E-Book, Englisch, 280 Seiten
Reihe: Spirit of Orn
A Novel
E-Book, Englisch, 280 Seiten
Reihe: Spirit of Orn
ISBN: 978-1-4835-3328-5
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)
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Lump Steam rose from the water as the iron entered, the lurching metal stiffening suddenly. Conn took a sheet of woolen cloth and brushed away the sweat, squinting, rotating the bolt to scan for impurities. The slag that had begun to form around the edges made him wary. Too much of it and the iron would become cast, and brittle as glass. The piece was notably hot, short, and difficult to work with. It troubled him. He was doing something different, and for the life of him couldn't deduce what it was. The sword was meant for his son Fearghas, a memento for his first day as a soldier of the garrison. He had worked on it all day, but it was far from finished. The last sword he made was riddled with cracks, but it was not his art to make such things, so he hadn't blamed himself too harshly; that is until Cathal was killed. Perhaps it was guilt that made him build the bust for Gormal, or maybe it was that he had lost someone of his own so recently. Was it in battle that he discovered the imperfections? Conn hoped not. He knew Cathal to be diligent in his sparring with the other men. It was quite possible he discovered it far before he battled. If he was ever to be consulted about it, Conn had long since crafted his reply. Being the only blacksmith in the village, people are bound to receive what they pay for. It was Cathal's fault for not consulting a better smith for his eccentric desires. A sword one third of a pole was highly unorthodox. Simply unacceptable for fighting! His sword would be different. At only four hand breadths in length, it would be swift and capable of any style; perfect for his son. With care of the sharp edges, Conn placed the blade on the anvil and briskly hammered it, drawing out the length a little more. “I'd like to see Eircheard make this,” Conn said softly. “What use is a piece of iron when you wear it around your neck? You can't dig with that! No, no no no...” He swung hard, casting embers around him victoriously. Lately his anvil had shown signs of wear, something that was common in his trade. It had everything to do with the climate, Conn reasoned, for it never happened in Strom. The thought of the warped anvil damaging the blade didn't occur to him until later in the day. He dared not imagine the damage; it was unthinkable! After so much work, only to find it ruined. When Conn finally worked up the courage, he turned the blade back onto its side and found a crease, running straight up the middle and down to the very base of the hilt. It made him furious, disappointed in himself for letting such a thing happen. In anger he threw the sword loathsomely at the wall, the entire edge piercing the flesh of his salted pig. “Bugger me! An entire day's work, all wasted. Rubbish, rubbish...” Consigned to failure, Conn set down the pein hammer on the anvil. He felt more shame than anger, for it was an apprentice's mistake. If he had only possessed the foresight to look over his blade after drawing the length at the hilt, all of it could have been avoided. The boy would never know, however. He was only a soldier, not a smith. For all he knew, Fearghas would prize the blade beyond the crude arts of war and hang it as a trophy in gratitude. Conn felt prideful once more. There was still hope. Somewhat encouraged, Conn closed the mouth of the forge with a pair of tongs, walked toward the pig, minding the clutter of the room, and inspected the goring. It was deep, far more than he expected. Putting his hand on the dried hide, he let it slide down the greasy corpse, his fingers touching the handle delicately. Conn reached in and withdrew the blade with a grunt, misjudging the ease of the pull. His elbow rocked back with his entire body, knocking into the bench behind him. He shouted a brief cry of pain and winced, sucking in air between his teeth. He looked at the blade incredulously. “Ah! Oh bloody fortune! Feh! Bugger all in the great green plains almighty!” Throwing his weight into it, he stuck the pig again, the edge going deep into the carcass, swift and quiet. Withdrawing the blade, Conn looked over the whole edge. Every sword he had made to this point was simply flat, but the crease added something new. Taking another sword from a pile of models he used to build Cathal's blade, he stuck the pig, the edge barely entering the body. He found it a bother to move, lodged in place and frozen as if someone stood at the other end pulling at it. To him, blades were meant for stabbing, not necessarily cutting. Until this point it occurred to him that the average soldier had his weight cut out for him if this was the battle that they faced in the field. The crease did something, and upon closer inspection he found that the blade allowed for air to escape from the wounding point. Without the crease, the sword was lodged and trapped inside the victim. Taking the blade, Conn marveled at the mistake as a stroke of brilliance, suddenly feeling much better for hastening his work. He supposed that was how people made their way in the world—by accident. Negligence somehow perpetuated events that amounted to work completed, and he was fine by that. As long as he finished his work, he paid no mind to the process by which his tasks completed themselves. Stepping outside for a moment, he gazed up at the purple horizon where the sky lights danced in the budding night. He longed to be lost in their shimmering waltz across the sky, where land and beast could not touch him. He took pleasure in the things grander than him. It reminded him of his smallness, and of the smallness of Skara Brae. He found life less threatening in the wake of death, while the beauty of nature, and his transience, only amplified his pleasure. From on high the light greeted him, smiling down on him. Time to go home. Back to them. Back to the world. Conn stepped back inside. The coals of the forge smoldered, dimly illuminating the interior of the workroom. Carefully taking the sword, he wrapped it in linens and fabrics until it was completely padded and protected, and inserted it into his pack. He didn't mind the extra weight, for his home was near, and already in the distance Conn could see the fire inside his dwelling illuminating the windows. After he tied the strap shut, he hoisted it onto his back and walked out into the night, toward home. * * * Entering his dwelling he smelled the meat on the stuck, a tool he fashioned himself. It was an odd curiosity that he enjoyed. Taog was the only other villager who had laid eyes on it and was fascinated by its usefulness. The gears themselves were the best part, though the turning of them he wished to automate. The crackling of the grease on the fire sizzled sporadically as the wheels turned. From where he stood, he noted Fearghas on the bench nearest to the handle and crank. Conn lifted the hardened leather apron over his head and set it down in the corner nearest to the door. “You took your time,” Mòr called out, minding Ardara's head as she stabbed the meat with the end of her knife. “Well, the meat's getting over cooked...” Beside the fire, Fearghas turned around and shot up from his seat, ecstatic. “Dad! You're home!” He rushed to embrace Conn. “I am. Glad to be back,” Conn replied, patting his son on the back. “And, by the look on your face, you have stories to tell.” “Yeah? You couldn't imagine it. Everything, it was so amazing,” Fearghas exclaimed, letting go of his father to dance around the room with joy. “The beast—he was this gigantic thing. We brought this new weapon along too—you wouldn't believe it.” “Oh, there's always something else. When you get as old as me it's all the same thing. Seen one, seen them all I say,” Conn grumbled. Mòr cast him a sour look from the fire. She set down her plate and resumed her stirring of the food on the hearth. “Indulge the boy, Conn; let him be a child,” she called out, her eyes focused on the rising steam. “When you live to see how many years I have, trust me, those stories lose their allure.” “Thirty-six summers, Conn! That's how old you are. Don't tell me that's old.” “Well, to a man maybe. You know, I thought women stopped counting after twenty? Do you have something to tell us?” Fearghas let a laugh escape him as Mòr threw down her wooden stirring spoon, leaning back on her stool, judging Conn from afar. “Now see here...” “Make me,” Conn goaded. “I'm only twenty-three. Take it back.” “Oh, come off it.” Conn dismissed the icy stare and set down the remainder of his things, taking care to hide the sword until the right time. Fearghas looked on with queer fascination, and offering his hands in reconciliation, he stepped between the two. “Now, now. Be civil. Relax, you two.” “She started it! Besides that, who'll make me? You? Little mortal man!” Conn bellowed, adding some melodrama to his voice. The play acting had been mothballed for many years now, since the middle years set in. But still, Conn occasionally found a moment to fit something in, to let him feel like a young father again. The fear of losing those moments was quelled when Ardara was born, but only a little. He knew in the back of his mind that the time would come to say goodbye again. Life used to be something that simply happened. He had...
