"See?" Misha said, frustrated. "It’s just wood. It fights."
Misha touched the knot. "It’s just a bump."
It wasn't a word found in the dictionaries of the city dwellers. It was an old term, something his grandfather had muttered while whittling sticks of linden wood by the fire. It meant "the old man’s cut," or more accurately, "the grandfather’s paring." It was the act of stripping away the unnecessary to reveal the truth underneath.