Five - Alan
Five
Alan
???
Gerald Powell might have once been an active, albeit not particularly skilled, blacksmith. He had the muscles for it, though a layer of fat now obscured them. Since he had come to Skorsa, however, I had rarely seen him lift a hammer. Before he turned the villagers against me, he had spent most of his limited time in the forge working on the goblets, rings, and candelabra that he couldn’t convince anyone to buy. Since then, he only sweated in front of the fire if someone insisted on viewing his progress on their piece, which was exceedingly rare.
He spent his days in the shop attached to the forge—after he dragged himself out of bed and before he spent the money I earned him at the tavern every evening. By mutual unspoken agreement, we hardly interacted.
Nevertheless, I made sure to hide the piece I was working on long before he might return home. With Mina’s insistence that I keep the leftover gold from the necklace, I had the funds needed to travel far from Skorsa and start a new life. But no guarantee that the curse that plagued me here wouldn’t come with me. While I considered the merits of taking the risk and leaving, I had decided that Mina had made a valid point that shaping the gold increased its value. I wanted to turn some of the remaining metal into more jewelry, things that I could either sell or use to prove my abilities.
If I left.
“Alan!”
I cursed as the unexpected shout distracted me mid swing. Thank Ward, I had a bit of unassuming iron on the anvil in front of me. I was right to have been cautious. Powell always paid a little more attention to me after his visits to the city.
I didn’t stop working. The heat was already leaching out of the metal fast; he could wait until I returned it to the fire for an answer.
When I set the metal down and turned so I could look at him as I worked to get the heat up to what I needed, I found Powell standing in the open doors at the back of the smithy. He had his arms crossed. “Anything happen while I was gone?”
“The Brynsons ordered more nails, hinges, and latches for their new barn.”
“Anything else?”
I shrugged. “You know everyone prefers to wait when you are gone.”
His eyes narrowed. For a moment, I feared Powell would recognize the lie, that he’d somehow realize I had spoken to Mina. That she had recognized my talents.
“What did you tell the Brynsons?”
A quick shift to adjust the iron where it heated in the coals let me hide my relief. It was only Powell’s normal suspicions making him look at me that way. “I gave Phillip a bucket of nails and told him the rest would be ready by the end of the week.”
I’d have had the order completely done by tomorrow if I hadn’t spent most of my time working on jewelry. But Powell wouldn’t want to deliver it until the end of the week, anyway. It would support the story that he had made everything himself.
Though why he bothered, I wasn’t sure. The villagers always found a way to justify their belief that I couldn’t make anything worthwhile. But even after years, Powell still showed that hint of nervousness every now and then, a fear that one day his lies might crumble around him.
I only wish I knew what prompted his moments of extra vigilance.
Powell walked away without another word. He knew I’d handle the work, and now that he had assured himself that nothing had gone wrong in his absence, his interest in the forge waned. Sometimes I wondered what would happen if I simply refused to craft the items for the village. Would he make them himself?
A humorless chuckle escaped as I checked the temperature of my iron. He’d probably spend as little time as possible making everything, then blame the poor quality on me.
The metal glowed a bright cherry red. I carried it over to the anvil and resumed shaping it.
I’d never test my theory. My pride as the last Smythson in Skorsa was too strong to let inferior work flood the village. It didn’t matter that the villagers never believed that I made any of the tools they used; I knew. Every time I forged a piece, I proved to myself that their insults were unfounded.
I needed the work to keep me sane. I had nothing but the clang of hammer on metal, the heat of the fire, and the ache of well-used muscles in my life.
Hazel eyes, bright with wonder, flashed in my memory. Maybe I could find a way to speak with Mina again. If I was careful, Powell wouldn’t notice.
I watched the house through the open doors as I finished the hinge. Just as my stomach started rumbling, I spotted Powell leaving. I put aside the iron and brought out my gold once more. Supper could wait. Mina had mentioned wanting to see what I might make out of the remaining gold. Finishing this piece would be the perfect excuse to seek her out.