by M. Woodruff
All fireplace screens in The King’s residence were Black’s Hand originals depicting The King in various flattering poses engaging in various important duties, given as a surprise gift by The King’s own staff. The iron was worked with such precision as to cause a fright to some of the household. After the life-size depiction of The King playing his favorite game—tossing a bag of beans in the hole or otherwise known as “The King’s Sport”—was placed in front of the ten-foot-high fireplace many staffers experienced the sensation of being hit from behind with a bag of beans. One even pointed out evidence in the form of a large purpling bruise on her right buttock. In the smaller version of “The King at His Toilet” where The King was shown sitting in front of his mirror having donned one of his many masks as he primped his false hair, several ladies and a few men, could have sworn they saw The King winking at them.
The superb artistry was not the only cause for the high demand of Black Mountain iron—it was also the inability of the iron to ever rust. No other iron producing towns had ever been able to find a sure fire way to keep the metal from eventually breaking down. But Black’s Hand had, and nobody knew how, especially the villagers themselves. They didn’t know why or how their iron didn’t rust, but they had learned that certain men had a certain way with it that enabled their iron to stay out in all elements and never turn color or flake, always maintaining that unmistakable Black Mountain luster.
It was generally considered these men had the mountain’s own luck and were hence given the distinction of master craftsmen and were the only ones allowed to actually mold and fit the iron into the various requested pieces. The regular workers were allowed to pour the molten metal into basic molds, but the master craftsmen designed the molds and continued with the process from there to shaping, smoothing, and polishing. Oftentimes, with particularly complex pieces of small parts the master craftsman would design the casings and even pour the molten iron into the molds himself. Even the more general applications that iron was used for—tools, farming equipment, kitchenware, and such—were only allowed to be ultimately completed by the masters to make sure the non-rust warranty was guaranteed. Even with the abject nature most Black Hand’s workers exhibited, there was still a fierce pride in the quality of their work that bonded them in their collective misery without engendering any desire for competition amongst their own.
There were ongoing tests to see who had the innate talent to become a master. After young men had finished their apprenticeship, they were required to forge a piece of iron into the design of their choice and then place the finished piece in the testing yard with their distinguishable mark etched onto it. There it would sit open to the weather from there until any sign of rust began to appear, which most did slowly begin to take on a dullness then the brown redness would begin to pepper the once pristine surface. When it was confirmed rust was present, the work was tossed into the iron graveyard, a large open pit hidden at the top of the mountain between several craggy peaks. It was said the mountain would reclaim its own essence and purify it of any taint these unworthy men might have wrought onto her precious gifts. The remaining pieces would stay in the testing yard until the time its creator was needed to replace a departed master.
There was no personal joy or pride in creating a perfect piece as no one felt slighted or discouraged by their inability to produce rustproof iron. It was what it was, and instead the men of Black’s Hand focused on denigrating the ironworkers from other towns as dullards that were only capable of producing shoddy work that wouldn’t last a fortnight.
Nels and Henry liked Scoggins, he was one of the gentler souls that lived on the Black Mountain, which was not to say he was soft or particularly kind, just that he was a little less gruff and course than the others. He would often allow them to leave off sweeping or tending the forge to watch him work on some of his most delicate designs. Once, a great lady, a wife of one of The King’s functionaries, commissioned a brooch in the likeness of her deceased pet bird. Unfortunately, no description or drawing of said bird had been included with the order. Undaunted, Scoggins had created the most fantastic bird anyone had ever seen, working the metal into such elegant hues the brooch could have rivaled nature itself. The great lady had declared the work to be the exact representation of her bird and went on to commission a life-size model of her bird to be displayed in his empty cage.
They had enjoyed watching his work so much neither one of the boys had made an attempt to be promoted to the dangerous duties of the foundry. With more and hotter fires, larger quantities of molten iron being smelted, and endless hordes of men moving in random swirls ceaselessly, pools of sweat dripping on the floor, this was the place young apprentices proved they were men ready to be forged by the mountain.
Once Black’s Hand men had completed their aboveground education they were then forced into a whole new world. The domain of the Black Mountain itself. Few boys had ever actually been down into a mineshaft before; it was prohibited and very often guarded, although usually only laxly with a drunk or sleepy lone man. Some boys would inevitably invade the mountain’s inner sanctum, but only getting a handful of feet down before the whisper of the wind or the groaning of the rock would send them scurrying to the more comforting dark of the night.
Here was where all men began their life, born in the dark, with any remaining light left from their childhood scoured from their souls. It was a rite of passage that many chose never to leave. All had to be tested for the Black Mountain’s gift, and if they had it they would be sent to work in the foundry when their time came. Others were promoted to the foundry without the gift if the need and desire was there, to once again see the sun, but never the light—no man ever really saw the light again. But there were many, maybe most, who chose to remain hidden in the shadows for the rest of their days.
Miners worked from before the first inkling of the start of dawn until the last shadow had departed the earth for the day. There they remained cocooned in the darkness night and day, only able to tolerate artificial light, cursing the sun if they happened too close to a shaft entrance at the wrong time of day. The miners were offered days of rest, but wanted none—the sun had become too offending and the men wanted no truck with it; better to be working in the darkness of the rock than resting in the clutches of the light.
Nels and Henry both had unconsciously chosen to remain boys so they could stay watching the artistry of iron come to life. Nels spilt water and forgot to clean it up, causing Scoggins to fall and bruise his hip. Henry, while stoking the fire, turned with a glowing hot poker in his hand, knocking Scoggins in the gut, scorching his tunic and searing his skin. When asked if the boys were ready to move on to the foundry, Scoggins always gave an emphatic No! And over the years, the incidents continued, Scoggins thankfully never getting too badly injured, and the boys never seeming to learn any more conscientiousness in their work. But in a peculiar way they had grown to love—if not love, at least respect—Scoggins as something akin to what an instinctual urge said a father should be.
Harran was a miner, he would never be a master craftsman and he would never leave the shafts—he was a lifer. He only saw the boys on the way to and from work and during breakfast and dinner. He never spoke—he never had anything to say. He never inquired after the boys and how their apprenticeships were progressing, though he knew they were still in the smithy because he saw them emerge from the building when it was time to go home. He had no feeling about their still being in the smithy even though they should have long since been working in the foundry and almost ready to enter the shafts—younger boys than Nels and Henry had been working the foundry for years. He didn’t feel disappointment or shame about his boys’ lack, no one asked about one another in Black’s Hand. It was what it was. There was no fault or blame or pride or joy attributed to parenthood. Once a child was born, the child just was, there was no better or worse child. Each dealt with the lot they were given with seeming indifference, even when the violence set in. And no child ever left t
he Black Mountain.
Nels knew he wanted to leave. He had been down to the foot of the mountain to watch the traders come to the biannual market. He saw the variety of caravans and knew there was more to life than just working iron. He really saw it that day as he heard the men and women talk about their travels, told stories about certain inns and towns; and as they spoke Nels began to visualize each every place with such detail he felt he was there. He could smell the meals cooked, his eyes burned from the smoky tavern, his ears rang with villagers raucous laughter.
He was returning back up the mountain later that day as the sun was setting, his head still traveling many leagues away when a sudden noise to his left made him stop his wandering thoughts. He stood on the path in the midst of a small patch of woods littered with boulders. The path steadily inclined upwards and even though the terrain was basically flat it had a certain tilt to it that if one stood still the optical illusion would make the body feel the need to right itself to keep from pitching backwards. So as Nels stopped he found himself leaning forward and feeling slightly off balance without recognizing why. Then he heard, before he could see anything in the waning light, a faint hiss and an even fainter touch to his left cheek.
Turning ever so slightly, he bit back a scream as his eye was looking directly into a glowing yellow orb. He knew that eye.
It had been years since he had seen that snake in the woods, but even so he had never really forgotten about it. Its unusual appearance coupled with such innate malice had left its mark no matter how far he kept it buried. And now here he was facing the horror again.
It was hanging from the limb of a tree, seemingly having grown longer and larger than ever, up close. But interestingly enough, Nels wasn’t afraid. Once the initial shock of finding a snake in his face was over, he found himself…curious. Obviously, the snake wanted something and because Nels had already had a day that had opened up all kinds of new possibilities maybe trying to communicate with this weird reptile wasn’t such a bad idea after all. If it had wanted to kill him he would have already been dead.
Taking a step back so Nels could look the serpent in both eyes, and in case it did try to strike he might would have a very slight chance of dodging. The snake cocked its head inquiringly and Nels all of a sudden saw freedom. He saw life outside of Black’s Hand. He saw leagues of forests, open plains with long grasses swaying in the breeze under bright blue skies; he saw sandy beaches being lapped by oceans, large desolate landscapes of blowing sand shifting in the wind; he saw cities as he’d never seen before with tall stone buildings and streets, carriages carrying fine ladies and gentlemen, street entertainers and vendors hawking everything from meat pies to porcelain plates.
Overwhelmed, Nels sat down hard on the rocky ground. He could really see it, so clear and real in his head, it wasn’t like his imaginings earlier. Then he knew he was just making pictures up to go with the traders’ stories, but this…He really saw these places and knew them for their truth. He could visit any one of them and see just what he saw in his own mind.
He looked at the white snake as the snake looked back at him just as intently. The serpent seemed to loom closer, stretching impossibly until Nels was staring at one eye once again and there he saw himself. Walking out of a forest, a bow and arrow over his shoulder and a brace of rabbits dangling from his hand, he waved to a woman presumably his wife as she emerged from a picturesque cottage with a young boy and girl running towards him, calling “Papa! Papa!” He saw it, and within that vision he knew that was exactly what the yellow-eyed snake was offering him instead of the bleak future that was sure to be his on the Black Mountain. But what would be the price? Nels didn’t understand much about the world at large, but he did know this snake didn’t have benevolent intentions in mind, but would it be worth it? He could certainly have a wife and children in Black’s Hand, but he could never have happiness, and wasn’t some measure of happiness, if even only briefly, worth something he’d eventually be willing to pay?
He nodded at the viper then. “I accept your deal, but first you have to get me out of here.”
The snake drew back, ascending up into the tree boughs once again, but not before giving Nels one last look that seemed to offer a nod in return.
Nels and Henry had gone to work as usual that day, no one speaking on the way there, carrying their lunch pails full of hard bread, cheese, strips of beef, and even an apple tart. Above all else, men of Black Mountain ate well. They had placed their pails and coats in the small closet used just for that purpose and went in to get the forge fire burning. Scoggins arrived setting up his workspace. He was working on one of his finest creations today.
A certain wealthy wool merchant had been cursed with three ugly daughters and no sons. These daughters were so ugly both on the outside and inside he despaired of ever finding them husbands. He would have gladly paid any amount of dowry just to be rid of the shrews. He had searched far and wide, but no matter how high the inducement, once a prospective groom spent any time with any of the sisters, he tended to make tracks faster than any racehorse. The father had lost all of his hair in direct proportion to his wife’s increasing distress over the fact her poor, sweet, angelic daughters should be so unfortunate as to have a father who either cared not a whit about them or was so thick-headed and incompetent he was unable to find at least one suitable bachelor.
Which of course wasn’t really the problem, he had found quite a few “unsuitable” bachelors when once he was set upon by a gang of hardened brigands. They had readily agreed to release him upon his offering of his three lovely daughters for brides, who would happily cook and clean for them. He had even bought the three lucky chaps—who had been selected by the gang for their undeniably luscious manes of hair—tailored clothing, polished boots, and a trip to the barber for a shave and washing only, no cutting allowed. Everyone had been in a festive mood until the bandits actually saw their brides-to-be, at which point the father was forced to pay out all of the coin he had originally saved for dowries, under pain of death. When told they were still welcome to take his daughters, married or not, the brigands declined and departed.
Now deprived of any dowry, the wool merchant was forced to think beyond the pasture. He knew men’s heads were generally turned by a pretty face or shapely figure, which his daughters didn’t possess, but just what if…So, in his desperation he concocted a scheme. He didn’t know how it could be done, but if anyone could do it he knew it would be the master craftsmen of Black’s Hand. He sent in a commission for three beautiful facemasks that had to be so lifelike and so supple no one would be able to guess they were actually metal. He also requested iron undergarments that would create the illusion of a perky bosom, a tiny waist, and a full bottom.
Scoggins had actually felt an alien stirring of passion when he had received the order. It would be the upmost challenge to design and create wearable iron masks that in no way resembled metal or the oft-used porcelain masks that had no bend. He had set to it with a will and today he would begin weaving together the tiny metal threads to create the “skin” of the masks.
Both Nels and Henry had been fascinated with this project. They had never heard of masks before and never really thought of ladies’ underclothes. So as Scoggins had sketched his designs they both fell somewhat in love with these iron women. And as he began to thread together the flesh-colored metal, the two were perched on either side of him in rapt attention. The masks would leave openings for the eyes and nostrils, and just around the mouth so it would gently pinch in the lips giving them a full, pouty look. The nose itself would be the only hardened part of the mask, held in place by a multitude of tiny iron rods that wouldn’t bend when set to the desired style.
It was a time consuming process that was taxing Scoggins’ diminishing eyesight by having to manipulate such fine threads and rods; his temper was beginning to become frayed. He started taking his pique out on the youths by barking inane insults such as complaining of Henry’s bad breath and accusing Nels of
evacuating wind, when Scoggins himself was the true culprit. The boys at first took no thought to the old man’s mood, then with a certain amount of eye rolling, and finally with a sense of humor, even giving back quips that had the old man grunting with approval.
That is until Scoggins left to go relieve himself.
One of the first rules apprentices always learned was to never touch the master’s work. Short of saving the work from pending disaster, they were never to so much as breathe on it.
While Scoggins was gone, Henry took it upon himself to get up close and personal with the beloved mask. He began caressing it gently; speaking soft words, and finally appeared about to plant a gentle kiss on the mouth hole when Scoggins walked back in.
Nels had been watching and warning Henry he was going too far, that if the old man caught him, he could even be banished from this forge and be forced to work for another master. Nels realized too late he should have been keeping a watch instead of lecturing Henry for all the good it did. Because in walked Scoggins just in time to see Henry nose to nose with the prized mask, lips pursed in full pucker.
Scoggins shrieked. Full of rage, he shoved Henry aside with surprising strength for an old man and told him to get out in no uncertain terms. Henry, stunned, began to cry. He had been beaten and worse before, so it wasn’t the violence that brought him to tears, it was the realization he would never get to see the love-of-his-life masks again. It also brought him to the deepest depravity he had ever experienced in his fourteen years.
