by J. M. Briggs
“Is it ready?” a deeper older voice questioned behind Myrddin. He knew it was a rhetorical question, asked only for his benefit.
“Yes,” Myrddin answered, grateful that he didn't have to face his uncle as the knot of nerves returned to his stomach.
“Candon, take over the bellows,” the man ordered.
Candon knelt next to him and in a practiced movement took the right bellows from Myrddin's hand as he raised it and finished the movement of pushing it down. Myrddin shifted to the left allowing Candon to take over. Climbing to his feet, Myrddin was thankful when his sore knees did not buckle underneath him.
“Ready?” the man questioned, giving Myrddin a serious look.
“Yes Uncle Dewydd,” Myrddin answered with a quick nod.
His uncle said nothing more, but reached for a pair of heavy tongs and handed them to Myrddin. Dewydd moved over to the stone casting mold that was waiting and gave Myrddin an expectant look.
Carefully, Myrddin reached into the flames with the tongs and touched the crucible. He took a breath and tightened the grip of the tongs on the glowing container. Then, moving slowly, he pulled the crucible from the fire. Blowing on it, Myrddin tried to dislodge the charcoal that remained on the lid before he walked over to his waiting uncle and the mold.
No one said anything as Dewydd used a second set of tongs to brush the last of the charcoal from the lid before lifting it off. Inside the crucible was glowing hot bronze, made of the perfect mixture of tin from the southern peninsula and copper from nearby mountains. It was liquid fire and Myrddin's heart jumped at the sight of it.
“Myrddin,” a soft strange voice called, startling him. “Myrddin,” the voice repeated. It was warm and gentle, but sounded somehow distorted.
Giving his head a tiny shake, Myrddin focused on bringing the crucible directly above the stone mold and carefully poured. It was the perfect temperature, and it flowed smoothly out of the crucible and into the opening of the mold. Myrddin would have sighed in relief had he not been so tense. The last time a scrap of charcoal had ruined it all and they'd had to melt it down, but this time he would get it right.
The mold filled, leaving only a glowing orange spark of the liquid fire visible at the top of the hole. Checking quickly that his uncle and cousin had control of the mold, Myrddin moved the still glowing hot crucible away from them. With no small degree of reverence, Myrddin set the crucible to the side. Finally taking a breath, he tasted the smoke in the air and the metallic tang of the bronze. He gave himself only a heartbeat before he returned to the stone mold where his uncle was eying the golden top with a stern gaze.
“The pouring looked good,” Candon offered him breaking the silence.
“The truth will be in the sword,” his uncle reminded them gruffly, but then he looked at Myrddin with a small smile. Placing his hand on the young man's shoulder, Dewydd added, “But you did everything right.”
They settled into silence all staring at the stone which held something precious to Myrddin. Sometime later, his uncle prodded the glowing top gently, but the metal did not shift. Candon and Myrddin needed no instruction and carefully pulled the stump of wood away so they could lay the mold on the ground. Myrddin unbound the heavy rope that tied the two stones together. He looked up at his uncle and received a quick nod.
“Myrddin,” the voice called once again. It sounded far away and echoed. Forgetting the mold for a moment, he looked over towards the fence just to reassure himself that there was no one there.
“Myrddin,” Candon urged, “Open it.”
Nodding, Myrddin picked up the top stone and lifted it away. He set it to the side without much thought as his eyes locked onto the cooling sword that he'd freed from the stone. The very top of it was still orange with a rapidly dimming glow while the rest of the metal that had been locked in the cold stone was giving off only the barest heat. It needed polishing and some shaping of the edges, but there it was. Dewydd handed Myrddin the second set of tongs which he took eagerly. Using the tongs, Myrddin finished freeing the sword from the stone as the last of the heat faded and with a smooth movement walked over to a large tub of water. Hissing filled the yard as the warm metal met the water and cooled. Myrddin waited until the sound had stopped and pulled the sword from the water. Holding it up before his uncle he waited with baited breath.
His uncle smiled and nodded, clapping Myrddin on the shoulder affectionately. “There you are boy,” he told him, “Your first sword. You've come a long way from ax heads and arrow tips.”
Myrddin was impatient as they cleaned the furnace and the work space, placing wood over the small furnace pit in the ground. They moved efficiently in long practiced movements, but Myrddin's mind was on the sword and the metal working stones waiting at his own home. It would take some time, he knew, to smooth out the bronze completely, to carve a handle and rivet it into place and his hands were already twitching to do it.
Myrddin had long lost track of how many bronze socket axe heads he'd help to make over the years, but a sword…. that was new and he would be keeping it. This piece wouldn't be traded away, but would be his. Swallowing when they'd finished, Myrddin touched his hand to the cooled bronze and smiled. The metal was rough to the touch from the stone mold, but it was free of any impurities that might have weakened it. He glanced up to see an amused look on his uncle's face and an understanding one on his cousin's. Blushing slightly, he bid them both a good night.
Myrddin turned to the low round house that belonged to his uncle and started towards the front of the yard. The conical thatch roof slopped down, almost touching the ground and hiding the woven wood and daub wall. He stepped around the wood pile that was piled under the lip of the thatch roof with a few long pieces sticking out that Candon hadn't cut yet. He followed the curve of the house, passing the entry porch and stepping onto the wide and worn path in front of the house.
The sun was close to setting, hanging just above the mountains that rose over his village. Myrddin's eyes scanned the collection of thatch and daub round houses as people began to prepare for nightfall. One of his uncle's neighbors saw the sword in his hand and gave him a smile. Nodding in return, Myrddin turned right and headed up the low hill for his own home.
This roundhouse stood apart from the others just enough to ensure that they had more space. Myrddin wasn't certain how much larger it was than the others, but the point of the roof top was higher and the interior seemed more massive. Of course some houses in the village were barely seven feet in diameter while he'd always hesitated to measure out his mother's domain. The path wound up the hill along the woven wood fence that kept his mother's pigs pinned. A large brown dog was lying at the entrance of the roundhouse and raised its head as Myrddin approached. He took a moment and patted the animals head before he pulled back the pelt that provided the house with privacy.
”Mother,” Myrddin greeted as he stepped inside.
The roundhouse was a single large circular space and the first thing Myrddin saw when he stepped inside was a set of shelves directly opposite the door. His mother's precious possessions were displayed there including a jet necklace from the western coast, several bronze and gold pins for her cloaks and jars of perfumes that she only ever opened on the most special occasions. There was a fire in the square stone hearth between the doorway and the shelves where his mother usually sat on one of the low wooden seats. There were two beds, one against the right wall and one against the left wall, each piled with woven blankets and pelts. His mother's loom was near her bed to the right along with a collection of pots and baskets holding her supplies.
“My son,” his mother replied from her seated position before a low table.
Myrddin said nothing else and retreated towards his bed in silence. His mother returned her attention to the work spread out on the small table. There were two candles burning in carved stone holders, each one with the triskele carved into them and the small bronze dish in the center held some kind of ground herbs. Myrddin watched as his m
other chanted soft words under her breath and added some ground minerals to the herbal mixture.
As much as he wished to begin work on the sword, he knew that his mother would not accept the noise. Instead he tended to the hearth fire and quietly began to work on a reed basket that he'd begun the previous day.
“Myrddin,” the female voice called once again. “Myrddin, come to me.”
He shivered and picked up a blanket, wrapping it around his shoulders. A sick feeling was churning in his gut at the sound of the voice. He was the son of a priestess, the grandson of a priest, and had always been… different. Once he'd heard his mother speaking of hearing the ancestors, but this voice just didn’t seem like that of an ancestor.
“Myrddin,” another female voice, this one familiar and stern. “Myrddin!”
He jumped and spun towards his mother, swallowing and wondering how long she had been standing there trying to speak with him. Instead of being seated at the table she was right next to him with a questioning look on her face.
“I am sorry mother,” he told her quickly.
She looked at him and it was all Myrddin could do to hold the gaze. Then she blinked and giving a soft sigh, lowered herself onto the ground next to him and the hearth.
“What did you hear this time?” she asked without looking at him.
“A woman,” Myrddin told her softly. “But… it didn't sound right.”
“How so?”
“I'm not sure,” he tried, “she sounded far away and there was something strange about the voice. I've never… heard anything quite like it before.”
His mother's back straightened and she took a long slow breath. Turning, her eyes went to the sword that Myrddin had left on his bed.
“Was it,” Myrddin swallowed, “One of my father's-”
“No,” she answered sharply, her eyes jumping back to him. “No,” she repeated in a softer tone. His mother raised her hand and touched his cheek. “It was not a Sídhe, Myrddin,” she told him. “But there are other things that speak to mortals in such a way.” Her hand dropped back to her lap. “Tomorrow go up the mountain lake to work on your sword.”
“The lake is a third of the way up the mountain,” he protested. “Mother it is nearing winter, it could snow.”
“Go up the mountain,” his mother commanded. “Take the sword, go to the lake and work on it there.”
Myrddin wanted to ask more questions, but his mother took the basket from his lap and began to determinedly weave the basket. He struggled to find his voice and then the wrong question came forth.
“Is this about my father?”
“No…” his mother sighed, “Not completely.” She looked down at the basket in her hands, her brown eyes moist. “Myrddin, in all my travels across the islands of our ancestors I have never heard of another child being born of a Sídhe and a human. Your birth… was special and it attracted attention.” Turning her brown eyes on his son, she pleaded, “Please my son, just go to the lake and maybe you will get the answers that I never could.”
4
The First Day
Michaels Cafeteria was loud at 8:30 in the morning with crashing dishes, clattering tableware, heels on the tiled floor and students who had already had too much caffeine. The large space had sunlight streaming in through the windows that lined three sides of the dining area. Tables in a variety of sizes filled the space with small walkways weaving between the chaos of chairs and tables. One side of the room was lined with booths under each of the large windows.
Alex tapped her foot to what little she could hear of the music that was playing as she waited for her omelet. She looked over her shoulder to decide what else other than a loaded with peppers omelet sounded good. The final side of Michaels Cafeteria was dominated by a long serving bar piled with fruit, yogurt and cereal options. In a semi-circle around the bar were small counters with signs that made it look like a full food court. Most were closed at the moment, but the one in front of Alex was taking hot breakfast orders.
She held a plate in each hand, one holding a few pieces of bacon and hash browns while the other held some scrambled eggs. The counter next to the hot order station had bread and bagels along with a toasting machine and opposite across the way was the drink station where Jenny had gone to check the selection.
“Orange juice, apple juice, chocolate milk, fat free milk, 2% milk and of course a huge dispenser of coffee,” Jenny reported as she walked back over and took the plate with the scrambled eggs from Alex. “Yogurt selection looks pretty good too.”
“I'm not a yogurt person,” Alex replied giving a small shudder. “But the watermelon is calling my name.”
“Here you are girls,” a male voice called to them. “One ham, onion, red pepper and cheese omelet.” Alex stepped forward and let the cafeteria worker slide the omelet onto her plate. “Your hotcake will be up in a just a second,” he added to Jenny.
Alex sidestepped over to the bread and bagels, setting her plate on the counter so she could put a piece of bread into the toaster. She snagged a piece of bacon off her plate and took a bite while watching the industrial toaster cycle the bread through. Jenny joined her a moment later, grabbing a bagel and some cream cheese.
“Any sign of Arthur?” Jenny asked as they walk to the long food bar.
“Nope,” Alex told her, quickly glancing around the room.
“Oh,” Jenny chirped, “There he is! In the far right corner.”
Alex squinted towards the corner, but couldn't make out anything more than two male shapes seated at the table at the distance. She snatched up some pineapple and watermelon on a small plate before walking to the drink station as Jenny kept glancing to where she thought she'd seen Arthur.
“Eyes on the road,” Alex told Jenny as the girl nearly rammed a boy getting some milk. Jenny flushed, but nodded before setting her tray on the counter so she could get some coffee and milk. Chuckling at her roommate's action, Alex poured herself a glass of orange juice.
“Now where did you see him?” Alex questioned.
“This way,” Jenny commanded as she began to weave her way through the other students and towards the back.
It was indeed Arthur seated at the back table, dressed in a University of Ravenslake t-shirt that was already starting to look well worn. He stood up and pulled out the chair next to him for Jenny, kissing her cheek before she sat down.
“Morning honey,” Arthur greeted before turning his smile towards Alex. “Morning Alex, I hope you both slept well.”
“Pretty good,” Alex replied with a shrug as she set her tray down and the table and sat down next to a boy she didn't know.
“Good,” Arthur responded with a quick nod. “Alex this is Lance Taylor, he's a wide receiver on the football team with me.”
Lance was a strongly built African American man who was at least three inches taller than Arthur. Like Arthur he was wearing a university t-shirt, but his was under an open flannel shirt. Both of the football players had trays stacked with food and several glasses of juice.
“Nice to meet you,” Alex told him with a smile. “Alex Adams.”
“And Lance you remember my girlfriend Jenny Sanchez.”
“Yeah I do,” Lance told Arthur before looking at Jenny. “Nice to see you again.”
“Right,” Jenny blurted out. “I remember you now, last Friday Arthur introduced you.” Jenny shook her head and gave Lance an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I have a really bad memory for names and faces.”
“Don't worry about it,” Lance assured her. “You're a communications major right Jenny?”
“Yes,” Jenny replied with a nod as she poured some syrup on her hotcake. “Alex is an English major,” she informed Lance with a nod towards Alex. “And of course Arthur is political science. How about you?”
“Geology,” Lance informed them with a smile. “I'm an outdoors person.”
“Oh where are you from?” Alex asked after swallowing a bite of her omelet.
“Portland,” La
nce answered before digging into a sausage link.
“So, ready for your first class?” Arthur asked, glancing between Alex and Jenny.
“We actually have the same first class,” Jenny informed him with a smile. “It's one of those general education classes.”
“Reason and Critical Thinking,” Alex filled in. “9:30 with …” she trailed off and pulled her folded up schedule from her pocket. “Professor Williams in the Hamilton Building.”
Beside her, Alex was aware of Lance also pulling out a sheet of paper. He chuckled and asked, “Mind if I walk with you? That's my first class too.”
“And now I'm depressed,” Arthur huffed. “My first class is Principles of Chemistry.”
“You could always switch to join us,” Jenny suggested eagerly.
“I'd have to redo my schedule,” Arthur told her gently. “I was lucky to get into International Politics this semester and wouldn't be able to get into another science class for the Gen Ed requirements.”
