Smith

by Wade Adrian

  Tomorrow. Maybe. If he ended up outside again he’d want it.

  Apparently farmhand clothing was pretty much exactly what Mary had been sporting. He had a set of overalls, a clever way to not be sure of his actual clothing sizes, more so judge by height, a red t shirt, and a heavy denim work shirt. No new shoes had shown up, and she hadn’t taken his, but she did bring new socks, blessed woman that she was. She might not have taken his old socks, they might have crawled away when he wasn’t looking.

  The guy in the mirror looked… like a farmer. The overalls didn’t have belt loops, but he buckled the belt on anyway. The empty gun holster on his right hip and the heavy knife on his left, as ever. They might shift some but that was preferable to leaving it behind.

  The heavy work shirt wouldn’t be as warm as his hoodie, but it would probably be sufficient. It would hold up better, too.

  Stevens was waiting in the lobby. “Hey Farmer John, you see Smith about?”

  “Cute.”

  “We try. Still a bit early for food, but that means you can get there first.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  The square was about as busy as it had been when he called it a night. A few people were milling about, and the kitchen staff was setting their tables up again, but other than that it was empty.

  Bishop was there, of course. He waved them over to one of the picnic tables.

  Smith plopped down on the bench. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

  “Occasionally. Can’t help but feel it’s a waste of time somehow.”

  Workaholic. That fit. “So, everything is ready for me to get started?”

  Bishop smiled a bit. “Calm down. Breakfast first. No reason to work yourself to death. You see anyone else here doing that?”

  “No one else here is being tested for admittance.”

  “Tested? That was yesterday. This is today. Today I want to see one of these bows. Quite curious, honestly. But that has nothing to do with letting you stay. That has already been approved.”

  Smith blinked a few times. “Wait, really?”

  He nodded. “You needed a sponsor, and seconds, and then to take the matter before the council. I sponsored you. Miles and Stevens seconded. The council, by the by, is just the heads of each… department, if you will. Some are individuals, like Rawlins our medic, while others oversee several people, like Wilson, who runs agriculture.”

  Smith tilted his head slightly. “I didn’t realize any of that was going on.”

  “Of course not. That would taint the results. You are let in, given a test, and the results speak for themselves. You were cleared last night. Wilson abstained, but changed his vote to yes when he heard you helped out his daughter at the fence.”

  So Mary wasn’t just a farm hand, she was kin to that branch. Huh. Maybe the girl in the inn was kin to the old innkeeper, then. Bunch of families. “Didn’t do it for that.”

  “Exactly.” Bishop nodded. “Knowing would change things. You’d go try to curry favor, give a different impression.”

  “Eh…” Smith shrugged. “Probably not. I was never good at that sort of thing. Prefer to let my work speak for itself.”

  “Well, it has. There may be a few more things to discuss this afternoon or evening, but you’re free to do as you will with the day. We have a generator waiting at the shop, as well as a few rattle cans, since you mentioned it. We don’t really expect much of you until the shop is in order, but you’ve piqued some curiosity and it’s worth gambling a bit of gasoline on.”

  “I thought that stuff was worth more than gold.”

  “To some.” Bishop shrugged. “We don’t exactly have a Chrysler out back, so we don’t have much use for it, and it will be useless if it sits too long anyway. We’ve tried to ween ourselves off electricity where possible. Just not much to be had.”

  “What about solar, or wind? You’re getting water from somewhere. Maybe hydroelectric it up.”

  “All options on the table… assuming we find the resources. So far, we haven’t. A few solar panels, but no batteries to store it, and a general lack of electrical knowhow. Not something to risk an amateur messing with if we can afford to wait.”

  “True. Sorry, that’s not my field.”

  “Don’t fret it. You have your own important work to do. Incidentally, you’ll probably end up a council member before long.”

  “What? Why me? I don’t know anything about this place.”

  “It won’t happen for a few weeks, at least. By then you’ll know everyone, that part won’t take long. The reason is that you are already a division unto yourself. In a few years we might have children who can apprentice with you, but as it stands they’re either too young or already assigned. They’d have to volunteer to change, and be given leave. Some things are… more difficult. Mr. Rawlins doesn’t have an apprentice either, even though we’ll be in a bad spot if anything happens to him. Medicine is complicated. A few have already dropped out and taken different posts.”

  Stevens looked away. He had been seeming to pay attention without simply watching before, but he definitely reacted to that.

  “Nothing wrong with that, of course. You’ll probably have the same problem. Things take time to teach. The more complex the trade, the more time. There’s plenty to be done here, regardless.”

  A door opened, letting out the smell of cooking eggs and bread. An older woman in a floppy hat stuck out an arm holding a metal triangle and beat the everliving hell out of it with a spoon. “Breakfast!”

  Smith winced a bit at the sudden racket.

  Bishop chuckled. “You get used to it.”

  11

  Smith’s skin crawled as countless people wandered by. Well, not countless but a lot… to him. He’d been alone for months. One other person was a lot. There were forty or so there for breakfast, and apparently some were late or were not expected to come by.

  Any of them could have a knife and… he took a deep breath and stood up from the table. His breakfast was already gone anyway. He hadn’t taken much.

  Bishop glanced up at him. “Something wrong?”

  “Just want to get my rig finished. Bugs me to leave things half done.”

  The older man nodded. “Alright. I’ll be along in a bit. Wait to get started, would you? I’m hoping our hunting lead gets back in time to see one made. It should make his day.”

  “Sure thing.” Smith waved as he walked. He had to dodge a few people on the path, but he made it to the shop a few minutes later.

  The doors were shut, but that didn’t matter. He leaned against them in the shade, letting slow breaths in and out.

  “You okay?”

  Smith sighed.

  Stevens kept his distance, his hands in his pockets.

  “I thought I was done being stalked.”

  “Here to help.” Stevens shrugged. “And maybe a little stalking. As much for your sake as anyone else's. Takes time for people to adjust to new arrivals.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “Don’t like crowds, huh?”

  “That obvious?” Smith glanced up at him.

  “Most people from outside have trouble with it. I didn’t much care for being surrounded either when I was let in a year ago.”

  Smith tugged on his beard as he pushed off the wall. “It get any better?”

  “A bit. The thing that really changes is they stop looking at you funny. You’re just another guy, and treated as such. Once you get there and no one is watching all the time, it gets easier to breathe.”

  “Mmm.” Smith nodded. “Hope you’re right.” He grabbed hold of the large door’s handle and yanked. It opened with only minimal complaints from the hinges. A generator and gas can was sitting beside the workbench, and a few rattle cans were waiting there as well.

  The pair of them opened the doors on the side as well, daylight entering from the north and west. The east side had a set of doors as well, but those were still buried behind wood and metal scrap. The south side was home to the workbenches
and tool chest, so it lacked doors, though it did have windows they could open.

  To say the place was a mess was a ridiculous understatement, but part of it was his fault. The anvil and washtub in the middle of the floor for instance. Once the place was empty he could measure and make some estimates on putting in a forge and a more permanent placement for the anvil and various other things.

  For now he busied himself with the bow rig. Stevens helped cut the boards and build the heating channel. The V shaped channel should be fine. He’d had a square one in the past but he didn’t see any reason why this one wouldn’t work.

  The last bits were coming together when Bishop arrived. He leaned inside and looked around. “Well, look at that. I can see the floor. Is this the same building?”

  “Not really.” Smith set the length of PVC pipe aside. There had been a tiny stub of a carpenter’s pencil in the tool chest. He’d need to find something better, but it would serve for a few of these.

  “I can believe it.” Bishop nodded as he looked around. “What else do you have planned for it?”

  “Me?” Smith leaned against the workbench and crossed his arms. “It’s your building.”

  “To me it was a junk repository. To you it’s useful. It’s your building.”

  “Huh.” Smith rubbed at his chin. “Well, I have some ideas, just thought I’d have to argue for them, get approval and whatnot.”

  “Ugh, no. I don’t want to be bothered with every little detail. Better things to do. Like nothing.”

  A hooded man covered head to toe in leather with a layer of torn green rags hanging from his shoulders followed Bishop inside. There was a small quiver on his back and a bow in hand. “Huh. Haven’t seen this open in awhile.”

  Bishop pointed at Smith. “Baron, Smith. Smith, Baron.”

  The hooded man nodded. Smith couldn’t even see his eyes.

  “Nice to meet you.”

  The hood moved as Baron took the place in. “Heard you survived outside for a year. Shame they want you locked up in here.” His voice had a scratchy quality to it.

  Bishop raised an eyebrow at the hunter. “Are you questioning my judgment?”

  “Yes.”

  Bishop grinned. “See, Smith? Nothing to worry about, all friends here. A lesser man would have him in a stocks or something. If we had any. Think you can build me one?”

  Baron ignored the older man. He wandered over to the workbench. “I hear you can make bows.”

  All Smith could see was the man’s beard sticking out the front of his hood. It had more than a little gray.

  “I’ve made some in the past, yeah.”

  “Well, color me a skeptic, but I’d like to see you succeed anyway. We could use them. What’s the pull, on average?”

  “Depends on the length, and the material. This is a three quarters pipe. I’ve had them as low as twenty five and as high as forty five. With one inch pipes I have a hard time getting under forty, and it quickly climbs to silly levels I can’t pull.”

  Bishop glanced back and forth. “Well, I’m glad you speak the same language, because I’m lost.”

  “Draw weight. Pounds of force.” Baron picked up the pipe and examined it. “Still skeptical.”

  Bishop scoffed. “I saw him make a knife from a file with a blowtorch. Give the man a chance.”

  “Not doubting the man. Doubting the material.”

  Smith smiled a bit. “Well, if you’ve got a few minutes, I can show you.”

  The hood nodded.

  Baron had a strange impact on Smith’s notion of this place. He was a man that spent his time outside, yet still called this place home. He knew the world of today and how to live in it, even if the rest of them wouldn’t be able to exist outside their walls. His presence… grounded the entire thing. Made it seem more real. More possible.

  Somehow it lifted some of the weight from Smith’s shoulders. The thought that this place was one toppled wall from chaos, or a handful of gang members away from burning down faded away. There were competent people here. Plenty for him to focus on his own work to support them. Maybe even to make a life for himself. That was a dream long dead.

  He shortened the pipe by another inch from each side and moved his other measurements to match. The siyahs would be a bit shorter, but it would make for a more powerful bow. Ironically, shorter ones were also more portable. There was a minimum length, though. If a natural draw put too much stress on the bow it would bend, and if a natural draw was not possible because the bow was too heavy to pull, it would be difficult to aim no matter how powerful it was.

  It didn’t take long to get the process rolling. The generator provided way more power than the old heat gun needed. It turned on and worked without any fuss, though the smell of it burning off the dust that had built up inside was less than pleasant.

  He heated the first limb in the metal channel until it was a bit softer than a garden hose and had Stevens help putting it into the press he had set up. After a few seconds of tweaking the pinned material left and right he got it straight enough to suit him and let it cool.

  Bishop and Baron watched all the while, asking questions now and then. He answered them as simply as he could. He had a bit of a tendency to ramble. Timing was important here, he didn’t need the distractions.

  The second limb was always easier, as the first one being shaped meant it was hard to lay the second one wrong. He made the same tweaks while the second limb was cooling in the rig.

  Bishop rubbed at his chin. “What do they call a bow smith?”

  “A bowyer.” Baron answered before Smith could. “But I don’t think the term applies.”

  “But he’s making a bow.”

  “Not traditionally.”

  “What does that matter?”

  Baron shrugged. “Suppose it doesn’t. But the word means what it means.”

  Smith chuckled a bit as he pulled the bow from the rig. “I’m a more traditional fletcher, if it’s any consolation.”

  Bishop tilted his head. “What’s that?”

  “Guy that makes arrows.”

  “So you’re just weapon guy in general.”

  “Sort of. Unless you need armor.”

  Bishop’s eyebrows crept up a bit. “Armor?”

  Smith set the first limb back into the heating channel and flipped the generator back on. He had to raise his voice a bit over the racket. “My interest in this sort of thing started with armor. I made some rough bits, that were absolutely terrible, and took them up to the local renaissance fair in my backpack. Was… fourteen or so. The blacksmith there was kind enough to not laugh at a dumb kid who knew next to nothing. Gave me some pointers and his card. Let me hang out while people worked. Told me what they were doing and why. The next year I got to help out. I didn’t get paid, mind you, but I didn’t care. I got knowledge and experience, he didn’t have to deal with child labor laws, and I got to hang out at the fair all day every day for a month.”

  Stevens rolled his eyes, standing ready with the rig. “So you’ve always had a screwy work ethic.”

  “I guess that’s one way to look at it. Flip that board over, by the way. We’re going to use the other end, and the other side. We don’t need the elevated part.”

  Stevens spun the board in his hand, the bolts used to elevate one end now sticking up into the air.

  Smith kept the heat moving along the channel. It wouldn’t take nearly as long to heat the last five inches of material as it had to heat the other two feet or so. It was already starting to round out again. “Close up that larger clamp, too. About the same opening as the smaller one. Both sides are going to be flat as can be.”

  Stevens dutifully did as he was told, with a few more instructions here and there.

  Once the end of the limb was back in the press, clamps holding it down, Smith held the rest of it up, eyeballing the alignment. The material was warm and malleable, so he had to keep it as straight as possible on his own while putting the proper bend in. This was the part tha
t would make or break the project. Anyone could get to this step, but screwing up either siyah meant starting over with a new piece. The proper angle, as he recalled, was about twenty five to thirty degrees forward from the limb.

  He fiddled with the limb as long as it was malleable, trying to make it look straight. Trying to make it perfect. Granted, perfect was almost impossible when working things by hand and by eye, but one developed a familiarity for such things given time. It was the very definition of experience.

  “Wish I could say exactly what I’m doing here, but it’s really just… trying to make it right. I’ve screwed up enough of them in the past to know what incorrect looks like. Kind of a universal law that nobody does anything right the first time. If you think you did, you don’t know how you messed it up.”

  Baron was watching closely, leaning toward the bench. “Think I see what you’re getting at.”

  “Yeah? Cool.” Smith took the clamps off and examined the alignment. It seemed… pretty good. Not far enough off to need reheating. “I can heat it up again, but each time I do it loses some elasticity. I can even fix one that bends to far, but like a broken bone, its going to get stronger in that spot. Stronger in this case is bad, since it means it will bend less.”

  The second siyah went faster, though the end cracked a bit. It was fine, but it was a useful thing to point to. “This is a distinct possibility. If it cracks too much, you’ll have weak spots. This here isn’t a problem. Non essential material I was probably going to sand down anyway.”

  Once both were done, Smith turned the bow over in his hands. The handle was a little off, so he heated and pressed it to make it more hand shaped. It gave him a final chance to tweak the limbs a bit, since the middle was hot.

  He nodded as he held it up to Baron.

  12

  Bishop glanced down at it over Baron’s shoulder. “Is it done?”

  Smith shook his head. “More letting you see what I mean. It needs notches for the string and…” He sighed. “I forgot to come up with cord for this part.”

  Bishop glanced aside at Baron. “Do you have a spare one?”