Between lessons today, I suddenly decided to quickly write a piece to contribute to the discussion in a writing workshop. So, since I was short on time, and the subject was “Historical Fiction”, I fell back on well-trodden ground, and wrote about the trials and tribulations of being a reluctant blacksmith, and dealing with insistent customers.
Overwrought
No, Einar, I can’t forge you a fucking anchor, you drengr prick.
My grandfather was a shipwright, and each of the karves and byrdings that he had a hand in building – splitting and riving the planks from long logs of oak with wedge and mallet – used a stone anchor. A simple thing, with three holes in it for the ropes.
A stone, Einar. Go find yourself a heavy rock, and stop bothering me with your stupid request.
Do you have any idea how long it will take just to get that much iron ready? My charcoal burn was pretty piss-poor this year, so it’s going to be a stretch, let me tell you. I’ll have to see if Thorkil, from Heiðabýr needs another pair of hands for a week or so. Trading my hard-earned skill and sinew-stretching labour for the raven-black coal I need just to be able to make a start on your fucking anchor.
… Of course I’m going to do it. What kind of smith would I be to say no to such a job? Besides, I know you, Einar. All your boasting and ale-froth oaths don’t come from nowhere. I know more than anyone how sharp your sword is – or was, if you haven’t had the sense to keep it sharp, and dry in its sheath of linden, and lamb’s wool, and leather – even if you have all the wits of a nithing Jutish mud-wallower. I doubt you’d be able to sail your longship into my forge, but even so, I’d rather not be spitted on your spear, or be chopped down by you in a holmgang.
I’ll tell you one thing for nothing, hrotti. Each hammer-blow on that yielding yellow iron, every spray of Muspell-sparks from that anchor-shaft? That’s going to be your head…
…in my mind.
Dani O'Shea 