fun starts.

Tejana: Oh I'm sure he could've, but then we would've missed out on some plotline.

Muha: I don't know... Halt's face can be kinda off-putting.

PS: This chapter was four pages longer, but I cut the rest off. You'll get that tomorrow. Besides, it's one of my favorites!

Chapter 6

I sat on the porch steps, and watched Halt shoot arrow after arrow into the tree with the hay target attached. Each shot made me jump, as I heard a solid thwack into the trunk. And another solider is down, I thought, and cringed, unwillingly imagining the gut-wrenching cry of another solider dying. My resentment grew, and a scowl became a permanent look on my face. I saw Halt glance at me quickly, and he changed his target.

Shooting and arrow into the branches, an arrow pin itself through an apple then fell to the ground- the deadly tip, dripping with juice. I forced myself to stand and move toward the arrow. It lay on the foliage, and I frowned, picked it up, turned it over once, and handed it to Halt.

I could see his eyes in the shadow of his cowl. A deep brown-almost black, was the color of his irises-indifferent, yet understanding eyes. Handing him the arrow, I saw his eyes gleam for a quick moment, then it faded.

Snatching the arrow from my hand, and the fletching brushed lightly against my fingers. I looked at the gray feathers, in addition to the black shaft and tried to conceal my thought of the poor bird, who had been killed unceremoniously, to create a weapon of death.

I looked back up into Halt's eyes, and we stared at each other. A crunch sounded, and Halt pulled the arrow from the apple, and I flinched involuntarily. Taking a big bite of the apple, he stared at me for another moment, then turned away, tromping into the woods, with his bow and quiver, leaving me with my thoughts.

Around dusk, Halt approached me. I was sitting in the dirt, with a stick in my hand, drawing an abstract picture of a flower, trying to pass the time. I had been there for the whole day and nothing happened.

"Girl," he grunted, and I looked up. "Clean the house," he said abruptly and walked away. I stared at him for a quick second, then finally comprehended the words. Wordlessly, I walked into the house, muttering, "What does he think I am, his slave?" Yet, I obeyed (Mainly because the idea of a mad Halt scared me even more than passive Halt.)

I swept the bedrooms, and moved the dirt into the wide living space then swept the porch, throwing all the dust onto the path leading up to the cabin. I ran a wet rag I found in the rain barrel along the railings and the shutters- both sides. I dusted the mantle, made the beds, put some bright flowers in an old cup, and stared at the horrific pile of dishes in the wash bin.

Animal bones littered the area, and a bucket of stagnant water sat beside the pile and a bar of soap was still in its packaging. Shuddering in disgust, I walked outside to the water barrel and wanted to scream in frustration-it was completely empty. Resolving to fill the stupid thing in the morning, I ran to the river, hoping to make it to back to the house, before all the natural light was gone.

The water was ice cold, despite the warm humid weather. Standing on the firm grassy banks I got my knees, and-not for the first time that day, marveled at the convince of my new clothes. The bucket was soon full and in no time I was back at the cabin.

"Now I can get to work." I put the leftover food pieces into an old canvas sack, that I had now designated the "Old, gross, leftover bag". Unwrapping the soap, I looked at the door for the millionth time. "No Halt," I muttered, then added, "Thank goodness." I scrubbed dishes, then tilted the bucket, letting the water slosh out, then repeated the process.

The wash bin itself, was slanted toward one side, and a small wooden pipe extended underneath. There was a hole on both sides and was a really ingenious idea, I thought. As I would pour water from the bucket onto the dishes, the soiled water, would then move into the pipe, and into another bucket. I thought it was really neat, and I got to thinking. ("A dangerous thing." Oh be quiet, Halt!)

Since Redmont feif is one the oldest, the Ranger cabin is also probably the oldest cabin. So there is no pump for the water. I was resolved to change that. Stacking the dishes along the side of the wash bin, I ran outside and grabbed a few sticks. Fumbling around in the dark, I finally found something suitable, and ran back inside, the night life noises were completely unfamiliar.

The door creaked noisily open, and I walked to the table, sitting in one of the uncomfortable chairs. I laid the sticks on the table, and grabbed the bucket, measuring their height. When the sticks were finally adjusted in the correct position, I guess you could say that was when I began snooping.

I needed wire. What I was planning to do was to fashion a frame around the bucket, and then attach a hook at the bottom. String would wind around the top support, and connect to another two pieces of wood, crossing each other. The string would be attached to the bottom part of the cross and the top portion was where you would wind the twine up. That was just the first part.

I also wanted to make a small sluice, so the water would pour out of the bucket, and not spill all over the counter, but it was too late to find any supplies for that.

Looking in Halt's room, I only found a book, and an oil lamp. Suspecting Grampa was one for secret cubby-holes, I knocked on the wooden plank walls. I found a hollow spot. Kicking the spot harshly, I heard a hollow echo and the piece fell with a bang. I checked the door for Halt.

The spot was empty, but there was an outline of a box in the dust, although it was faded. Something had been moved a while ago. Ditching the cubby-hole, I moved into the main room, suspecting a false plank to be not far beyond the gristly Ranger. Walking on the floor, I slowly moved across them, and tapped each one with my toe, listening to the slight vibrato of each.

Upon coming to the middle of the room, I felt a very slight change in pitch-very slight. "He's super good," I muttered and grabbed, the flat, steel bladed fire poker,and pried the board up. (I had used the very same technique myself. Lilly showed me I'm not some goody little two shoes you know!) Dust billowed, and I made it disperse and I waved my hand back and forth. On the dirt floor lay several old maps, a belt, an old, dried flower, an extra set of knives, strikers, and a northseeker.

(Okay, I admit it, maybe I wasn't really looking for a hook, wire, and twine...but you have to admit, it made a great excuse to snoop around.) I stuffed everything back into the hole and put the plank on, but made sure the positions were exact. Now, I actually started my hunt for twine, wire, and a hook, which was easily found in a cupboard. I took an oil lamp from the mantle, and lit it, setting it by my work station.

Tying the sticks together was easy enough, and the prototype worked pretty well, I'm proud to say. I put the creation on the counter by the wash bin and headed to bed completely exhausted.