by P. D. Kalnay
“Don’t you want me to turn around?” I asked when she got to the top.
“What would be the point? You already filled your eyes watching me float. I don’t think there’s anything left you haven’t stared at.”
She looked back then when I coincidentally happened to be looking at her backside. I was just making sure she made it safely up the ladder.
“At least you’re a nice pervert.” Ivy said softly. She took her bathrobe off a hook and put it on. “Where is my reward?”
I’d forgotten about that. I scrambled up the other ladder to the bench where my towel sat, taking the hairclips out from under it. Ivy held out her hands, and I dropped the two pink butterflies into them.
“They’re for your hair,” I said. “I know you don’t wear anything normally, but I thought you might like them. They were cheap, so if you don’t, you can throw them away.”
“I like them,” Ivy said, closing her hands around the clips and heading out the door. “You are a nice pervert.”
***
With the start of summer holidays, we fell back into old routines. Gran informed us that we’d once again be in charge of her vegetable garden, and swimming lessons had replaced computer lessons, but otherwise it felt like a continuation of the previous summer. Mr. Ryan’s training had grown more intense than before, and once in a while I’d wonder if it was worth the time and energy. Sword fighting had no practical application in the modern world. Then, I’d remember the terrifying hours in the woods and how I’d been unable to protect Ivy. It steeled my resolve every time and kept me from quitting.
Ivy turned out to be a natural swimmer. After the first misadventure in the pool, she showed up ready to learn. Swimming was the only time the butterfly clips weren’t in her hair. She’d have worn them in the pool too, but she removed them after I explained how the chlorine might be bad for them. Wherever she came from, Ivy brought nothing with her. All the clothes she wore at Gran’s had been in her room over the winter, and even the picture I’d drawn of her had been placed in a top dresser drawer. I’d had a small look around when I dropped off her bow. Finding all of her things left behind, had only added another question to my ridiculously long list. As weeks passed without answers forthcoming, Jack became increasingly grumpy. Which I think is understandable. Ivy in turn, became more and more agreeable and generally wonderful company. I was torn, between wanting to demand answers, and not wanting to rock the boat. It was a really nice boat to be on.
Mr. Ryan seemed more close-mouthed than before. He was still a nice guy, but no answers were being volunteered there either. Words of pithy wisdom, and battlefield strategy were still in great supply during our practice sessions. Answers and information I actually wanted… were not.
Chapter 8 – Forging On
I rarely talked to the boarders who came and went at Glastonbury Manor. Most only stayed a single night. An exception to the rule was Mr. Smith, who was, coincidentally, a blacksmith by profession. Once a year, he stayed at Gran’s while in the area to shoe expensive race horses. Last summer, I’d gotten to spend a glorious morning with him, out in the smithy, trying my hand at being a blacksmith. A few weeks into summer, Mr. Smith returned to the house. As was often the case, I found out at dinner. I arrived last for dinner. Mr. Smith had already joined my regular companions at the table. He was a big, tall, weathered looking man, and he appeared unchanged from the year before.
“Hello Jack.” Mr. Smith greeted me with a friendly smile.
“Hi, Mr. Smith. You back to shoe more horses?”
“Yup, and re-shoe some of the old ones. You look like you’ve gone up a few shoe sizes yourself!”
“I grew a little,” I said. “Two shoe sizes. How long you staying for?”
I didn’t have any free time, but maybe I could squeeze in a few minutes out at the smithy.
“A week, same as last year.” Mr. Smith took a long draw on his ice tea. He looked at me appraisingly. “You interested in another lesson?”
Was I ever!
“I don’t think I have the time,” I told him. “I’m kinda busy.”
“Jack has a full schedule,” Gran said.
“I can manage the gardens on my own for an afternoon or two,” Ivy said.
If the ship hadn’t already sailed, I’m sure I would have fallen for her in that moment. I held my breath as my grandmother considered.
“Very well,” she said. “If Ivy is willing to take on the extra work.”
Yes! I silently thanked Ivy across the table.
“I should have time Wednesday and Thursday,” Mr. Smith said. “You think about what you want to make until then.”
I already knew.
“Awesome, thanks!”
“You were here this same week last year, weren’t you?” Mr. Ryan asked.
“Yes,” Mr. Smith said, not looking up from his mashed potatoes. “Same week, every year. More or less.”
“I see,” Mr. Ryan said.
I didn’t.
“The same seven day job… once a year?” Mr. Ryan asked. Then he added, “Or do you do some of the work at night?”
Only Mr. Smith’s eyes looked up from his dinner.
“Sometimes a fellow has to work nights,” he said, “once he’s accepted a contract.”
“Especially, if he’s accepted payment in advance,” Mr. Ryan said, before returning to his own meal.
“I’m surprised to see you back here,” Mr. Smith said.
“It’s a nice quiet spot for a summer vacation, and I like the food.”
“The food is good. I was impressed by your knowledge of the trade last time. Seems we only scratched the surface with our conversations.” Mr. Smith had stopped eating, and now he gave Mr. Ryan an appraising look.
Mr. Ryan shrugged.
“My best friend used to be in the trade,” was all he said.
That ended the strange conversation. Ivy and Gran had watched the exchange intently.
“Fine weather this summer,” Gran said.
Like a secret signal, that comment brought a return to small talk, and what passed for normalcy, at Gran’s table.
***
When Ivy came up for our usual pre-bedtime movie, she looked as though she had something to say. She also didn’t look like she’d say it without prodding on my part.
“Thanks for covering for me in the garden,” I said.
“It was nothing.”
“I wouldn’t have gotten to try blacksmithing again if it wasn’t for you.”
“That’s what friends are for, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Is something bothering you?”
Ivy was struggling to figure out how to say whatever it was she wanted to say.
“Be careful around Mr. Smith,” she said.
“Why? He seems nice.”
“I don’t know anything,” Ivy said slowly. “But I got the impression Mr. Ryan doesn’t entirely trust him.”
“You mean the weird conversation at dinner?”
“Yes. I don’t think mentioning any of the events at end of last summer to Mr. Smith would be a good idea.”
“Thanks for the heads-up,” I said. “I told all the other kids at school, and none of them believed me.”
“Jack, that was unwise.”
I was getting angry.
“You really think I went into school and told anybody about that stuff! They’d laugh me out or have my head examined.”
“I’m sorry,” Ivy said. “I know making you wait is asking a lot.”
“If tonight isn’t the night you’re going to answer questions… let’s just watch the movie.”
“Very well, but…”
“But?”
“I must go out into the garden tonight to encourage the seeds to grow.”
Last summer, I’d made Ivy promise not to go out at night without my, admittedly dubious, protection.
“Midnight?”
“Yes.”
Always midnight. A good sleep just wasn’t in
the cards.
***
Armed with the sword that normally hung over the fireplace in the library, and my six D-cell Maglite, I met Ivy at the back patio doors. Last year, there’d been genuine monsters prowling the edges of Gran’s yard, and I wasn’t going to take any chances. Ivy waited at the door.
“You’re more intimidating with your greater height,” she said.
“You said nothing can come onto Gran’s property anyway, right?”
“Not unless she grants permission. The property is well protected.”
There was no fence, and I’d gotten no information, but I was certain she was talking magical protection.
“I’ll bring the sword anyway,” I said.
“If it will make you feel better.”
Ivy walked the rows of the garden, in between the seeds we’d planted, again and again. All the while she sang and hummed a song I couldn’t quite make out. I scanned the edges of the forest with the flashlight searching for eyes and who knew what else. Unlike the previous summer, all I saw were the trees. It was still hard take a relaxed attitude. Just because I didn’t see anything, didn’t mean something wasn’t there. An hour later, Ivy said she’d finished, and we went back inside. After putting the sword away I hurried to bed. I only had five hours before Mr. Ryan would run me into the ground.
***
Tuesday was a regular day, not counting the long afternoon of weeding that the garden required. Whatever hoodoo Ivy worked in the night had resulted in massive growth across the previously bare soil. In a long afternoon, we scarcely got all the weeds out. Ivy was covering for me, so I did my best to be thorough and reduce her workload for the next couple of afternoons. Part of me weeded out in the sunshine with Ivy, but the rest was already swinging a hammer in the smithy. Tomorrow, I’d get to try my hand at making something new.
Chapter 9 – Blades and Arrowheads
On Wednesday, I ate my lunch as quickly as I could before heading out to the smithy. I’d already changed into pants, a long sleeve shirt, and the steel-toed work boots I’d ordered when I’d bought my latest round of larger shoes. Summer’s heat had arrived, and it would be even hotter by the forge, but Mr. Smith was a stickler for safety. It looked like he’d been out in the smithy for a fair while when I got there. The big double doors were thrown back, and the forge fires were already burning. After looking me up and down, he gave an approving nod.
“You appear ready to go,” he said.
“I’ve been ready to keep going since last year.”
“I’m surprised you never cut the lock and snuck in.” Mr. Smith grinned at me. “I’m sure I would have, when I was your age.”
“I thought about it.” I had briefly. “But breaking one of Gran’s locks didn’t seem…”
“Prudent?”
“Yeah, prudent. Gran can be a little scary when she wants to be.”
Mr. Smith refrained from commenting on my grandmother’s scariness and settled for giving me a conspiratorial wink. I noticed he’d placed four narrow steel bars on top of the anvil. Two pieces were larger, about as long as my forearm, and two were smaller being only finger sized.
“What are those for?” I asked.
“These are for today’s project, and probably tomorrow’s too.”
I felt a tinge of disappointment at not getting to pick what we would make, and I wondered if I’d imagined Mr. Smith telling me it’d be my choice.
“You alright, Jack? You got a bit of a funny look there.”
I sucked up my disappointment and broke out my everything-is-fine smile. We’d be making something, and it was sure to be something I’d never made before.
“I’m fine,” I said. “What are we making?”
“Well, I said you could decide,” Mr. Smith said.
I knew I hadn’t imagined it.
“But given your interests, and the fact that you’re a boy, I reckoned I could guess what you’d choose easy enough.” He touched one of the bigger steel bars. “This is low carbon steel for the spine and the tang, and this,” he touched a small bar, “is for the edge.”
Yes! Mr. Smith had guessed correctly. Technically, what I really wanted to make was a sword, but that wasn’t a two afternoon project. I’d decided to make a knife instead. The bigger steel bars would form the comparatively softer body of the knife, and the smaller ones would make the harder edge. Laminating the two kinds of steel would give the best of both worlds. Flexibility, and an edge that wouldn’t easily dull.
“Ah, there’s your smile again,” Mr. Smith said with a laugh. “Shall we get started?”
The afternoon flew by as Mr. Smith and I took turns making knives. He would demonstrate a technique with his knife, and I would copy his example. The year before, I’d been a little clumsy with the hammer, but a winter of making things, and doing fine work, had improved my dexterity. We rough-shaped the softer steel on the anvil and widened the blade portions enough to fold over without quite closing the cutting edge. Then we thinned and stretched the high carbon steel until it was as long as the blades would be. Mr. Smith showed me how to heat the steel to the correct temperature, add flux into the joint, and finally weld both pieces into a single cohesive unit. By dinnertime our knife blanks still didn’t resemble knives much. Even though I wasn’t getting to make a sword, I noted that the knives we were crafting were over large for everyday tasks. After we’d straightened up the smithy, I took my blank outside to examine in the late afternoon sunshine.
“What kind of knives will these be?” I asked.
“Fighting knives,” Mr. Smith said. “You really wanted to make a sword didn’t you?”
“Are you a psychic blacksmith?”
“No, but who doesn’t want to try their hand at sword making? At least once.”
I suspected the real answer was most people, but I wasn’t among them. I definitely did, and I stared down at the knife blank.
“Tanto?” I asked. A tanto is a Japanese style of knife that’s like a katana’s baby brother.
“Bingo. Although, they’re long enough to be bordering on wakizashi.”
“Cool.”
“We’ll only get it roughed out by tomorrow night. You’ll have to finish it on your own, or wait till next year. The grinding and polishing will take a while, assuming you want a quality product.”
We shared a grin. Who’d want to make something shoddy? I couldn’t even imagine it. I put my knife blank on the bench and closed one of the big doors. It was dinnertime.
***
I was so excited to get back to my knife that I had trouble sleeping that night. The next afternoon we refined the shape of the tangs (the part that’s inside the handle) and the blades. I thought my knife looked as good as Mr. Smith’s. A lot of what makes a sword, or a knife, pretty, comes in the finishing stages, and most people wouldn’t have been impressed seeing my workmanship. I was sure a thing of beauty lay underneath.
“Not much time left,” Mr. Smith said when the rough shaping was done. “You’re a natural at this Jack. I think if you take your time, you can finish the knife on your own.”
“There’s a grinder and grinding wheels in the workshop in the basement,” I said. “Gran lets me work down there.”
“It would be slow, but you can do the final shaping with files and sanding blocks if you have to. We’ll anneal these as soft as possible.”
Annealing is letting steel cool slowly, so it stays soft. The slower you cool carbon steel the softer it is. Cooling it all at once in the water barrel makes it hard and brittle. Mr. Smith heated the blanks and set them to cool at the back of the forge.
“We still have a good hour,” he said. “Is there anything small you want to try making?”
“Can we make arrowheads?”
I wanted to make proper broad heads to go with Ivy’s bow. I didn’t figure she’d be taking up deer hunting, but they’d have come in handy last summer.
“We have time to make a few. I’ve made a number for the renaissance fair crowd over th
e past few years. I’ll show you one, and you can go to town after. You can use the drill press and grinder in the basement to finish them. Just make sure you cool them with water as you grind, so you don’t ruin the temper.”
Mr. Smith hammered out an arrowhead. He did it fast, and I could tell he’d made a lot of them. My first one was slightly crooked, but I got the hang of it after that and made five more before Mr. Smith brought my second round of blacksmithing to an end. He showed me how to temper the arrowheads, and I quenched them in the water barrel. Unlike the knives, they were already close to finished. All they needed were sharp edges and the holes I’d use to rivet them to the ends of the arrows. We did a proper clean up, and I brought my knife blank and the arrowheads up to my room. I didn’t know when I’d get to finish them, but I didn’t want to leave them locked in the smithy for a year.
***
“How was your second day of blacksmithing?” Mr. Ryan asked me at dinner.
“Awesome.” I couldn’t help smiling. It had been awesome. I was halfway to finishing my first knife.
“Did you make more tongs?”
“No. I made a knife! Well, half made one. It’s at the grinding and polishing stage.”
“That’s impressive in two afternoons with so little experience,” Mr. Ryan said. “Did you do part of the work?” He asked Mr. Smith.
“None of it. I showed him the once, and he followed my example flawlessly. Even his hammer work was perfect. I wish I’d been born with half the talent. I’d be famous… assuming there were famous blacksmiths of course.”
Not comfortable getting compliments; I moved the conversation along.
“I also made arrowheads. They just need holes and sharpening. Then I’ll put them on a few of the spare arrows in the basement.”
“Why?” Gran asked.
I wasn’t sure what she was asking.
“Why would you craft arrows that can’t be used for target practice?” She expanded.