It Came from the North

by Carita Forsgren

  Alice can only stare at the face that’s now revealed behind the big man. The face comes down to her level as the thin man kneels. She no longer looks at the tawny golden brows rising up off to the temples, or at the pointed ears. Close by she sees the silky thin hairs that cover the man’s whole face, the sharp nose, and before all, the eyes. Big, golden brown eyes with tiny golden flecks. Like stars or sparks.

  Alice forgets she’s staring while the man looks at her eyes just as closely. Suddenly, he speaks so fast that Alice finds it hard to catch all the words. She doesn’t quite understand the words she can hear, either.

  “Yes, you are related to the master-smith. I can see the spark in you. You don’t look stupid, either. So forgive us; my impolite friend Agenor carries the fate of the whole realm in his heart. Such a business tires a man. Surely your father has told you about the war, considering how often he’s taken care of our troops here at the smithy during the battles before. Now we need him quickly and more than ever. My friend’s horse has to be shoed, so he can deliver his message. It’s worth the whole kingdom, you understand? So fetch here the Master-smith Qu-ou-koss. And if you’ll manage to get us some provisions from your mother, I’ll find something to reward you in my bag. Will you do that?”

  At first Alice doesn’t understand at all, but then, suddenly the name the man pronounces so strangely comes clear. Alice Cuokos, her own last name. Master-smith Cuokos, Franklin Cuokos, her Granddad Frank.

  “Franklin Cuokos is dead,” Alice finally coughs out to the golden eyes.

  “Dead?”

  The dark man jumps up again, but the golden-eyed one lifts his arm to stop him.

  “Do not frighten the poor child again. There’s got to be a new smith, in a smithy as important as this. A fire like this does not die suddenly, and the girl carries the spark herself. Tell me, girl, did the smith leave a son?”

  “Yes, but he’s not a smith, he never even comes here,” Alice stutters.

  “Why not?”

  “He can’t do anything like that, he’s a truck driver. Though just now he doesn’t have that job either.”

  “I do not know that trade, but why not?”

  To the golden eyes Alice manages to tell the thing she’s never said aloud before.

  “Cause he drinks all the time.”

  The thin man stands up suddenly and steps to the door, his hand on the age-old wood. The dark man still looks at Alice.

  “I do not actually need a master-smith. The old horseshoe will do. Isn’t there anyone to make me a couple of shoe nails?”

  Alice shakes her head. The dark man turns to the other.

  “Reynard, the smithy is here, anyway. Couldn’t you . . . ”

  “No,” answers the thin man, opening his eyes. “This forge has been cold for a long time, much longer than it should. The smithy’s time is almost over. I can speak to the memory of the glow, but nothing else. Each smithy has its own smiths, known by its special fire. I’d better keep off the hammer.”

  The dark man falls down. When the strong shoulders start shaking, Alice thinks he’s having some kind of attack. It’s impossible that a grown man like that should weep. And yet she can see the streaks wiped by the tears on his dirty cheeks, when he looks at the thin man.

  “So that was it, then. I could just as well hang myself from that branch and save the Sorians the trouble. Your horse cannot pass the portals and other portal-horses are weeks away from here. After that the most I’ll have time for is to die together with Porchys at the castle gates. Forgive me, Reynard the Golden, also for your people’s sake. You’ll be the next in line for the Sorians. At the most, your fire-tricks and deserts may buy some extra time. Forgive me, Porchys, wherever you are, your kingdom is lost for want of a shoe nail.” The dark man bows down in a silent bundle. Alice glances at the man called Reynard the Golden, but that one actually seems calm. Now he dances to Alice and kneels down by her again.

  “Let me look at you once more, carefully. Yes, I was right; you have a very strong spark, so it must be there in your father, too. Tell me, has he ever held a hammer?” Alice remembers Dad’s efforts at house repair: mostly he doesn’t finish what he starts, but Alice gives a slight nod. Reynard flashes a quick smile; in a dash he’s up and kicks the other man, softly.

  “Up, up to new hope, my desperate friend! I cannot grip the hammer, but I can advise both the forge and the hammerer. Let’s go and get ourselves a man to make your shoe nails.”

  Then Reynard the Golden glances quickly at Alice before he goes on:

  “We’ll meet the kind of hero who beats little children, so be prepared. You, girl, lead us now to your father and then go to your mother’s larder and get us proper provisions.” So far the men’s presence has felt like a play or something from a book. Alice starts walking to the house, expecting the men to disappear like a dream when she gets there. The sound of steps follows her all the way, however, and then Dad comes stumbling round the corner. Alice can see at once that he is seeking a row; his one quick look at the dark man is enough.

  “What bloody gypsies have you brought here, girl? Get yourself inside; and you two, you go to hell, for disturbing the peace of decent folk.”

  Alice closes her eyes in fear, but she can hear Reynard’s voice:

  “Calm down, master, we were just passing by and had a look at your smithy. There’s something that interests us, and we’d pay you well.”

  Alice opens her eyes and sees Dad’s face; Dad is disgusted by the looks of Reynard, but on the other hand, he’s always short of money.

  “Aha, so you admit it, you’ve been sneaking around and thieving. I’ll call the police. And you, whatever freak you are, I warn you, I’ve got a shotgun, and if you don’t leave it’s your own responsibility.”

  Reynard’s hand pushes Alice aside. It feels strangely warm, even through the leather glove, and she wonders whether he might be feverish. But quick and firm he is, anyway, and his voice is sharp:

  “Whatever your arms, they are not here, but my friend’s sword and knife are not mere decorations. You’ll come with us to the smithy, be it easily or with trouble. Agenor, now!”

  The dark man takes Dad’s arm and twists it. Dad groans to Alice that she should run away and call the police. Reynard the Golden glances at her and grins, then he takes a drink from an invisible glass and taps his stomach, before the men all start off to the smithy.

  Inside the house Alice finds only silence. She sits at the kitchen table and reads a page or two from the open magazine: on the centerfold Prince Andrew and Sarah Duchess of York are smiling. There are several pages of photos from their wedding. Swords, kings, passes, wars, and messages tumble around in Alice’s mind. It cannot be true, not anything like that.

  Then she remembers and rushes upstairs, to the little room that used to be Granddad’s working room. There’s not much to remind of him now, except his paintings on the wall. Alice has looked at this one little picture before and admired how Granddad, with just a few lines, had been able to draw the men and the horses waiting to be shoed. But now she looks closer. She’s seen photos of Granddad’s youth; they had carts and carriages then, they didn’t ride. But in the picture all the horses have saddles, and the men have swords and cloaks.

  She hangs the picture back and goes downstairs; Mum is peeling potatoes in the kitchen. Alice takes a big hamper and goes to the larder; she answers Mum’s silent question:

  “I’m just taking something to eat outside; I don’t want to stay in here.”

  Mum turns back to the potatoes and her shoulders sag. Alice looks into the larder; perhaps she’d better take things that’ll keep on a journey. She packs hardtack and biscuits and, after a moment’s thought, four bottles of beer. Dad counts them, but Alice rather thinks he’ll have something else on his mind after this evening. Then a bottle of soft drink, and raisins, and a tin of peaches. From the fridge she takes two cans of milk, a bundle of sausages and some salami, and a large cheese. She throws a towel over it all so sh
e can walk past Mum. When she gets out, she adds some potatoes from the cellar, and a bunch of onions and carrots from the garden. That ought to suffice. Finally, the little pushcart from the woodshed.

  Alice has just reached the smithy with her pushcart when she is stopped by the shriek from inside. When the shriek dies down to a sob, Alice realizes it’s Dad. She bites her lip and peeks in from the little window.

  The forge glowing red-gold is the only source of light in the smithy; it’s hard to make out the men from the shadows. At last, Alice sees Dad pressing his left arm to his breast. Agenor stands close to him, Reynard the Golden is alone in the corner, staring into the forge. Dad sobs, and Reynard is speaking, but in a strange, heavy way.

  “The fire does not burn the one it knows. I’m sorry, smith, but that was . . . necessary. The fire did not know you. Usually, the offering is given . . . by and by. The apprentices . . . burn themselves many times. Agenor . . . the fire is tired. No . . . proper coal . . . old trash. Not with old . . . iron . . . rust. A buckle . . . a knife edge . . . anything. Hurry up!”

  Agenor grips the big smith’s hammer and wraps the fingers of Dad’s right hand around it. Then he casts his knife in the fire. Alice doesn’t hear what advice Dad gets, but she sees Dad clumsily lift up the glowing piece with the tongs upon the anvil. At the same time, the glowing forge darkens and Reynard steps forward. Now his voice is quick and bright again.

  “We just need a couple of nails, so divide the piece into three parts and then hammer each nail at a time. Agenor, the fire doesn’t have proper food, nor does it like this smith. You, master, listen carefully. The quicker you get these done, the quicker it’ll be over.”

  Alice sees how Agenor moves to the old bellows. His arms bulge out. For a moment the bellows, unused for decades, squeak of rust, but then they boom and the forge starts to glow hotter and hotter.

  Reynard the Golden guides and Dad lifts his hammer; hands trembling, he separates the glowing parts and puts two of them back in the forge. The fire’s glow is reflected in his eyes; they stand open. The hammer strikes the first time. Then a second time. Reynard fixes his eyes to the flames; the fire brightens up, Dad hammers and hammers, Agenor works the bellows.

  When the men stop, it’s already twilight. The smithy door opens; Agenor leads Dad out and sets him down by the wall. Dad stays there, staring into emptiness, and Alice draws a terrified breath, but then Reynard the Golden is there with his warm gloved hand on Alice’s shoulder. In the twilight, Alice cannot see the strange face anymore, but the voice is kind, almost merry.

  “Down has the son of the master-smith sunk, but there was a spark, after all, when you blew at it enough. Let him sit like that, and when we have left, throw a bucket or two of water over him. He’s had enough beer already, judging by the smell. Must have tried to slake his spark that way. That happens, sometimes, when you get the gift but not the skill. But now Agenor has his shoe nails, and once I’ve put them on we’ll leave. So, is there any hope of provisions?”

  Alice doesn’t look at his face; she just pushes the hamper to him. Quickly he takes up his knife, opens the package of salami and bites a mouthful. He looks and tastes the other stuff and kneels again by Alice.

  “Strange provisions you have brought us. Now you have to tell me what to eat at once and what can be spared for later. Agenor knows only how to scorch meat in the fire, so it’s my job to keep us alive until we reach the portal.”

  Years later, Alice remembers the following moments best of all. They go and sit on the smithy’s threshold to get some light from the fading coals. Alice tells Reynard the Golden about each item; he tastes a little of each. Hardtack and biscuits he considers excellent cookies. Alice advises him not to open the bottles or cans yet but he opens the bottle of pop anyway and takes a long thirsty swig. Alice cannot help laughing when he sputters, sneezes, and swears while the drink splatters around. Raisins excite him like a child, and he slips the delicacies into his mouth one by one with his nimble fingers. Alice takes a couple, too.

  Agenor rudely interrupts their repast. Reynard the Golden packs the foodstuffs into the saddlebags and takes the new nails and a little hammer. Alice wonders again at his ability to see in the dark, as she more hears than sees Agenor’s horse being shod.

  Agenor jumps up to his saddle. Reynard mounts, too, and leads his own smaller horse next to Alice. Alice can smell the animal, and up there the golden eyes seem to glow in the darkness like dying embers. A gloved hand reaches down and presses two round coins in Alice’s hand.

  “Thank your mother for the provisions, give her the other coin and keep one for yourself. You need not give anything to the master; the Master-smith Qu-ou-koss always helped us for free. It’s a pity the smithy is dying down, but perhaps we shall not need it any longer. So we are not likely to meet again. Now we must hurry, Agenor wants to reach the portal.”

  “Where are you going, then?”

  The question slips from Alice without thinking. Reynard’s hand, radiating heat, sets on the top of her head and ruffles her hair.

  “Sweet girl. I’ll go to where the war is still on. There’s always fire in a war and then people like me are needed. Besides, I’m not comfortable in Porchys’ court for long, anyway. It’s much too cold there, just like most other worlds. My own is different. Look how the fire pulses in the last embers of the forge and multiply that beauty a thousand fold. You have the spark, too, you know how to appreciate it.”

  “Reynard, shut up your babbling tongue and take up the reins. You have to ride up front and light the way.”

  Agenor and his horse are just a formless shape in the dusk. Alice feels the last warm pat on her head. The grass swishes and gravel rattles under the horses’ hoofs, until the sound fades in the night wind.

  Alice goes to sit on the smithy’s threshold, turning her back to the outside, and stares at the forge. The red-gold flashing in the embers is beautiful, as if each lump had its own little fire enclosed. Alice feels that when the forge dies down, memories will die, too. Her fingers clutch the two coins. Those are the only evidence that it all happened. That Granddad Frank’s forge woke up once more, and Dad hammered shoe nails. That Alice, too, carries the smith-spark.

  The hammer fallen from Dad’s hand lies on the ground. Alice tries to grip it. It’s incredibly heavy, and she lets go, disappointed. Somehow she had hoped that the magic would have included her, too. But a little girl is not going to be a smith. Nor will a big girl, either, not without instruction.

  Each smithy has its own smiths, something like that, or so the strange golden-eyed man had said. The fire doesn’t burn the one it knows. Even if you’d be trained elsewhere, you had to make the fire into your own. The dying forge is like a heap of wonderful magic jewels you could take into your hand. Alice’s fingers move as if by their own volition and snap the little ruby-like ember from the edge of the forge.

  The pain strikes. Alice bursts into tears; the red-hot ember falls from her fingers and flies back into the forge. Alice thrusts the burnt fingertips into her mouth and sobs. The hurt gnaws and frets and throbs and doesn’t stop. Alice runs out of the forge and slams the door after her. The hamper is left topsy-turvy by the threshold, the pushcart somewhere and Dad snoring by the wall. Alice stumbles weeping home through the dusk, the burnt fingers in her mouth. The tears smart when they flow by the corners of her mouth to the wounded fingers.

  1996

  The smithy door has to be opened carefully. The lower hinge is broken and the door sags floppily by the upper one, unless one is quick to put something underneath the lower edge. That irritates Alice. Johnny has promised to fix the hinge, like so many other things, but the summer will likely be over before anything gets done. He always finds time to go off with his pals, though; every weekend there’s something happening at somebody’s cottage, not counting all the rock festivals.

  There’s too much light inside the smithy, the holes in the roof also being an item on Johnny’s eternal list of jobs-to-do-someday.
Alice is worried that the rain will finally destroy the building. The only nice things inside are the bellows, their new light wooden parts shining in the daylight. Johnny has advertised his smithy-project and the quiet blond Mike has asked to join in, and he has fixed the bellows.

  Alice pushes down the crank arm and hears a wheeze; the ashes in the forge puff up to a small black cloud. The movement vividly reminds her of the dark man. She lifts up her right palm to light: the burn mark on three fingers is her thermometer, white when it’s cool, and redder than the rest of her skin when it’s hot. Without the scar, and Dad’s big scar, everything would have been a dream.

  Or perhaps that’s what it was. The last psychiatrist said how everybody was convinced that Dad had tried to burn up the smithy, while roaring drunk. Alice may have tried to prevent that—or even help, who knows, an ignorant brat as she had been. Nobody believed Dad’s stories about strangely attired gypsies and freaks. Some were sure Dad had done something worse to her. Alice can still remember the cold hands of the doctor, the metallic speculum, and the strange questions. Disgust makes her shiver.

  Alice pushes the bellows down again. A new black cloud of ashes descends slowly back into the forge. All that is over now, anyway, and she’s going to move to the capital. The psychiatrist has said that students have their own medical care. Alice is not going to need any help; it’s enough to get away, to see new people and study cultural history. The doctor has recommended the ACOA, but Alice is not sure, Dad being dead now for five years already.

  A third black cloud. She’s going to miss the old home, though, and the smithy, too. No knowing how long Mum will stay and live in the old house. Alice doesn’t really know what she’s going to do about the smithy, or about Johnny either. They’ve been dating now for two years and Johnny has started to talk about living together, but he does not want to move to the capital. And he ought to get a job, too.