Sirens and Scales

by Kellie McAllen

  “Mmm,” he mumbled doubtfully, but he didn’t outright speak against her.

  He continued blowing air under the charcoal embers with the bellows while he stared at the glowing billet of steel. When it finally reached the right tint of orange, he walked over to pull it out with his tongs.

  Emich set it on his anvil and reached for his hammer. He tried to ignore the fact that he was being watched, but he found Morgen distracting. Her eyes followed his every move, which made him aware of everything he did. He didn’t want to do something foolish, like drop his tools to the floor, which had never been a concern before.

  Hadn’t he told her he wanted to be left alone? And hadn’t she ignored that wish by spying on him daily? So why was he allowing her into his workshop? All of these questions swirled through his head while he was unable to answer any of them. Meanwhile, he let her remain.

  The steel lost its glow and turned a chalky gray, so he turned to drive it back into the dying embers. As he wiped the sweat from his forehead, he heard her ask, “Where do you get your steel?”

  Emich clenched his jaw. This was the sort of question that led to trouble.

  He began to lift and lower the bellows and stared into the awakening embers. “What about you promising not to ask questions?”

  “That is right.” The eager expression on her face crumbled to disappointment. She seemed not to care she’d broken her promise, only that her question remained unanswered.

  Morgen remained in silence until the sun reached its highest point in the sky. She glanced back at the house and sighed. “I should get back to the cleaning. A smell is coming from the washtub that could choke a fish.”

  He looked up at her, realizing she was preparing to leave, and asked a question before he could stop himself. “You think yourself strong, do you?”

  Morgen frowned in confusion.

  Emich hurried to clarify. “We are out of ale. There is a barrel full in the back of the cart. Do you think yourself capable of getting it into the hall?”

  She blinked at him with a blank expression. He knew it was wicked of him to ask. After all, she was merely a woman. To expect her to be able to get such a heavy thing into the house was unreasonable, yet it was the sort of test his father might have given a worthy apprentice. Emich was curious to see if she was just as strong as she thought herself to be.

  She raised her chin, elongating her neck and emphasizing her plunging neckline. “I am strong and determined.”

  “There is another word for that—stubbornness,” he retorted.

  Morgen’s eyes narrowed, and she turned around to leave. Emich called after her, “Do not break it!”

  Her fingers lingered on the doorframe as she glanced back at him. Emich caught her sneer over her shoulder while she walked across the lawn to the house. He couldn’t help but smile, enjoying having someone to tease.

  He found it a little easier focusing on his work when she wasn’t standing there, staring, but not by much because she remained on his mind. Everything had changed. He may not have been contented living alone, but at least he could get his work done, and he wasn’t constantly worried about someone poking around where they didn’t belong.

  He didn’t want to be the one responsible for losing hold of his ancestors’ mountain. That fate was likely if Morgen and her father discovered the mine or the secret behind the dragon protecting it. Generations had flown through these skies, mined the ore and smithed on these very slopes. He was the last of his kin. The responsibility fell to him, and it would likely die with him, too.

  Tybalt could recover any day, and they would leave. Then he could get back to work. There was a chance things would go back to normal.

  That was what he told himself when he returned to the house at the end of the day. Emich had even forgotten the challenge he’d given her. That is, until she walked up to him and handed him a cup of ale. “You look thirsty.”

  He had just sat down across from Tybalt at the dining table when he was left staring at the golden liquid. Emich raised his eyes to the barrel beside the hearth.

  Morgen walked over to it. Her fingers traced along its circular top. With clear effort, she tilted it on its side to demonstrate its weight before gently setting it back down. “The empty barrel is back on the cart.”

  Tybalt took a sip from his own cup and set it down loudly. “She refused my help. I do not understand it—why she was so determined to do it by herself. I told her you could help when you were done with your day, but she insisted.”

  “She did?” Emich asked with a frown, deciding to have some fun with it. “What do you think got into her?”

  “You speak of me as if I am not standing right here.” She challenged him. “Is it such an undesirable trait in a woman?”

  Emich took a long drink and then breathed out slowly. “What, stubbornness?”

  Morgen rolled her eyes. “Nein, determination.”

  Tybalt was oblivious of the truth behind their banter. He answered with a smile and a raise of his cup. “I have found it is never wise to tell a woman which of her traits are undesirable. In regard to you, liebling, I think the fire in your belly to be one of your best qualities.”

  She grinned back at him and clutched her hands together. “I have never heard you speak ill of anyone, father, least of all me. I think you biased in this matter.”

  “He may be right,” Emich ventured to say, glancing up quickly to find her narrowed eyes settle on him.

  “What? That it is foolish to scorn the woman who cleans your clothes and feeds you? I would not know it, hearing you speak.”

  Emich knew he had poor skills when it came to talking with anyone but his kin. This was largely due to the fact he lacked experience. He was often unaware he’d said the wrong thing, and he didn’t care. It was possible he’d offended her, though it hadn’t been with intent. He shook his head, happening to notice the walls and shelves were clear of cobwebs and dust.

  She stood with her hands on her hips as she waited for him to respond. Since he had taken so long thinking in silence, she shook her head and went to the food preparation table, mumbling under her breath.

  He scratched his forehead and grumbled. “I only meant to agree that it was a desirable trait.”

  Morgen hadn’t expected a compliment from his lips. It startled her so much she glanced at him over her shoulder, wondering if she’d heard him right. He met her eyes before looking away.

  When he’d challenged her to retrieve the barrel from the byre, her pride wouldn’t let her fail. Not only did she want Tybalt to avoid helping her and risking further injury, but she also wanted to prove to Emich and herself she had the strength and fortitude to do it on her own. She hadn’t known whether he was making a mockery of her or not, so it mattered even more she prove her worth.

  Admitting to him she wanted to be a smith had been hard. She’d grown used to keeping it a secret because of the scorn and amusement it created. She had expected him to send her away from his workshop, but surprisingly, he hadn’t.

  That night, when she helped Tybalt into bed, he muttered, “I know you are not fond of him, but I think him to be kind.”

  She was hesitant to agree aloud but permitted herself to say, “He is not practiced at it, I think.”

  Her father adjusted himself on his straw-filled mattress. “You might be right. Living alone can make one bitter.”

  “Rotten, more like,” she muttered.

  While she snuggled into her own bed, trying to find sleep, she recalled her time inside Emich’s workshop. She could not remember a time she’d ever stood so close to a smith at work. Morgen had tried to pay close attention to every move he made, committing it to memory. Who knew if his bitterness would return and he would send her away?

  The next morning she got up to fry some batter fritters in a pot of lard but found his door open and his room empty. Morgen was curious and stepped inside. The room was dark. The window shutters hadn’t been opened, so she walked over to let some light in.
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  She found his private quarters in a state similar to the one the hall had been in when they’d first arrived. The stone floor was dirty, and cobwebs hung from the ceiling. The impressive wardrobe in the corner needed a damp cloth to remove the grime that had built up, and she decided to take care of that.

  The four-poster bed was curtained and enclosed. She admired the detail in the embroidered panel at its end, noting the dragon that covered the fabric. She observed the theme—winged hinges on their box-bed and the reptilian tail candleholder. A chill swept down her spine.

  The mountain was called Drachenberg. Clearly he and his kin lived close to the dragons without fear of being eaten. Maybe it was as the men in the village had said. What if Emich’s kin had made a deal with the devil’s serpent? But she still didn’t know how his parents had died. What if they’d been eaten or burned alive? Maybe she wasn’t so safe here after all.

  10

  Morgen heard her father moving around in the other room and went out to help him to the bench. A melancholy smile touched his lips.

  “You are happy in a home you can tend to,” he said. “I will do my best to provide you with one before my joints cease to work. If my blasted knee would heal, I might have a chance at it.”

  She didn’t often see him like this. He wasn’t one for sitting around and doing nothing when opportunity was over the next mountain.

  “Well, until it is better, sit back and let me take care of you.” Morgen put the pot on the fire and added some lard. She pushed up her sleeves, poured out some flour on the worktable, added water and began to make fritter batter.

  Tybalt watched her work and sighed. “Sometimes I think you imagine me to be senile and witless. I am a grown man and can take care of myself.”

  “But then what would I do?” She drizzled her batter into the awaiting pot of lard and used a pronged fork to turn the fritters. After a moment, she lifted them out with the tool, set them on a plate and took it over to him.

  “If we found you a husband…”

  “I have not met a fellow I could tolerate long enough. I wish to be more than just a wife.”

  Her father took a bite and tried cooling it in his mouth. “I suppose it is my fault because I never spoke ill of your dreams. I encouraged you. Well, the world works in mysterious ways. And it is at work this very moment to deliver you to your fate.”

  Morgen made more fritters, put them in another bowl and went to the door. “It is Emich’s fate to eat his breakfast. I will be back soon, Papa.”

  She thought it wise for Emich to start work on a full belly, but taking him food also served as an excuse to return to the workshop. Morgen approached more confidently this time without the intention of hiding beside the threshold. She stepped into the smoky, darkened room and cleared her throat.

  Emich was lifting the handle of the bellows and looked up. “Ja?”

  She held out the bowl. “You should eat.”

  He grunted and nodded to his worktable. “You can set it there. I will eat when I have time.”

  So much for showing gratitude or thanks. Morgen did as he asked. When she put the bowl beside a row of hammers, she eyed them closely. “Did you make all of these?”

  “Some of them. The others were passed down from my kin.”

  She nodded and examined all the tools spread across the table. They were all slightly different, likely for different tasks, which only made her more curious.

  Morgen asked, “What are you making?”

  Emich sighed. “A blade.”

  “What kind?”

  He shot her a glare, which left her unfazed. She was aware she’d made a promise not to ask about his business, but he had allowed her to watch, and until he kicked her out of his workshop, she would persist in asking questions.

  “A cutting knife.”

  “For the kitchen?” She craned her head to look into the glow of the forge. “Do you ever work with wrought iron?”

  Again, she avoided his annoyed gaze and waited for him to respond.

  “Not often.”

  Morgen gestured toward the house. “Then who made all of the hinges and ornaments?”

  His wide eyes lifted to her face, and he said in clear frustration, “All of your questions exhaust me. If you insist on remaining here, you might as well make yourself useful. Come here.”

  She couldn’t believe her ears. Morgen walked leadenly to where he stood. Emich stepped away from the bellows so she could take hold of the long wooden handle, and he put his hand over hers, beginning to lift and lower it. The bellow’s leather folds opened to collect air and then blew on the embers under the forge, making them shine like the sun.

  “There you go. Like that,” he muttered and stepped away. “Do not stop, or it will not get hot enough.”

  “How long do I do this for?” she asked.

  He picked up his bowl of fritters and took a bite. He pointed a piece of his fried bread toward the forge. “Until I take the billet from the charcoal.”

  “How do you know when you should take it out?”

  He sighed, finished chewing and swallowed. “The color.”

  Morgen kept lifting and lowering the handle of the bellows, noting the puffing sound and brightened glow in the embers. Her heart beat loudly in her ears. She couldn’t believe she was standing so close to a forge.

  It wasn’t long before she had to switch arms. It was tiring work, but she didn’t want to fail, for it was all too clear he thought she wasn’t capable of this sort of work. She could see it by the way he watched her. Morgen was not a weakling. She was not so small a brisk wind could carry her away like a feather; she was sturdy, muscular beneath her layers of clothing. After all, she’d been raised by a miner who’d showed her how to swing a pick.

  The heat in the darkened workshop permeated her layers of clothing and her pores. Sweat began to collect at her temple and under her arms. If she were a man, she could have gotten away with wearing only a tunic or leather apron with breeches. She could see the benefit of being clad in so little.

  Emich finished his food and stood by the forge, staring into the glowing embers, occasionally demanding that she quicken her pace, which she did despite the strain on her arms and back. Though the temptation was there to slow or stop, she was unwilling to do so. She had always known the trade would be challenging and that she would be surrounded by churlish men.

  Emich pulled the billet from the forge and hammered away at it on his anvil. Loud clanging echoed off the walls. Morgen stared unblinking at the steel as it was slowly drawn out. She was surprised when the day slipped by and he let her stay.

  Emich pulled the newly forged, steaming blade from a bucket of water with his tongs and set it on his worktable. He rubbed the sweat from his forehead and glanced her way. The bodice of her dress was moist. Stray hairs stuck to her temple as she waited for him to speak.

  “Are you ready to stop?” he questioned.

  Morgen had passed that point a while ago, but she wasn’t ready to admit it. She wiped her face with the sleeve of her kirtle. “If you would like me to start your meal, I can.”

  He lifted his leather apron from around his neck and gestured to the door. “You deserve a rest. What will your father think at the sight of you?”

  She was surprised by his show of concern. Or maybe she’d mistaken concern for worry of Tybalt’s reaction.

  Morgen walked from the workshop’s threshold, rubbing a black smudge from her wrist. The smell of smoke followed her out. She sensed Emich close behind her as she stepped into the late afternoon light. Long shadows stretched across the lake from the trees and mountainside.

  As soon as she stepped inside the musty home, her father’s voice greeted her. “Look at you. Where have you been?”

  Tybalt was standing at the worktable, filleting a fish. Morgen went to his side to scold him. “What have you been up to, is more like it? Have you been down to the lake by yourself?”

  Emich came in and lingered around the threshold, appe
aring uncertain whether he wanted to join them or not. Then he edged closer to the hearth fire.

  Tybalt smiled and patted his daughter’s shoulder. “I am on my way to good health. It is only a matter of days before I can hike away from this lovely mountain with no more than a memory of my discomfort. So tell me—where have you been, liebling?”

  Morgen turned around to catch Emich’s gaze. She was surprised when he spoke up before she had the chance to. “I am to blame for your daughter’s absence. She was helping me at the forge.”

  Tybalt lowered his knife and glanced at Morgen with wide eyes. “The forge, you say?”

  “He is a smith, father,” she muttered.

  “It is fate, indeed!” Tybalt exclaimed. “Why did you keep this from me?”

  She didn’t know what to say. They would be leaving in a few days’ time according to her father. She knew Tybalt would get excited and make a big fuss out of it when it made no difference.

  He didn’t wait for her to answer, and said with a smile, “You will find no one better to assist you, dear Emich. My daughter would benefit any smith at their forge. You both deserve the lion’s share for dinner tonight.”

  Emich gave a confused frown and disappeared into his private quarters. Moments later, he reemerged into the hall, his blue eyes focused on her with a fiery glare. “Was it you who meddled around my room?”

  “It was,” she answered and lifted her chin in defiance. “And it needed it too. Just as dirty as the rest of the place.”

  He roared and threw his hands in the air. “How am I to trust you if you keep ignoring my wishes?”

  Her voice rose in response. “I only ignore what is foolish to begin with. Your room needed a cleaning and so do you!”

  “Enough!” Tybalt limped away from the table to stand between the two of them with his hands stretched out to both. “You bicker like infants over nothing. Morgen, you owe the man an apology after he asked for privacy.”

  “Father?” She was insulted. She’d had no intent to nose around in his things, only to take care of the place. Maybe that was a stretch of the truth, but she wasn’t about to admit it.