Bravado's House of Blues (17 page)

Katie respected places of power. She entered the shop quietly, head bowed, so as to not disturb the fey she was sure were always present at a working forge.

By the time I had the fire banked, Katie had her guitar out and was drinking mead from a tall green bottle. A guy we knew from the Society of Creative Anachronism brewed it. She had three more bottles in a cooler by the door.

I started out with a raw iron bar. I wanted to get into the rhythm of swinging the hammer on something new before tackling Gram.

Between swings of the hammer, I could hear Katie’s sweet voice and the quiet strumming of her guitar.

I took my time, shaping the new sword. It would only be eighteen inches long, so I’d add some cuts and stamps on the blade and sell it as an Elvish short sword. The con crowd would love it.

Every fifteen minutes I adjusted the coal, keeping the burning coke piled high, sorted out the clinkers and banked with good, green coal. It took me the better part of three hours to get the blade tamped out like I wanted. I would temper the edge of the blade by dousing it in water. It would make the metal softer, preventing it from keeping a good edge. We sold these things to frat boys and genre wannabes. Didn’t need anyone killing themselves on one of my swords.

By the time I’d quenched the blade in the trough of water, I was soaked with sweat. My muscles vibrated in anticipation. I felt good.

After midnight, with the second blade, a dagger resting on the finishing table for me to grind down, I stepped over to lean against Katie. She put her guitar to the side and stroked my sweaty hair. I closed my eyes for a moment as she leaned forward and kissed me on my forehead.

“You do good work, my little northwest Ilmarinen.”

I squeezed her hand and opened my eyes. “Ready for the show?”

“I think so,” she said. “Ready to go home and take a long, hot bath.”

“Want company?”

She smiled. “Fix your sword. Then we’ll drink more mead.” A giggle slipped past her lips. “Okay, I’ll drink more mead, you can drink what’s left.”

I patted her on the thigh. “Play me something rousing, my Skald.”

Raucous chords echoed across the smithy as I opened the safe and brought out the two halves of Gram. This sword made me nervous.

I’ve only repaired simple tools. Nothing as complicated as a sword. Theory was the same, but I broke out in chills. “Man, hope I don’t screw this up.”

A deep voice came from the doorway. “You had better not.”

Katie squeaked, sliding off the desk and holding her guitar in front of her.

The Swedish guy stood in the doorway, his skin glowing in the dim light of the forge. “You offered for me to visit you here.”

“Who are you?” I asked, laying the broken sword on the work bench and grabbing my six pound hammer.

“My name is Rolph Brokkrson.”

He stood just outside, not crossing the threshold. I had left the door open to keep the smoke from accumulating inside.

“If you attempt to reforge that sword, you must not fail.”

I watched his eyes. “Are there some consequences I should be aware of?”

“This is no normal blade, as you well know.” He held my gaze. “This is a test of your skill. If you fail, you will be cursed until the end of your days.”

Katie made a quick hand signal and spat on the floor. She took curses very seriously.

I didn’t find her reaction quaint. Not this time. Energy filled the room beyond anything I’d experienced before. “As long as there’s no pressure,” I said, feeling awkward.

Katie stepped around the work bench, away from the door. “Are you a dwarf?”

He stared at me, but gave a slight bow. “I am of Durin’s people.”

“Holy moley,” Katie whispered. “Like from
The Hobbit
?”

I barked out a laugh.

“I have read this book,” he said holding his hands palm up. “But it does not tell the true tale of my people.”

“Why shouldn’t I reforge this blade?” I asked. This guy was an escaped lunatic, I figured. I dearly loved Katie, but elves and dwarves were make-believe.

“If you accept this task, you will risk the wrath of Odin.”

I felt my eyebrows crawling up my scalp. Real lunatic. “Odin, like the all-father? Thor’s dad?”

“One and the same.” His eyes shone for a moment. “But if you insist upon the course of action, I would suggest you accept my assistance.”

“How do
we
know you won’t kill us and take the sword?” Katie asked. Great, give the crazy guy ideas.

“I will swear on my honor.”

“Honor, right.” I lowered the hammer back to the table. “And why would you do this, exactly?”

“You must use Gram to slay a dragon.”

“Dragon?” Katie chirped. “Like, scales and fire and wings?”

“Yes, that is one form they may take,” he said. “In this case, he is an investment banker in Portland.”

Katie and I exchanged bemused glances.

“Dragons accumulate wealth,” Rolph assured us. “They are ingenious in their methods.”

We both started laughing.

Rolph waited patiently, and when we’d calmed down asked politely, “May I come in?”

I glanced over at Katie who shrugged. She was excited. A real dwarf, and a dragon. I half expected flying monkeys next.

I waved him in. “Welcome to my inner sanctum.”

Katie smirked.

“Not like I own the place and can keep you from crossing the threshold or anything,” I said.

“That’s vampires,” Katie offered.

“Quite,” Rolph said walking into the shop. “You have a lovely forge.”

“It’s not mine,” I said automatically. “But the Centaur is a real beauty.”

“In what do you plan to quench the blade?”

“If I can reconnect the two halves, and if I don’t completely wreck the blade’s integrity, I thought I’d use a light, sweet oil. Something to really put a hard edge on her.”

Rolph shook his head. “That will work, but if you want the best edge, the optimum choice would be to plunge the glowing blade into the heart of your enemy.”

For a moment I considered JJ and his stupid hair, but dismissed it, weighing it against the twenty-five to life I’d get in the Washington State Women’s Correction Facility in Purdy. “Well, I think the oil is going to suffice. I just don’t have any enemies I’m ready to murder.”

“Suit yourself.” He leaned against the work bench. “I can advise you in other ways, if you want.”

Over the next few hours, we discussed shaping techniques, the proper color the metal should glow before aligning the pieces, and the right type of flux to use while heating. I opted for powdered borax, since that’s what we had in the shop. I had no real source for crushed unicorn horn, or minotaur horn this late at night.

I cleaned the ends of the break with a wire brush and dipped the ends in the borax. Then I buried them in the heart of the burning coke.

“You are a competent smith,” Rolph declared as I was drawing and upsetting the face of the break.

Of course, his constant chatter made me want to hit him with my hammer. Katie sensed my stress and offered Rolph some mead. Apparently dwarves love mead. By the time I had the two halves of the blade connected and the dressed metal back into the fire, he’d drunk two bottles. Katie had no trouble convincing him to accompany her in several rousing choruses of carousal and debauchery. He even taught her a verse to “The Dwarf from Dover” that she’d never heard.

By three in the morning, I had set the weld and was dressing the blade into shape. Katie had her head down on the desk. How she slept through my hammering astounded me.

Rolph examined the blade from a distance, never coming around to my side of the worktable. I could see in his eyes he yearned to work the forge, but he respected my space.

I heated the edge of the sword until it glowed a light yellow, and then plunged it into the deep well of oil. The sharp hiss it made woke Katie. Her hair had come out of its ponytail and lay scattered across the front of her face.

“You should be proud,” Rolph said after I wiped the blade down with a cloth. “My old master was the last to reforge this blade. Each time it was used to slay the enemies of the light. And each time, Father Odin saw fit to shatter it once again. I am pleased to have witnessed the cycle renewed once more.”

“Thank you,” I said. The blade felt good in my hand. The balance and weight better than any blade I’d used in sparring at the Society. “Someone attempted to repair Gram. It was in one piece when I found it.”

Rolph shrugged. “Aye, but the smith failed in the joining. Once this blade is properly imbued with hammer and fire, it will only shatter by the will of Odin himself.”

That thought gave me pause. Was I really that good? I turned the blade, watching how the warm glow from the fire played along its surface. It was beautiful.

“So, now, about the dragon,” Rolph said.

I set Gram on the work bench. “No dragons, thanks.”

Katie yawned.

“But, the glory . . . the treasure . . .”

“Look,” I said. “I can use this sword in the movies and make enough money to keep smithing. I have all the treasure I need.”

He followed my eyes to Katie who drooped in the chair, almost asleep again.

“But Gram deserves glory.”

I could hear the yearning in his voice—the lure of fame and fortune beyond my wildest dreams.

Instead, I raked the coals with a shovel, pushing the coke against the back of the forge to be used later. It would burn down quickly, now that I’d scattered it.

“Do you not want glory?” he asked.

I sat the shovel aside with a sigh, taking Gram into my hands again. “The glory of Gram will be in movies,” I said. “No more bloodshed, just hack actors chasing guys like you in rubber goblin suits.”

Rolph frowned. “You could cleave this anvil in two with that blade.”

“Sure, I believe you.” Honestly I did. The sword sang to me, thrilled me in ways that scared me. I could feel the pulse of power as I gripped the leather pommel. “But I’m a blacksmith. I create. I don’t destroy.”

I turned and opened the safe.

“But you do not understand!” He slammed his fists down on the work bench. The two blades I’d made earlier hopped a bit, sending the longer blade to the floor with a clang.

I tensed. My first thought was for my hammer, instead of the sword I held in my hand. I stared at him, adrenaline slipping into my veins. Gram shuddered in my grip.

For a moment I knew the sword’s need—the vibration as it sought to strike the foe. I shuddered once and slipped it into the safe. Once my hand left the grip, I shuddered again, closing the door with my hip.

As soon as the lock clicked into place, Rolph slumped against the bench, the fires in his eyes quenched in despair.

“So it shall be,” he whispered.

I spun the combination and stepped back to the workbench. He hadn’t moved; his long black hair fell down over his face. For a moment, it sounded as if he wept.

“I’ll take it tomorrow night and let JJ swing it around a bit more. Carl will pay me enough for another ton or three of coal and a good dozen sword forms. I’ll drink mead with Katie and sing raunchy songs while high schoolers and old men buy my swords in hope of becoming Beowulf.”

“He was a fop,” Rolph said. The disappointment was heavy in his voice. “I have searched long for a hint of Gram. To see it reforged is glorious. Perhaps that is enough.”

“It’s time to call it a night,” I said. “I need to be back here in six hours to work. I’ll see you at Carl’s tomorrow night, right?”

He nodded. “But, aren’t you going to put an edge on the blade?”

“Are you kidding? And have JJ cut off his left foot? No thanks. I get paid to make everything look as authentic as they can afford. Getting the talent mortally wounded would end all that.”

Rolph sighed. “Oh, for the days of Weyland and Migard. For the Valkyries and the cries of battle.”

“Go home, Rolph. Before the sun rises.”

“Of course,” he said, glancing at the window. “There are not enough of my people left in this world.”

I watched him leave, listened as he drove his pickup truck down the gravel drive. So much for legend and myth.

I swept the shop, packed the last bottle of mead in the cooler, and put Katie’s guitar in her case before waking her.

“Come on, sleeping beauty. Let’s get you to bed.”

She leaned against me as we walked toward the door. “Only if you stay over.”

I flicked off the light and pulled the door shut behind me. Dragons in pinstripes and dwarves in pickup trucks. The world was stranger than the movies.

CROW and TURTLE

M
anakagami woke while the crisp stillness of the pre-dawn blanketed the world. He rose as he always did, eager to make water, overwhelmed by great age and failing organs. The familiar sound of the crashing waves comforted his mind with the peace of a welcome friend. Unfortunately, it also made his bladder ache.

He shuffled through the stone corridors of his sparse quarters, pushing aside the thick woven hanging that kept the night chill from his rooms.

The chill air blew across his brow and he turned his face to capture the brunt of the wind. The scent of manure and growing things came to him this morning, pushing aside the usual miasma of salt and rot from the receding tide.

He stepped into his sandals without fail, allowing his feet to find their own way. His staff found its way into his gnarled hands by virtue of always being in the same spot when he retired for the evening.

The path toward the sea called to him, but he veered northward toward the outhouse.

“I will greet the sun in due time,” he muttered as he raised his robes clear of his manhood, shriveled and old as it was. It still carried his water into the world, if a little more sporadic than it had once done.

“Am I never rid of the tides?” he muttered, clomping out into the open world once more.

What to do, he thought. There would be no more sleep this night. Should he return to his mats so the boy would find him? Allow the youth to do his morning duties, or should he go to the ocean and honor she who rules the sea?

The thought of the sticky rice the boy would bring him set his mouth to watering. There would be apricots in the morning meal. The boy’s mother saw to his sweet tooth rightly enough. Later, in the evening meal, there would be bits of fish, or lamb if there was a celebration.

He couldn’t recall the meanings for all the goings on any longer: births and deaths, marriages and other communal celebrations had lost their hold on his psyche. These days, he only thought of one event, a single moment in time that stood just on the horizon of his ancient existence.

The promise that had been made to him was drawing nigh. These centuries of life would finally come to an end. She had promised. Surely this winter, this season would be his last.

She would return to him. She must.

It is true that he had not heard her voice in longer than he could recall, but the words were etched into his mind, even though the voice that had uttered them had faded in the constant grinding of the sea.

He had been standing still again, as he was wont to do. The boy would chastise him for being muzzy-headed. His words would hold no venom, only concern for an old man.

The sea then, he decided. She who rules the sea may deign to remember him this day.

The path down to the shore was worn and smooth. Even in the last gasps of the night his feet found nothing to trip him. His staff steadied his gait and he held his head high, considering the joy of waking another day. It was not always thus. Some days the melancholy would seize him, and even the young boy’s pleading could not draw him from his rooms. But there had been a turn in the wind—a newness to the world. He did not know the full truth, but a thing that had gone from the light had returned.

A young woman, a wild gaijin, had come to his dreams of late. She towered over him, this amerika-jin with a slash of white hair and eyes that divided the world into hunter and hunted. She was bushi—a mighty warrior—as well as an able bladesmith. She worked the celestial bones, shaping fire and earth, wind and water to bring forth an ancient and powerful artifact.

As he approached the end of the path, he was surprised to find a great crow perched upon the torii. He paused, glancing up at the great bird atop the arch and considered his age and vision. The bird was grand, by far larger than any bird he had seen in his life. And the curious thing about it was the three legs.

“Osho-san,” the great crow said, swiveling her head to face him. “I am bid to bring you news most dire.”

The old man blinked twice before speaking. “You are Yatagarasu, the eight-span crow?”

The bird dipped its black head, but said nothing.

“You do me a great honor,” the old man said, bowing his head toward the crow. “I am but a simple man. What news could be worthy of someone as low as I?”

The crow contemplated him, shivered her feathers for a moment, and croaked. “She who must be obeyed has been roused in the rice lands. Her complacency has been shattered by unknown events.”

Manakagami leaned upon his staff and studied the great bird. Legend said she brought news from the celestial host. “I have seen such in my dreams,” he replied.

“An ancient power has been reborn in the lands east over the vast sea. In an exquisite moment of Keishikaisei this gaijin has struck down one of the elder race and now stands on the brink of great and terrible deeds.”

He thought of this tall young woman with fire in her blood and eyes the color of azure. “I am honored by your words, mighty one. What service may I perform for the celestial host?”

The crow turned its great head from side to side, each eye focusing on the old man for the briefest of moments. “The great wheel has been broken too long. Forces gather to remake this world. The lands shall run with blood unless this gaijin finds her way.”

“I am but an old man,” he replied, the fear of the unknown crawling into his belly along with his testicles.

“Kusanagi-no-Tsurugi must be remade,” the crow cawed, her voice splintering the constant low rumble of the waves. “Yamata-no-Orochi has been reborn. At this dawn his eight great heads lift from the ashes and survey the world anew.”

The sound of the sea faded as memory flooded the old man.

Kusanagi-no-Tsurugi the Grass Cutting Sword had been shattered in the vapors of his earliest days. After the god Susanoo slew Yamata-no-Orochi, the eight-headed serpent, the sword had passed from warrior to warrior for a time. He alone among men knew that the blade had been broken.

When he had been a young man, he walked along this very shore, following the beauty of full moon and siren call of the sea. He sought his fortune away from his father’s fishing boats and the slow pace of his village. He sought adventure and true love.

As he walked the rocky shore, he stumbled upon the body of an unknown warrior tangled among the seaweed and timbers of a storm smashed ship. Despite the nibbling of crabs and eels, the warrior retained markings of his high stature. The lacquered armor he wore was worth more than Manakagami’s entire village.

Leaving the corpse with striking looks for the time being, Manakagami examined the remains of the broken ship in search for survivors. By the time the sun was highest in the sky, he had to stop and rest. There were no other bodies. The ship had held two masts. It would have needed a crew of a dozen or more to work the sails. Yet this fallen warrior was the only one who remained.

He could not leave this warrior, this master of men, to the deprivations of the sea. He dragged the corpse high above the tide line and deep into the scrub of the shore. Here he prepared the body, careful to set the limbs to a comfortable rest, and array the man’s possessions with him. A fine sheath lay across the man’s back, one that should have held a mighty sword. He scoured the shore until the light dimmed and his vision faded. But no sword presented itself to him.

He took up some of the broken ship and other debris to create a bonfire near the body. Once the flames rose high into the sky he gathered surf rounded stones from along the shore and built up a cairn over the mysterious man. The fat moon hung low in the sky by the time he placed the final stone into place.

He walked a respectable distance from the cairn on the far edge of the bonfire’s heat and made his bed to await the dawn. In the morning he would think of salvaging what he could from the ship. No sense in letting anything of value go to waste.

Deep into the night, when the darkness was complete and the dawn was only a threat upon the world, he awoke to the sound of singing.

A beautiful maiden, demure with hands folded at her waist, stood in the light cast by the dying fire. White silk as the ocean spray fell across her chest while an array of greens and blues rolled down her narrow waist and over her rounded hips. Colors of the depths spilled past her knees and fell black at her feet.

Her eyes were as the storm tossed waves and her complexion the glowing radiance of a fat, round pearl.

He rose from his meager bedding, forgetting the state of his undress. Lavender and sea spray filled his head along with a heady muskiness. For a moment he forgot his honor and stepped toward her. He had been a very young man after all, and the beauty of her was intoxicating.

“You raised a cairn over the bushi?” she asked him, her voice the sweetness of the nightingale.

“Yes,” he answered, his throat tight and his mind afire.

The smallest hint of a smile touched her face. Warmth spread across his naked flesh, pushing aside the chill.

“You have taken nothing from him?” she asked, quietly.

The thought shocked him. “No, it would have been dishonorable.” How could she have suggested as much?

She lifted her face to him and the smile that blossomed over her face was as if the sun had risen fully into the skies.

“Do you find me beautiful?” she asked.

“Greater than the rising sun,” he said, his voice husky. “The moon is nothing to the beauty in your eyes.”

She came to him, placed one small hand upon his chest, and spoke in quiet whispers. “You are an honorable man. You should be rewarded.” She pulled him down to his nest of blankets. For a time he fell into her and the heat that rose from her nearly consumed him.

He woke long after the sun had risen over the mountains in the east. The beauty was gone. There had been a moment, just before the sun rise, that she had kissed him and bade him to remember her. She promised that she would return to him before too long.

Days rolled into weeks. He scavenged what he could from the ship and built a small hut along with other gifts from the sea. He began fishing to feed himself, thankful for his father’s wisdom for the first time in a very long time.

One year later she returned to him. This time they spent a night of bliss in his humble shack. During the quiet moments they spoke of his village and his family. She hung on his every word. Then their strength returned and the heat over took them once more. Before he passed into slumber, she spoke to him of Kusanagi-no-Tsurugi—the Grass Cutting Sword. She bade him protect it..

When he rose the next morning she was gone. On the bench before his hut he found the pommel of a broken sword along with two great pearls.

He wrapped the sword in the maiden’s fallen shift and took it and the pearls back to his village many days away. One pearl he gave to his father to honor him. The second he traded for a small boat. He returned to his hut wealthier and at peace with his family.

On the second year anniversary of the warrior washing ashore, she returned to him once again, bringing another night of passion, another piece of the broken blade, and another two great pearls. They spoke between moments of passion. She told him of the great ocean and how the tides served the island he called home. He spoke to her of his youth, and of his desire to see the world.

When he woke the next morning he was not surprised to find her gone. She had left him another piece of the sword and two more pearls. He sailed his small boat back to his village and this time honored his mother with a gift of one pearl. The second he traded for six young cherry trees that he would plant away from the salt of the sea, past the spring that kept him alive. He sailed home with joy and sadness.

After another year she returned to him a third and final time. As she rose to leave, he begged her to stay with him. He did not think he could live another minute without her.

“You are a kind and honorable man,” she said to him. “You give me pleasure like I have not had in a lifetime. But I cannot stay with you. I must return to the sea—to my true home.”

He thought to plead with her, but he saw in her eyes it would do no good.

“It has taken me three years to find the broken shards of Kusanagi-no-Tsurugi. He who wielded this sword lies yonder beneath the cairn built with your capable hands. It has been my obligation to recover the pieces he carried home from foreign lands. As he fell in my domain, the responsibility lay with me.”

He glanced toward the bench and saw the last shard of the great sword.

“Keep it safe, my love. Protect it until such time as I come to you once more.”

“You could stay,” he offered. “Make a life with me.”

She cast her eyes downward and he turned to face the hut. Anger and despair rumbled in his belly.

Beside the blade tip sat a wide clam shell holding seven pearls each the size of a thrush’s egg. Enough wealth to purchase his entire village. Enough to buy his own lacquered armor and take his own lands. But that was not his way and she knew this. He wanted no wealth. There was nothing in the world beyond the feel of her against him, or the depth of her gaze.

She brushed her hand down the length of one arm. “Oh that I could grant your dearest wish,” she said, her voice thick, “my first and truest love?”

She stepped to him and kissed him one final time. For a moment he thought she would stay, but a chill wind drove between them as she stepped back toward the shore. “Do you wish to see my true form?” she asked. “I would grant you this, if you so desire. Your love has earned you the right.”

He thought of this beauty who came to him from the sea—of the love that burned in him like a raging bonfire. And he thought to the lifetime of cold nights he would endure.

“Yes,” he said, his head high and his voice strong. “I would look upon you in all your true glory.”

She smiled at him, bowed once, and turned to the sea. He watched her as the waves lapped against her naked thighs, watched as it rose to that secret place where the heat of her rose to consume him. In that moment, as the yearning for her grew intense once again, she changed.