by Mike Shevdon
"Cold iron, is it?"
"We're not sure. We don't get too close to it."
That brought a grim smile to his lips.
"You'd better come in, but I'll lock the dog up first."
"Don't worry, he won't bite us. We'll be fine," Blackbird assured him.
"I was thinking of the dog."
He walked the dog back to the house, leaving us standing outside the gate. He was only inside for a minute or two and then he walked back out accompanied by another man. They were from the same mould, these two, the same shoulders, the same wide set walk so that they ambled rather than strode. Even though the older man was now thin-haired and grey, you could see the muscles that still burdened his frame.
The younger man lowered his head and explained something to him quietly as they walked across the yard in the gathering dusk, becoming silent as they came within earshot. He came forward and walked to the gate, drawing back a long bolt so the gate could swing open wide enough to admit us.
"You'd better come in." He was reluctant to admit us, but he did it anyway. We stepped through, wary of the iron on either side of us.
"This is my dad, Ben Highsmith. I'm Jeff."
"I am called Blackbird, and this is Rabbit." The animal names sounded strange in the context of an introduction, but the old man just nodded as if he expected something like that.
They didn't offer to shake hands or make any other welcome, but led the way to the farmhouse. I followed after Blackbird until we reached the door of the kitchen. Blackbird halted at the door.
"Come in. I'll put the kettle on and we can talk business." The old man's voice was like his son's but hoarser, lived in.
"Sorry, would you mind?" She nodded towards the beam over the doorway.
Hanging there was a huge iron horse shoe with its open end down, like a magnet. Even from behind Blackbird I could feel the waves coming off it. He picked it off the nail and took it inside. We followed to watch him carefully balance it on the beam over the door from the kitchen into the rest of the house.
He turned to see us watching him. "No offence meant."
"None taken," Blackbird responded.
He opened the door and yelled through the gap. "Meg, get James down here, will you?"
"He's on PlayStation." The reply came from up the stairs beyond the door.
"Tell him to come down."
"He's on PlayStation." She repeated it as if that explained why he wasn't coming.
"One minute," he remarked, and went through the door, closing it behind him.
The kitchen was well fitted out with modern appliances and a big range cooker at one end, all lit by modern spotlights over the work surfaces. Jeff filled the kettle and set it on one of the rings to boil. He indicated the big kitchen table and we took a seat at one end. One of the dogs barked behind another door, presumably a utility room of some sort.
There was something about the house that made me uncomfortable. The kitchen was modern and well equipped without being at odds with the age of the house. It all looked very cosy and tasteful, but I felt I couldn't rest there. There was something about it that jangled my nerves and set my teeth on edge.
The door to the house re-opened and a sullen teenager in a black T-shirt illustrated with paint-splashed writing came through, followed by the old man.
"This is my grandson, James. James, this is Blackbird and that's Rabbit."
"Funny names," the boy remarked.
"Mind your manners, especially with their kind."
The lad muttered something under his breath and went to sit down at the other end of the table.
"James here is a modern lad. He sees no use in spending time at the forge and learning how to make iron turn to his will. He likes computers, don't you, James?" This was clearly a long-standing dispute.
"Dad, let the boy be," the father interrupted in a tired voice.
"Show him." The old man's request was directed at Blackbird.
"You want us to show him the knife?" Blackbird asked.
"No. I want you to show him why the Highsmiths have been the High Smiths to the Seven Courts for nigh on a thousand years. Things have changed, I know, and the boy needs to go his own way." He nodded an acceptance to his own son. "But I want him to learn the ways of iron first and for him to know why he must learn them. I want him to have something to tell his grandchildren. Come to that…" He went back to the door. "Just wait a second, will you?"
He opened the door and yelled through. "Meg? Lisa? Come into the kitchen. There's something you've got to see."
"Dad, I don't want the girls involved," Jeff insisted.
"Don't you? Lisa's spent more time in the forge with me than James ever did. You say I've got to let the boy have his way? Well that's fine, but someone's got to carry on the line."
"The women have never been part of it, Dad. You know that."
"Not true. They just haven't been part of it for a very long time, but you keep telling me times have changed and we have to adapt. Well, I'm adaptin'." He folded his arms across his broad chest.
The woman from the yard appeared in the doorway. Behind her was a girl about the same age as my own daughter, with fair hair tinted honey-blonde in a way that made you think it was the outdoors that had bleached it, not chemicals. She had a rangy quality you see in long distance runners. Against her mother's plumpness she looked lean.
Now they were together I could see that the boy took after his mother. He had the same down-turned mouth and thickness of hair. The girl took after her father and grandfather. She would be tall, lean and fair, though probably without the thickness of muscle.
"What's this all about, Ben? These people upset the dogs and yet you bring them in and set them at my kitchen table and then you pull us all in here. No offence meant, but I tell it like it is." This last was addressed to us.
"I apologise for interrupting your evening, Mrs Highsmith," Blackbird responded. "And we're grateful for your hospitality, but our need is urgent."
She acknowledged Blackbird's apology with a nod but then focused back on her father-in-law. "Well, Ben?"
"The Highsmiths have been on this land for almost a thousand years, Meg. You joined the family fifteen year ago, and you've been a daughter to me, you know that. But there are secrets in this family that have been kept for all of that time."
"What's he talking about, Jeff?"
The son looked helplessly at his wife and then his father, caught between secrets unshared and the events we had brought into the house. "I'm sorry, Meg. It's about the land, the forge, the farm, all of it. You know the rent on this place is a pittance. Well there's another part to it. These people are from the landlords and they've come to collect the rest of the rent."
"What do you mean, the rest of it?" Her voice was rising in pitch with her anger.
"I mean they want us to make things for them. Iron things."
She looked from one man to the other and neither of them would meet her gaze.
Ben turned to Blackbird. "You'd best show them. They won't believe you otherwise."
Blackbird nodded. "Rabbit, perhaps you could show them what you showed me in the Underground station this morning?"
"What, here?"
"Here, please, and now," she insisted.
"Do you mind telling me what this is about? Jeff? What's going on?" Meg's voice was getting more edgy by the second.
"They're not 'uman, Meg, not like us." He shook his head, unable to meet her questioning stare.
She looked at us, pulling her daughter to her, as if she was unprepared to believe what she was hearing but unwilling to risk that it might be true.
"What do you mean, not human?" she asked him.
I had done this before, but not for an audience and I wanted it to look good. Yet as soon as I started to focus I realised something was different. Something about how it felt reminded me of the moment out on the Way when I had become lost in the void. I had called it and it had answered. Now when I called, it answered as i
f I had never broken that connection. It was right there waiting for me, always present. The image flashed into my mind of being haloed in cold white fire, hanging in space, and I felt something tense inside me, something huge.
The lights in the room dimmed as I drew on it and at the same time the dogs in the next room started baying in long mournful howls. Everything went still. The hum of the fridge, the background noise of a TV in another room, everything just stopped, leaving the sound of the dogs isolated in the stillness. The electric lights flickered and died and gallowfyre flooded into the room.
"Shit! Shit!" The boy stood up at the end of the table and backed away, knocking the chair over in the process.
Just as in the vision Kareesh had showed me, a piece of mistletoe hanging over the door of the room with the dogs in it flickered into life, glowing green in the half-light in response to the magic building up like a thunderhead in the room. Cold white fox-fire danced into being on the worktops, bouncing like playful stars along the edges until the entire room sparked with it.
"Jeff?" Meg shepherded her daughter away from us towards the end of the kitchen where the old man and his son watched us with grim faces. "Jeff, make him stop?"
"It's what they are, Meg. They're Fey. They won't hurt us. They need us." His face looked grim in the swimming light.
I barely heard him. The void sang in my veins like a heavy chorus. I felt the hunger of it building. I felt its need swelling within me. The room burned with cold flickering fire and that fire knew me, sang to me.
A voice came though the swell of it.
"Rabbit? Can you hear me, Rabbit? Let it go. Let go of it now." Blackbird coaxed me down like a policemen talking a jumper down from the ledge of a tall building.
I released it, pushing it back, and it flickered and died. Regret accompanied that release. I knew I couldn't hold it forever, but part of me wanted to, wanted to revel in it and bathe in that ethereal glow.
The lights came on and the fridge juddered into life. The background noise re-established itself. Blackbird's hand rested on mine for a moment.
"Are you well enough?" she asked.
I nodded, shaken by the intensity of it.
"What have you done?" Meg asked the question of the two men, glancing at us as if we might leap out of our seats and bite her.
"It was done a very long time ago, Meg. We just carry the burden, as will they." The old man indicated the children. "We're not just Highsmiths, we are the High Smiths of the Seven Courts of the Feyre. We have the land and the house and all that goes with it. In return we work iron for those that can't abide it. I didn't know if they would come in my lifetime, but they're here and we must pay."
"What happens if we don't pay? What happens?" The question was initially to the men, but then redirected to us.
"Mrs Highsmith, we haven't come here to threaten you or your family, but to seek your help. If no one will help us then there may be worse times ahead for all of us, human and Fey alike."
Her appeal was interrupted by a mobile phone ringing. Everyone jumped at the sound and then listened to it ring until the boy, James, pulled it from his pocket and answered it.
"Hullo?"
He listened for a moment and then continued.
"Yeah, the power's been down here as well. It must have been some sort of problem with the supply."
He glanced at his father and then at me and then mouthed a single word to his mother, presumably the name of the caller.
"It's fine now and we're all OK," he said. "Yeah, thanks. Did it? Yeah, me too. I'll talk to you later. Bye."
He looked at his mother. "That was Jaz. The power was off in the village and for miles around. Her mum wanted to know if it was off up here too." He looked over at me again. "I think she was just ringing to see if we were all right."
"You mustn't speak of this James," his mother instructed him. "Tell no one, understand. You too Lisa, not even your best friends, OK?" They both nodded solemnly.
"What do you want from us?" She addressed Blackbird and I directly.
"We need to get something remade." She unzipped her bag and pulled out the wooden box, placing it on the table and sliding it towards the far end within their reach. "It's been broken for some time, but we've only just found out."
The old man stepped forwards and unclipped the catch. He lifted the lid of the box and the wrongness spilled out of it. Blackbird hissed between her teeth.
"Snapped clean through," the old man commented professionally, holding up the handle end. He showed it to his son who took it from him and examined it. "It shouldn't break like that. Any idea what happened to it?" he asked us.
I was grinding my teeth together at the jarring dissonance it created in the room. It was Blackbird who answered for us.
"We think it was dropped." Her expression of distaste echoed my own.
"Still, it shouldn't break like that. What do you think Jeff?"
Jeff held it up to the light. "I think it was cooled too quickly. Look at the way the discoloration's taken here." He scratched his nail on the flat of the blade near the break.
Their love of the dark metal was a reflection of our own distaste. It came to me that it was what was wrong with the house. It was nicely fitted-out, but it was steeped in iron. When you looked, there were nails hammered flat into the beams, an iron trivet sat on the worktop next to the stove. Everywhere, little bits of it were incorporated into the fabric of the house.
"Can you fix it?" Blackbird's question was straight to the point. We wanted to spend as little time near the knife as possible.
"No, once broken is broken. You can't weld it or even reforge it. The iron's too pure to work it after it's cooled. We can make you another though. We've got the metal, haven't we, Jeff," the old man offered.
"That would be excellent. When can you do it?"
"We can do it tomorrow. It'll take about a day to make."
"You'll have it in the morning," Meg Highsmith interrupted, "even if they have to work all night."
They both looked at her, then at each other. Then the old man nodded.
"Tomorrow then, but late morning," he agreed. "Lisa, go light the forge, will you?"
The girl nodded seriously to her grandfather and went around the room the long way around the table to avoid us, slipping out into the yard and the last of the daylight.
The old man dipped into the box again and pulled out the other knife.
"This must be the Dead Knife. I've never seen either, though I was told about them, of course. This one is something different, though." His voice had a tone of respect in it. He passed it to his son, who gave him back the broken Quick Knife to replace in the box. Once the broken parts were seated in the recess made for them, he closed the lid and Blackbird and I could relax. He smiled at our obvious relief at the closure of the box.
"It was never meant for your kind, that knife. Cold iron, it is, and hard as it could be made, though brittle with it. That's why it broke. The tiniest fault would be enough. This is a different matter, though."
He took the Dead Knife back from his son.
"This was made by the High Maker of the Six Courts. Fey metal, it's near enough unbreakable." His voice was filled with respect as he examined the leaf-shaped blade, then put the point on the surface of the table and flexed the end of the blade, the tip bending so it formed an elegant curve. He let it go and it sprang back, ringing lightly with a clean clear note.
"Here, it was made for hands like yours." He passed it across, holding the back of the blade so I could take the handle.
The wooden handle was smooth with use. It had a metal core that spiralled back around the handle end so that it formed part of the handle. As soon as my hand touched the metal, the blade shivered and went black. It didn't just darken, it went completely black. I turned it and it moved without reflection, giving it an odd hollow aspect.
"It was made to respond to the Feyre, just as the Quick Knife was made for human hands," Ben added.
I put
it on the table and slid it towards Blackbird. As soon as my hand left it, it returned to the dull metal it had been. She hesitated and then tapped her forefinger on it, lightly, to test it. Nothing happened, so she picked it off the table and it flickered to life. The blade changed colour, turning ruddy grey and then glowed a dull red.
"It's not hot," she said, but was then startled as the blade burst into flame, long licks of flame travelling up the blade away from her hand.
"Wicked!" That was the boy, James. It was pretty impressive.
She turned the blade in her hand, the fire rippling up the blade like a burning brand. "What happens if you–"
The fire along the blade turned blue and intense, the tip turning slowly white, spreading down the blade. I realised that I could now feel the heat coming off it, though Blackbird was unaware of it. She placed the blade back onto the wooden table and then picked it up quickly as she realised it had scorched the surface of the bleached pine. The dark outline of the blade was there, scorched into the surface of the wood.
"I'm terribly sorry…" she apologised, glancing at Meg. The blade returned to yellow flickering flames again.
She turned it this way and that, looking for somewhere heat-proof to place the burning knife.
"Here," I said, "give it to me."
She hesitated, then passed it to me and for a second both our hands touched the knife, my open palm and her fingers on the handle. The flames went black, like the reverse of fire. They still rippled off the blade, but they were flames of shadow, not light.
I glanced up and met Blackbird's look. She felt it too; a meeting in the metal, a mingling of her magic and mine. Her eyes widened and she snatched her hand back. I had felt her warmth. What had she felt that made her snatch her hand away like that?
The blade went black in my hand. It was cool, cold even, and I was about to place it back on the table when I changed my mind.
"What did you do to make it hot?" I asked her.
"I just focused on it, like you do with the Ways," she answered, clearly as mystified by the knife as I was.
I focused my will gently on the knife and tried to connect with it. It was as if it answered but there was only vast emptiness. I reached further into it and it appeared the same, like a bottomless well. It didn't react to me the way it had to her. I shrugged and was about to put it down when I had another thought.
