Sirens and Scales

by Kellie McAllen

  “Maybe I do not wish a woman here,” Emich answered, glaring her way, “judging me for the way I do things.”

  Morgen walked to the hearth and took up a metal poker to turn the sausages, which had begun to sizzle and burn in their pan. “Well, somebody should tend to the place.”

  “I do not care if the walls fall down around me so long as I am alone to do what I wish.”

  She went to the table, picked up a bowl, and wiped it out with her hand, and when she wasn’t satisfied with that, she used the bottom of her damp skirt. Morgen searched for two more dishes, finding plates covered with crumbs and grease. She did her best to clean them before returning to the hearth and stabbing the sausages with the poker to serve them.

  Though she found their host misguided and needing of a bit of a tongue-lashing, she handed him his plate first. His narrowed eyes lifted to meet hers as he accepted it, but she didn’t linger. She took her father his meal of sausage and sat beside him.

  They ate in silence. She could tell her father was truly famished, for he didn’t stop once to speak. Morgen looked to a barrel sitting near the hearth. It had been a time since they’d had anything to drink, not including rainwater.

  Emich noticed the direction of her gaze and, without a word, nodded toward the barrel. She took it as invitation enough and found a cup that still held the dregs of his last drink. Morgen scanned the kitchen for other cups and spotted two on a work shelf.

  They got the same cleaning the other dishes had received before she turned the tap on the barrel to let the golden liquid out. Knowing very well that their host disliked conversation but not caring a bit, she spoke up as she handed half-filled cups to both men. “I will need a cloth and water to clean my father’s wounds, if you would be so kind.”

  She lifted her own mug to her lips and took a long drink. The ale must have been sitting for some time, for it was quite strong, and the tangy bitterness told her it was starting to turn.

  Emich glanced over and lifted a dirty rag. He held it out to her, and she was quick to snatch it from him. He waved his hand toward a large rectangular slab of stone sitting at the dark end of the room. “The wash tub is there, unless you want to go to the lake in the dark.”

  She imagined walking into a sleeping dragon and shuddered. “This will be fine.”

  Morgen braced her knuckles against her hips, looking around the room again. “I will get started on the place in the morning. Could use a proper cleaning.”

  Emich shrugged and answered, “As long as you stay out of my way.”

  He walked toward a darkened doorway that led into an unlit room and pointed to another threshold at the other end of the same wall. “You can sleep through there.”

  Without another word, he disappeared into what she presumed were his sleeping quarters. She sighed and looked to her father, who’d been observing everything quietly from his bench. He’d been holding his tongue longer than usual.

  Tybalt cleared his throat and said, “He is a kind man.”

  Morgen couldn’t hold back her scowl and shook her head. “Father, you think the best of everyone you meet. A kind man would have offered a drink to tired travelers as soon as they crossed his threshold. A kind man wouldn’t grumble every time you tried to have a polite conversation.”

  She took the dirty cloth she’d been handed and went to the washtub, a slab of stone with a deep basin carved into its center. Morgen found a bucket beside it on the floor, collected some water and took it to her father’s side. She dipped the rag into it and began to wring and rinse it before lifting it to Tybalt’s face.

  He dodged her hand to say, “And a kind man would not turn his back on someone in need. In time you will see what I see—a good fellow who does not know any better. Fate put him in our path for a reason.”

  Morgen cupped her palm to the uninjured side of his face and said lovingly, “I am not so sure about that. But no one is kinder than you, father. Now let me clean you up—you’re worse than a child.”

  Tybalt groaned and let her dab at his eye, which had swollen closed. She tried to be as gentle as she could while she cleaned the dried blood from his nose. His jaw tightened. She knew it hurt him, but he accepted it in silence.

  When she was done with his face, she pointed to his knee. “You will have to let me take a look at that.”

  “Oh, it is fine.” He waved her away. “A proper sleep, and I will be able to put my weight on it so we may leave.”

  She leveled a hardened stare at him, and he muttered unintelligibly as he lifted the hem of his breeches to reveal his injury. His knee was red and swollen. A long scrape covered his skin. Morgen had little knowledge about healing, but she could see it was in poor condition. She knew her father was in a hurry to find emeralds before the mountains were buried under snow, but it wouldn’t help if he injured himself further by walking on his bad knee.

  She tried cleaning the wound, but he wrenched away from her and said, “That is enough. I will be ready to leave in no time. We best get some rest.”

  Morgen couldn’t argue with that. She was mentally spent after the day’s stress, and the thought of closing her eyes for a reprieve before getting started cleaning this place had its appeal.

  She found the tailings of a candle in an iron holder and lit it in the hearth. Its handle was twisted into what seemed to be a scaly tail. She touched the textured surface and lifted it up to take a closer look. Her father cleared his throat, and she hurried to his side to help him to the darkened, wood-framed doorway Emich had gestured to.

  It led into a small, musty room. The candlelight illuminated a double box-bed with a wooden chest set at its base. A large wooden cupboard stood off the floor on four legs. A painted design was hidden by dust, something she could rectify the following day. She left her father standing with a hand propping him up at the wall as she set the candle on the trunk to open the lower set of doors, revealing the inner chamber’s straw mattress.

  Morgen swept the inside corners, clearing it of cobwebs with the rag she’d retained from cleaning Tybalt’s injuries, then helped her father remove his wet doublet before he climbed inside with a groan.

  She leaned in to kiss his forehead and whispered, “Night, Papa.”

  He touched her cheek. “You see? I told you everything was going to work out.”

  Morgen sighed and picked up the candle so she could close the doors. She knew he was convinced everything was fine, but she wasn’t so sure. What if his leg didn’t heal? How could he mine then? How would they live?

  She tried to push her worries away until the next morning. As she turned, she noticed that the detailed decorative iron hinges that held the doors to the cabinet looked like black wings. Morgen traced her fingers over them. She had never seen anything like them before.

  After loosening the lacing of her woolen dress and pulling it off, she blew out the candle and climbed into her sleeping cubby. The musty smell was all-consuming, though the cupboard helped block out the sound of the rain outside. She lay awake, listening to every noise, wondering if each was a dragon come to take her.

  6

  She woke not knowing the time. As quietly as she could, she climbed down from her bed, noting the sounds of the rain were now silent. It had been replaced by morning birdsong.

  Emich had alluded to her cleaning the place. She would do just that. Morgen slipped on her damp yellow dress and pulled its laces tight over her kirtle, the now-dry undergown. Her hair felt a mess, and she wished for her comb but made do with letting her hair loose and rebraiding it securely at the base of her head.

  She felt her way through the dark into the main hall and kitchen, where she opened a row of window shutters. She blinked at the trees that ringed the green meadow and the sparkling turquoise waters of the lake they’d passed on their ride in last night. The beginnings of daylight poured into the grubby room, which brought a smile to her face until she noticed the dirty clothing, cobwebs, dust and piles of rocks that covered the living space.

&
nbsp; The best way was straight through, so she collected the dishware and cooking items and set them by the washtub to take care of later. She put the clothing that had been left about the room in a pile by Emich’s door. Morgen found a broom with half its bristles missing in the corner and began sweeping. A pattern arranged in the stone floor emerged as she removed dirt, soot and debris. Dust filled the room. She coughed, waving it from her face and stopped to get a breath of fresh air outside.

  “I see you are making yourself at home,” a voice said from behind her.

  She turned around. Emich was not in the same state as the day before. He wore no doublet, and his blond locks hadn’t been combed from his face. He wore only a dirty shirt and knee-length breeches. A leather apron with deep pockets hung around his neck. He must have donned his finer clothing only to make an appearance in town. She thought he looked more comfortable in his work clothes.

  She put her hands on her hips. “You should not bring people to your home if you do not like the disruption.”

  “No truer words have ever been spoken,” he muttered and went back inside.

  Morgen followed him in and lifted her chin. “I always speak the truth.”

  “Could that explain your current predicament, I wonder?” Emich questioned under his breath as he went to the table where he’d covered the loaves of bread.

  Morgen spoke her mind, unafraid of him. “A man who cannot stand the truth is no man at all.”

  His eyes lifted to her face before he cut a slice from the loaf. He ripped off a bite and said with his mouth full, “There is a sack of grain in the cart. It should be dried in the sun.”

  “Is there anything else you wish me to do?” she asked in a sugared tone, watching him cut some cheese from the round.

  “If this place is so detestable, clean it if you like.” Emrich began walking toward the door. “Have your fill, but stay out of my way.”

  “Do not worry, it will not be long before we are gone,” she called as she watched him step outside to walk toward the other building she’d spied through the rain last night. His disposition truly rivaled a territorial ram’s. She wondered if anything made such a man happy or if he had been condemned to a life of misery.

  Morgen may not have liked him, but she did as she was asked. She found the sack he’d referred to and set it out to dry. Then she went to see if she could rouse her father and see if he was ready to face the day. She found him sleeping more soundly than a baby and decided to leave him to get more rest.

  After eating a little bread and cheese for breakfast, Morgen found a bucket for the rocks that had been piled up on the dining table. She paused, holding one of the stones in her hand, and took a closer look.

  She may not have been a miner herself, but she had learned all about the minerals Tybalt had collected through the years. He was fond of his own voice and enjoyed sharing his knowledge. Morgen recognized the reddish hue of the rock. It had a deep silvery shine that she knew to be iron ore. Only blacksmiths or miners cared to collect such stones.

  The smell of smoke was carried in by the wind, and she looked to the soot around the hearth. She knew he had told her to stay out of his way, but she was curious. Morgen stepped outside.

  Another wood-framed building stood near the end of the home. A stone chimney rose above the thatched roof. Dark smoke lifted into the sky out of its opening. She walked closer to peer through the open threshold.

  Inside she found a workshop. A large enclosed stone hearth was built against the center wall. Emich hunched over the glow of a flame. He blew at its base, sending up sparks.

  Morgen sucked in a quick breath, observing the pointed end of an anvil two strides away from him. A tool-covered table held hammers, tongs and bits of iron. She’d overheard curious remarks about him in the village, and she’d suspected. But now she knew. Emich was a blacksmith.

  She’d met far kinder smiths who’d refused to allow her near their forges and was confident this man would never let her near his. That was just as well. Morgen was an expert at silently observing. He wouldn’t have to know she was there, so she stood to the side of the threshold, peeking in through the doorway and studying his every move.

  The morning passed with her secretly observing him work until the sound of her father’s voice called out across the meadow from the home. “Morgen?”

  She was quick to press herself against the outer wall of the smithy building, sensing Emich moving inside. Morgen tried to hurry back to the house without drawing attention to herself and rushed in through the kitchen door.

  Breathlessly, she answered, “How is your leg feeling?”

  He was sitting at the table that was still piled with iron ore. He held a piece in his hand and ignored her question. “This is unlike the stuff we mined at Erzberg. I wonder where it comes from. Could he be a miner as well?”

  “I doubt he knows any craft beyond casting insults,” she answered, keeping Emich’s skill a secret. “He could use them to sleep on for all I know.”

  Her father raised an eyebrow at her, which she ignored. She never kept things from him, but if Tybalt knew they were in the home of a smith, she would never hear the end of it. She could imagine his proclamations of fate putting them in his path for a reason, but she knew the truth of it.

  Life was often unfair. It seemed like fate, if there really was such a thing, was teasing her. The possibility of Emich ever letting her near his forge, let alone giving her a hammer and iron, was as likely as him sprouting wings and a tail.

  She sighed and went to her father’s side to lift his bad leg onto the bench. He winced through a smile, but let her tend to him. The swelling on his face hadn’t improved, and he looked just as bad, if not worse, than the day before. She went to cut him a slice of bread and cheese.

  Between bites, he said, “We should consider leaving tomorrow.”

  She shook her head. “How will you travel on a bad knee?”

  “There is only so much time to find the emeralds before they are covered in snow again. You know this, liebling.”

  Morgen put her hands on her hips and said with certainty, “Papa, I know you wish to make your fortune so you may provide us a home, but it is all for nothing if you make your injury worse. Give yourself time to heal.”

  Tybalt sniffed and avoided looking at her. “If I must recover somewhere, I cannot think of a better place. The lake shines as brightly as your eyes.”

  She turned to glance out the window and shook her head. “But that man. I have never met such a disagreeable fellow. Just this morning he told me to stay out of his way. He dislikes me just as much as he detests you.”

  Tybalt threw a piece of cheese in his mouth and spoke while he chewed. “You are always quick to judge others. He may just surprise you yet.”

  Morgen decided not to comment any further and collected the ore from the table, put it in the bucket and set it at the door. Then she took up a water-soaked rag to clean off the dirty wooden surface, something that likely hadn’t been done for years.

  While she continued cleaning the room, her father rattled on about how to find the best veins of iron without any encouragement from her. She became lost in thought while Tybalt droned on, and she looked out the window to Emich’s workshop.

  Emich was fully absorbed in his work when he heard a voice calling across the lawn. His gaze quickly lifted, and he noticed a face peering around the doorway. As fast as he spotted Morgen, her eyes disappeared, leaving him wondering if he’d only imagined them.

  Emich stilled his hammer and carried his red-hot billet closer to the threshold. He watched Morgen hurry back to the house and slip in through the kitchen doorway. He frowned and wiped his sweaty forehead against his upper arm, careful not to touch the hot steel against the wall.

  He had no idea why this woman would be lingering around his forge when he’d told her in no uncertain terms to stay away unless she was trying to annoy him. She bothered him, though if he was honest with himself, there weren’t many people he was a
ctually fond of. Henkel was amongst the few. To be fair, he didn’t allow anyone close enough to get attached.

  Emich returned his billet to the glowing embers of his forge and pumped the handle of the bellows to heat the base of the fire. His thoughts went to his parents and how his mother used to keep his father company in the workshop. Keep them both company. It had been a long time since she or anyone other than himself had set foot in this sooty room.

  When the glow of his steel billet reached the right color, he pulled it out, rested it on his anvil and began drawing it out with his hammer. He tried to focus on his work—on the blade he was forging—but he kept getting distracted with thoughts of his visitors. He cursed himself for bringing them there. The woman was right. He should not have brought them home if he wanted to be left alone. But something inside of him had spurred him to action. He’d wanted to help her.

  He raised his hammer above his head and let it come down upon the steel. Emich looked down at his dirty clothes and sooty arms. It wasn’t as if she were a fine lady, part of the aristocracy. Who was she to judge when she was unmarried and apparently without any valuable skill? Every time she looked his way, his hardened exterior was stripped away, leaving only a grumbling goat. No wonder she disliked him.

  Emich realized he’d been pounding on cooled steel and quickly stopped, not wanting to ruin the blade. With his tongs, he carried it to his worktable and set it down. He braced his leather-gloved hands on the surface and sighed. He hoped Tybalt would recover soon so they might leave him in peace again.

  After collecting himself, he returned to the house. Voices wafted through of the open door. Emich slowed to linger outside so he could get a better look.

  Morgen was scrubbing around the hearth, trying to remove the black char from the stone floor. The amount of work she’d done was surprising. He had to admit, the hall was cleaner than it had been since his parents’ deaths. He recognized the gleam of the woods and the dull shine of the stonework. He could almost imagine his mother moving about the hall, chiding him for running through with muddy feet.