by Scott Meyer
“Is that supposed to make us feel guilty?” Tyler asked.
“No, but I’d hope you’d feel some empathy. I made this bed, and I will lie in it, but it’d be nice if occasionally someone mentioned that it’s not a very nice bed, that’s all.”
“Well, it’s not going to happen.”
“Yeah,” Jimmy said, “I’ve come to realize that. That’s the pillow on the bed I’ve made.”
Tyler chose not to respond to that. Jimmy chose not to add anything further. Phillip and Gary chose to continue pretending that they weren’t there. Tyler had said a few things that they had been thinking, and Jimmy had said a few things that they would need to think about.
After some sullen, silent bellows-pumping, Tyler said, “Jimmy, can I ask you a question?”
Jimmy answered, “Anything.” This was his reflexive answer to that question. In the past, he had often followed it by thinking, You can ask me anything you want, so I’m not lying. It doesn’t mean I’ll answer you.
Tyler asked, “After everything you did, did you honestly expect us to forgive and forget?”
Jimmy looked around the room and saw that while they were all working their bellows in perfect rhythm, the other three men were all staring at him, waiting to hear his answer.
Jimmy said, “The short answer is no. Of course not. I neither expected nor really hoped that any of you would forgive and forget. There’s no forgiving what I did, and if you forgot it, you’d be fools.”
“Then why’d you bother to come back?” Tyler asked, sounding more irritated than curious.
“Because of the third option. You can’t forgive what I did, and none of us, especially me, should ever forget that I’m capable of what I did, but I needed to show you all, us all, that I won’t ever do it again.”
Tyler asked, “And how are you going to do that?”
Jimmy answered, “I thought not doing it would be enough. I was wrong. Now I wish I knew.”
Phillip chose this moment to participate. “You want us to trust you. It’s not possible. There’s no way to prove that you’re not going to do something. Trust is a person believing that someone won’t do any of the thousands of awful things that any of us can do to each other. You got everyone to trust you; then you betrayed everyone’s trust, repeatedly and in the worst possible ways. Even if you do want to be trustworthy again, how can we ever trust you?”
“So you’re saying there’s no way.”
“Jimmy, there’s always a way, but sometimes the way to success is worse than just admitting failure. The only way to convince us that you won’t betray us again is to live the rest of your life without betraying us again. If you can do that, those of us who outlive you will be forced to stand at your grave and say, ‘He never betrayed us again. He changed. He was trustworthy after all.’ ”
Jimmy thought a moment, then said, “So you’re telling me that the only way to convince you all that I’m not going to betray you is to spend the rest of forever not betraying you.”
“Pretty much,” Phillip said.
“I’ll get right on that,” Jimmy said, sourly.
They pumped their bellows in silence well into the evening, each of them lost in his own thoughts. At long last Inchgower returned, carrying a large, rough, vaguely rectangular blob of hardened sand in his arms. It had the approximate proportions of a shoebox, only larger and more poorly made. He placed it on the floor.
“Okay, lads,” the blacksmith shouted. “Pull out your bellows. You’ve pumped long enough.”
They removed their bellows. Inchgower got down on all fours and peered into one of the holes into which they had been blowing air. A bright orange light illuminated his face in the darkened shop as he squinted into the hole. He stood up, slapping his thighs to brush the dust off the soot.
“Good work, lads. Well done.”
He turned his back, rummaging around his tool rack. When he turned back to face the furnace, he was holding a large sledgehammer. With one smooth swing, he struck the flat side of the furnace. A spiderweb of cracks radiated from the point of impact, revealing the glowing, fiery interior as the cool, dull exterior shattered and crumbled. It was beautiful, and like many beautiful things, it was also more than a little terrifying.
The wizards saw the furnace crack open and spill coals across the floor like a fire-piñata. They felt a wave of searing heat wash over their backs as they yelped and fled for the far corners of the room, where they would at least be burned slightly later than if they had stayed put. Only when they were in position, cringing and as far away as possible, did they dare to look back at the source of all the heat.
The cracked walls and collapsed roof of the brick-and-clay furnace seemed to shimmer when viewed through the intense heat. Around the ruined base of the furnace, coals were heaped like gold coins around a sleeping dragon. Now exposed to ample oxygen, the coals were already beginning to turn a dull white instead of their original radiant orange, but the center of the pile still glowed.
Inchgower put down his hammer. He made a show of looking weary, and acting as if the heat was causing him discomfort, but he was standing less than four feet from the core. Several of the coals had rolled down the slope of the larger pile and came to a rest right next to his boots. If he had been a real person, he’d either have fled with the wizards or he’d have been screaming.
He shielded his eyes and said, “Ooh. A bit toasty.”
He placed his hammer back on the tool rack and lifted a large set of tongs built with an accordion-like set of joints so that they would lengthen as he closed them. He extended the tongs, then used them to knock the cooling crust off the top of the coal pile, exposing the glowing orange core and releasing fresh, rippling waves of heat. With a bit of work, he exposed the top of the sealed clay pot at the center of the fire, the crucible.
He used the tongs to lift the crucible out of the fire. Gary gasped. “That thing weighs a ton, and he has no leverage. He must be strong as a bull.”
“He’s not real,” Phillip reminded him.
Gary said, “Yeah, well, that just makes it all the more impressive.”
Phillip said, “Not really.”
Inchgower placed the glowing orange crucible on the dirt floor. He produced a mallet and a chisel and knelt down. He placed the steel chisel along the seam of the crucible’s lid and tapped it with the mallet, protecting himself from the intense heat via the time-honored method of squinting, panting, and saying “hot hot hot hot hot” as quickly as he could.
The lid separated cleanly from the crucible and fell to the floor. Using the tongs, Inchgower lifted the radiant crucible over the rough sand mold he had placed on the floor. Carefully, he positioned the crucible over a hole in the top of the rectangular mass. He tipped the crucible, and for a moment it looked like he was pouring out a cup full of sun. A thin stream of pure light and heat streamed from the crucible into the hole. He tipped the crucible farther. The stream grew thicker. He lifted the crucible while maintaining the pour, like a bartender trying to make you think you’re getting more than your allotted two ounces of vodka.
The crucible ran dry. Inchgower discarded the tongs and empty crucible and sat on the dirt floor, listening to the mold as it cooled.
“We don’t want to hear a pinging noise,” he said.
“This is weird,” Gary said.
“I thought we’d established that long ago,” Phillip replied.
“No, not the whole situation. This part in particular. I mean, up until now Todd hasn’t wasted a lot of time on the specifics. The mines were one big cave with the ore we needed right at the threshold. The castle was essentially a big fancy lobby for the secret passage. Everything’s been really broad and simplistic until this blacksmith shop. Now suddenly he’s wallowing in detail. Why?”
Phillip said, “Probably because this part calls for a lot of manual labor, and he’s
trying to make us miserable.”
Tyler added, “And, I suspect he might have dwelt on this a bit because he just thinks blacksmithing is cool.”
Inchgower leapt to his feet and declared, “The dailuaine is cooling, lads. We’ve purified and toughened it, but we also need it to harden. Time for the quench. Remove the lid from the oil barrel.”
Inchgower pointed at a metal cylinder with a wooden lid, which stood just outside, in front of the shop. Jimmy removed the lid, revealing the smooth, black surface of the oil inside. Inchgower grasped his sledgehammer and swung it over his head, bringing it down on the mold, which split open, then crumbled. The shape inside the mold, whatever it was, was glowing too brightly to look at for long. All they could tell was that it was something large and hot.
Inchgower again used the tongs and, with a noticeable but unrealistically small amount of effort, lifted the glowing mass into the air and lowered it into the oil. The air was filled with a deafening hiss, as if someone had stepped on God’s pet snake. The surface of the oil burst into tall orange flickering tongues of flames, which disappeared when whatever it was Inchgower was making disappeared beneath the surface. After a moment of tense silence, Inchgower pulled the tongs back out of the oil. When the object breached the surface, it again burst into flames, but this time the flames persisted as Inchgower held the burning mass high in the air like a torch, pushing back the night.
“Yeah,” Tyler said. “Todd definitely thinks blacksmithing is cool.”
“Not period accurate, though, is it?” Phillip asked. “They can’t have had big barrels of crude oil just sitting around in this time period, could they?”
Tyler said, “I think it’s actually motor oil, and no, they didn’t. If I remember correctly, back then they used either water or urine.”
“Huh,” Jimmy said. “It must have been a hard decision for Todd. Use oil, which is inaccurate but looks really cool, or have the blacksmith pee on it, which doesn’t look nearly as cool but would have forced us all to breath pee steam.”
Gary said, “I bet if he had used pee, he’d have named the blacksmith Calvin.”
Inchgower bellowed, “Behold, lads, the fruits of your labors!” He brought the huge ball of fire down closer to his face and demonstrated an unrealistic amount of lung capacity by blowing out the fire with one breath. He swung the tongs toward the wizards. The dull metal mass was no longer glowing, but it was still putting out an alarming amount of heat. Smoke rose from its surface in wispy streams.
Even in the dark, through the heat and the smoke, the object they had made was instantly recognizable.
“An anvil?” Phillip cried. “That’s the amazing weapon we’ve been making? An anvil? What are we going to do with that? Drop it on someone? Are we meant to go fight a giant roadrunner?”
Jimmy muttered, “They’re more effective against coyotes.”
“Quiet, you,” Phillip said, scowling.
Inchgower laughed. “Gentlemen, you misunderstand. This is not the weapon.”
Tyler thought, For once the dialog tracks pretty well. Then again, Todd didn’t have to be a genius to figure out what we’d be saying at this point.
Inchgower continued. “Dailuaine is far too heavy to make an effective weapon, but it is the only metal hard enough to be used in the forming of Lagavulin steel, which makes excellent weapons, and of which I have an ample supply, and have had all along.”
The wizards groaned.
“Sleep well, friends. For tomorrow we start work on the weapon. It will take a great deal of work. Luckily, I have you here to man the hammers.”
The sound of the wizards’ continued groaning was drowned out by laughter. Todd’s chat window appeared, floating in the air behind Inchgower.
“I thought you’d like that,” Todd said, grinning sickeningly. “Oh, and thanks for the pee-steam idea. Luckily, I still have time to incorporate it into the next part.”
21.
Gwen was walking in the lead and was the first to notice the line of smoke in the distance. It rose straight up from the treetops, then followed the wind toward the horizon, dissipating as it went. They all agreed that the smoke probably meant that there was a campfire and, most likely, people in their path, which might mean comfort, or might mean danger. Most likely, it would mean one of those things followed by the other, but they didn’t know what the order would be and couldn’t know until they got there.
When they finally drew within sight of the cabin, they were not surprised to see the front porch populated by three women in stereotypical wench costumes, engaged in stereotypical wench activities: churning butter, washing clothes, knitting, and gossiping in high-pitched, giggly voices. They were surprised that the cabin seemed to have suffered a fire, which had left it badly charred but intact structurally.
Rather than having one member of the group break off and act as a spokesman, all four of them approached the cabin, Martin and Brit carrying the sequin-shrouded lump of ore with them.
Gwen was still in the lead and took the initiative to speak first. She smiled and said, “Hello.”
One of the women on the porch looked up from her knitting, tossing her mane of blond hair back and smiling with parted lips before saying, “Hello, stout menfolk!”
Gwen listened to her greeting, looked at her face, her body, and her general demeanor, and said, “Son of a bitch!”
Of course, Gwen recognized her own features instantly, even though they’d been transplanted onto another person with very different hair, clothes, mannerisms, and measurements. She also recognized them on the brunette woman who was wringing out clothing provocatively and the redhead who said “Welcome” while churning butter in a manner that made provocation itself look demure.
Brit said, “They all look like you.”
Gwen said, “I noticed.”
After taking a moment to watch the wenches writhe and flutter and make prolonged eye contact with anything that would hold still, Martin said, “They don’t act like you, though.”
Gwen said, “Damned right.”
Roy groaned, “Gwen, kiddo, I’m sorry. I feel like I owe you an apology just for seeing this.”
She told Roy not to worry about it, then gave Martin a look that would have decalcified his spine if he’d been looking at her. The real her, at least. She shook her head and said, “I don’t get it. Why do they look like me?”
Brit said, “Whoever made this quest must have had reason to think that one or all of the guys was attracted to you.”
It only took an instant to remember that one of the guys Brit was referring to was Phillip, with whom Brit had been in a fairly serious relationship for three years.
Gwen said, “Oh, Brit, I’m sure Phillip isn’t—”
“Gwen, I’m pretty sure he is,” Brit interrupted, laughing, “and I’m okay with it. You’re cute. Him thinking you’re attractive just means that he has good taste. We haven’t discussed it, and I don’t believe he’d ever act on it, but if he told me he didn’t think you were attractive, I’d be worried because he was lying to me.”
Gwen smiled and said, “Thanks.”
Martin, still looking at the false Gwens on the porch, said, “I think you’re attractive.”
Gwen scowled and said, “Yeah, thanks.”
“Well, what do you want to do?” Roy asked.
Gwen said, “I want to get out of here and forget that I ever saw this, but what I’m going to do is go talk to me and see if we can figure out what’s going on.”
Martin said, “You don’t have to do it. I could.”
Gwen said, “No, I have to do it, so you can’t.”
Gwen stepped toward the cabin and asked, “Okay, what’s your deal?”
The fake Gwen with the blond hair and the knitting needles licked her lips slightly and started to speak but was interrupted by a voice from inside the cabin, asking
who she was talking to. The blond replied, “Come see for yourself.”
The door swung open, and another slightly imperfect Gwen clone emerged, this one with straight black hair and a tight silk dress. The new Gwen cast her gaze over the real Gwen and her friends and said, “Oh, who are our handsome visitors?”
The blond said, “Warriors on a long journey. I expect they’ll be looking for a place to rest.”
The black-haired Gwen said, “I’ll go prepare the guest beds, though I don’t know how restful their night will be.”
Gwen turned to look at her compatriots. Roy had turned his back, actively avoiding looking at the fake Gwens. Martin was looking more than enough for both of them. Brit tried her hardest to be reassuring. She said, “I know how this looks, but I’m sure the guys behaved in a perfectly honorable manner.”
The blond Gwen said, “Kind sirs, please don’t embarrass us with talk of money.” Real Gwen whipped around to look at her as if she’d heard a gunshot.
“We insist that you stay with us,” the blond said. “Please, you’d be doing us a favor. The four of us have lived alone here since we were small girls. We’ve been without any companionship since our father died, somehow. We have a great deal of delicious food, all of which has been cut into bite-sized morsels, perfect for hand-feeding. We’ll happily share it. All we ask is your company. We have never had men visit before. We are very curious, and have many questions.”
“Not as many as I do, sister,” Gwen muttered.
Oblivious, the blond said, “And, of course, we’ll give you shelter for the night. We have soft beds, satin sheets, silk pajamas, and a large variety of exotic lotions.”
Gwen frowned. “And that answers a lot of them.”
She looked at the blond copy of herself, sitting there coyly with the end of her knitting needle in her mouth. Gwen’s gaze followed the needle down to the actual knitting, which appeared to be underwear. That just seems incredibly itchy, she thought. She chose not to look at the redhead churning butter and instead turned her attention to the brunette doing laundry. She glanced at the actual clothes being laundered. What she saw did not make her happy.