Neo Bretonnia
02-07-2008, 19:27
So there have been a number of artistic threads over the last few months and one thing that's conspicuously absent has been literary art (Ok there's been some poetry, but relatively little). Obviously, novel-length works wouldn't be appropriate but how about poetry and short stories?
If I may, I'd like to kick one off with one of my own. 99% of what I write is science fiction but most of it sucks so I decided to start with something a bit more spiritual. I wrote this after a very... well stupid thing I'd done in my life and was on the mend.
The Blackmsith
I don't know how long I wandered in the darkness. I seemed to be alternately walking in deep dark tunnels and a wide open landscape, dark as midnight. Was it days? Was it months? Maybe it was years. Probably years. Yes, years. That must be it. I felt strangely at home there in the dark, and as much as I felt I'd rather know light, somehow the darkness was more comfortable. It was easier. Why climb?
At any rate, it wasn't until recently that I started to hear the noise. It was like a distant clanging sound, metallic. Like a hammer, perhaps. At first I saw no reason to pay any attention to it. Noises were common things. I heard that sound morning, noon and night. It didn't seem to matter really what day it was or what time. I don't really know how long exactly the sound had lasted before I decided to investigate. I think it was months. Maybe. Or maybe it was years, after all.
I followed the noise in the darkness until I came upon a small building. It was rectangular and modest. There was a reddish sort of light coming from inside and as I went around the back I saw that the structure was open on one side. Inside was a blacksmith, working. He noticed me immediately and looked up, nodded in greeting then went back to his work. He seemed to be working on a sword of some kind, but strangely, part of it seemed already complete. The handle and crossbar were already there, and portions of the blade seemed new.
The blacksmith himself looked familiar, although I could not place his face at the time. He was average in height but strong, as a blacksmith would be. His long hair was tied back away from his face, and his beard was neatly trimmed. Relentlessly he pounded on the blade, turning it over, folding the metal. Once in a while he would chip away charred blackened bits and keep hammering.
I watched him silently for a while, just watching him work. I was curious, but did not want to disturb him. After a while he paused and pointed to a chair near the forge, indicating that I should sit. I did so, and after watching him for a few more minutes I asked him, "Is that a sword?" He looked up at me and nodded. "Yes, it is. It is my father's." It seemed strange that it was nearly complete and yet being forged. "What are you doing to it?" I asked. He answered, but did not pause in his work. "The blade was broken. I am mending it." That made sense, but my curiosity still brimmed. "I don't know much about blacksmithing, but wouldn't it be easier to just start over, and discard that one?" He paused, as if considering my question and how best to answer. "This sword is special to my father. He would not want to discard it, and so I am mending it for him." That made sense to me too. "Does he have any other swords?" The blacksmith nodded. "He has many. Every one of them is special and unique, and so I won't discard it if it can be mended."
This sword must indeed be unique, if it was worth the trouble to repair it. "Did you make this sword originally?" He shook his head, pausing to wipe his brow. "No. My father made it. He made them all." That seemed to fit. A father and son both in the same trade. "How did it break?" My curiosity now got the better of my hesitation, and I felt more at ease conversing with this busy blacksmith. He paused, and seemed to consider this question more carefully even than the others. "The steel was impure. As I mend the blade, I am hammering out the impurities, and strengthening it. It will not break so easily now." I didn't understand, and he seemed to realize this. Pausing to reheat the blade before adding some carbon to it, he explained.
"The raw iron that was used to forge this blade contained impurities. Natural impurities must be removed form the iron when refining it. We also add some carbon to it and as we fold the metal over and over, it becomes stronger and stronger. This steel contained many impurities still, and the blade was not very strong. As I mend it, I strengthen it." I nodded. I knew little about metallurgy, but was able to follow his explanation.
Is it really worth the trouble, though?" I asked, "It seems that once you've finished, it's harder to work with the metal than to start from the beginning." He looked at me again, and this time there was something in his look that I couldn't quite interpret. Was it frustration, or was it pity? Perhaps neither. He looked at me the way a teacher might look on a student who has asked a question to which the answer should be obvious. "Of course it is. Every single one of these was made by my father, forged by his own hand. He knows every one of them, and has given every one of them a name."
It was then that I noticed writing inscribed along the crossbar. I couldn't make it out from where I sat, but I could see that indeed this sword had been given a name. "So, will your father be able to wield it again?" He smiled then. "Yes. Yes he will. As will I, when the time comes." He seemed genuinely pleased by this idea. I watched him work in silence for a while, carefully hammering out the impurities, each time leaving the red-hot metal purer, stronger. He worked with care, lovingly crafting this sword as if it were the only one in the entire world. I marveled at this dedication and sacrifice. How valuable must this artifact be for one with such skill to focus on it so completely.
"Will it be finished soon?" I asked. He heated the metal again, folding it over once more with his hammer blows. "There is still more work to be done on it, but the blade is whole again. I will strengthen it until I am satisfied that it is pure, then I will temper it, polish and sharpen it. I will present it to my father clean and whole, as it was when it was brand new, only it will be stronger, and will serve him well. I know he will be very pleased with it." As he spoke, he stopped hammering and took a moment to clean the crossbar of the bits of grime and dirt that had built up on it. The name was now legible, but from where I sat I still could not make it out. He saw me craning my neck to try and see, and so he lifted the sword, turning it so that I could clearly read the name by the light of the forge.
The name was my own.
The realization of who this blacksmith was and what was happening struck me like a hammer blow, and I fell out of the chair, crawling into the shadows, hiding my face. "No..." I begged. "Please... don't waste your time. It is not worth it... for... that sword. It is not good enough. Just cast it aside and make another." The silence that followed was like thunder in my ears, and yet I could not bring myself to look up and see what he was doing. I felt a hand on my shoulder, and his voice, soft and gentle in my ears. "It is not for you to decide. You do not know my craft, and so you do not see the strength that I see. You do not see the value that I know is there." I could make no reply. I wanted him to be right and yet, how could he be? Could that sword, that device which bore my name, which was in fact my self, possibly be worth such an effort after such complete failure?
"You will serve my father, and you will serve me." He said, gently but with strength behind his words. Something about the way he said it... I was unsure whether he was telling me, or asking me. If he was asking me, and if he indeed was going through all of this work and trouble to mend the broken blade, then I knew that it was up to me to live up to it. "Yes." I whispered. "I will." I felt his hand squeeze my shoulder for a moment, then after a moment, the sound of the hammer once again on the steel. I felt warmth now, and not from the forge. As I dared to open my eyes and look outside, I saw the source.
The sun was rising.
If I may, I'd like to kick one off with one of my own. 99% of what I write is science fiction but most of it sucks so I decided to start with something a bit more spiritual. I wrote this after a very... well stupid thing I'd done in my life and was on the mend.
The Blackmsith
I don't know how long I wandered in the darkness. I seemed to be alternately walking in deep dark tunnels and a wide open landscape, dark as midnight. Was it days? Was it months? Maybe it was years. Probably years. Yes, years. That must be it. I felt strangely at home there in the dark, and as much as I felt I'd rather know light, somehow the darkness was more comfortable. It was easier. Why climb?
At any rate, it wasn't until recently that I started to hear the noise. It was like a distant clanging sound, metallic. Like a hammer, perhaps. At first I saw no reason to pay any attention to it. Noises were common things. I heard that sound morning, noon and night. It didn't seem to matter really what day it was or what time. I don't really know how long exactly the sound had lasted before I decided to investigate. I think it was months. Maybe. Or maybe it was years, after all.
I followed the noise in the darkness until I came upon a small building. It was rectangular and modest. There was a reddish sort of light coming from inside and as I went around the back I saw that the structure was open on one side. Inside was a blacksmith, working. He noticed me immediately and looked up, nodded in greeting then went back to his work. He seemed to be working on a sword of some kind, but strangely, part of it seemed already complete. The handle and crossbar were already there, and portions of the blade seemed new.
The blacksmith himself looked familiar, although I could not place his face at the time. He was average in height but strong, as a blacksmith would be. His long hair was tied back away from his face, and his beard was neatly trimmed. Relentlessly he pounded on the blade, turning it over, folding the metal. Once in a while he would chip away charred blackened bits and keep hammering.
I watched him silently for a while, just watching him work. I was curious, but did not want to disturb him. After a while he paused and pointed to a chair near the forge, indicating that I should sit. I did so, and after watching him for a few more minutes I asked him, "Is that a sword?" He looked up at me and nodded. "Yes, it is. It is my father's." It seemed strange that it was nearly complete and yet being forged. "What are you doing to it?" I asked. He answered, but did not pause in his work. "The blade was broken. I am mending it." That made sense, but my curiosity still brimmed. "I don't know much about blacksmithing, but wouldn't it be easier to just start over, and discard that one?" He paused, as if considering my question and how best to answer. "This sword is special to my father. He would not want to discard it, and so I am mending it for him." That made sense to me too. "Does he have any other swords?" The blacksmith nodded. "He has many. Every one of them is special and unique, and so I won't discard it if it can be mended."
This sword must indeed be unique, if it was worth the trouble to repair it. "Did you make this sword originally?" He shook his head, pausing to wipe his brow. "No. My father made it. He made them all." That seemed to fit. A father and son both in the same trade. "How did it break?" My curiosity now got the better of my hesitation, and I felt more at ease conversing with this busy blacksmith. He paused, and seemed to consider this question more carefully even than the others. "The steel was impure. As I mend the blade, I am hammering out the impurities, and strengthening it. It will not break so easily now." I didn't understand, and he seemed to realize this. Pausing to reheat the blade before adding some carbon to it, he explained.
"The raw iron that was used to forge this blade contained impurities. Natural impurities must be removed form the iron when refining it. We also add some carbon to it and as we fold the metal over and over, it becomes stronger and stronger. This steel contained many impurities still, and the blade was not very strong. As I mend it, I strengthen it." I nodded. I knew little about metallurgy, but was able to follow his explanation.
Is it really worth the trouble, though?" I asked, "It seems that once you've finished, it's harder to work with the metal than to start from the beginning." He looked at me again, and this time there was something in his look that I couldn't quite interpret. Was it frustration, or was it pity? Perhaps neither. He looked at me the way a teacher might look on a student who has asked a question to which the answer should be obvious. "Of course it is. Every single one of these was made by my father, forged by his own hand. He knows every one of them, and has given every one of them a name."
It was then that I noticed writing inscribed along the crossbar. I couldn't make it out from where I sat, but I could see that indeed this sword had been given a name. "So, will your father be able to wield it again?" He smiled then. "Yes. Yes he will. As will I, when the time comes." He seemed genuinely pleased by this idea. I watched him work in silence for a while, carefully hammering out the impurities, each time leaving the red-hot metal purer, stronger. He worked with care, lovingly crafting this sword as if it were the only one in the entire world. I marveled at this dedication and sacrifice. How valuable must this artifact be for one with such skill to focus on it so completely.
"Will it be finished soon?" I asked. He heated the metal again, folding it over once more with his hammer blows. "There is still more work to be done on it, but the blade is whole again. I will strengthen it until I am satisfied that it is pure, then I will temper it, polish and sharpen it. I will present it to my father clean and whole, as it was when it was brand new, only it will be stronger, and will serve him well. I know he will be very pleased with it." As he spoke, he stopped hammering and took a moment to clean the crossbar of the bits of grime and dirt that had built up on it. The name was now legible, but from where I sat I still could not make it out. He saw me craning my neck to try and see, and so he lifted the sword, turning it so that I could clearly read the name by the light of the forge.
The name was my own.
The realization of who this blacksmith was and what was happening struck me like a hammer blow, and I fell out of the chair, crawling into the shadows, hiding my face. "No..." I begged. "Please... don't waste your time. It is not worth it... for... that sword. It is not good enough. Just cast it aside and make another." The silence that followed was like thunder in my ears, and yet I could not bring myself to look up and see what he was doing. I felt a hand on my shoulder, and his voice, soft and gentle in my ears. "It is not for you to decide. You do not know my craft, and so you do not see the strength that I see. You do not see the value that I know is there." I could make no reply. I wanted him to be right and yet, how could he be? Could that sword, that device which bore my name, which was in fact my self, possibly be worth such an effort after such complete failure?
"You will serve my father, and you will serve me." He said, gently but with strength behind his words. Something about the way he said it... I was unsure whether he was telling me, or asking me. If he was asking me, and if he indeed was going through all of this work and trouble to mend the broken blade, then I knew that it was up to me to live up to it. "Yes." I whispered. "I will." I felt his hand squeeze my shoulder for a moment, then after a moment, the sound of the hammer once again on the steel. I felt warmth now, and not from the forge. As I dared to open my eyes and look outside, I saw the source.
The sun was rising.