Friday Flash Fiction: Ashes in the Sword

Clang clang, clang clang.

The rhythmic beat of the hammer echoed through the smithy, the apprentice moving the sword slightly in anticipation of his masters next stroke. The orange glow of the fire illuminated the work space as the twilight fell outside. There was little of the town left outside the smith's walls and few people to appreciate the sunset.

Clang clang, clang clang.

The raiders had come through and burned most of the village. They'd taken nothing, leaving what few treasure the town had to burn with its buildings and it's people. Anybody who had tried to flee had been run down, shot with an arrow or run through with a sword. This, then, was to be the bloody vengeance the injured lord has sworn.

Clang clang, clang clang.

The people had known what was coming. They knew it the minute somebody had decided to throw a rock to emphasize the villagers refusal to comply with the lords latest demands. They were not his property, this land was not his, and they refused every demand he made for the first fruits of all their labor. Somebody had thrown a rock when he was red with rage at their refusal. Somebody else had seen who it was. All refused to give up the perpetrator.

Clang clang, clang clang.

They did not bury their dead and the funeral pyre's would be burning long into the night. The first heating of the metal to make the sword had been in the heat of the pyre of the smith's wife. The ashes from the wood had been mixed in with the sword in an ancient ritual forgotten by many outside the village. The survivors of the attack had all been there to witness it, pouring their hatred, their pain, into the glowing metal that would be destined to see vengeance done.

Clang clang, clang clang.

The sword was taking shape, the metal more pliable than it normally would have been, being drawn into shape by the smith's anger and rage and grief. His daughter had been one of the ones who ran. His son had tried to protect her. She had died. He stood next to the forge, one arm bandaged to his side, intent on his mission, his goal. There would be little time after this night for his apprenticeship.

Clang clang, clang clang.

They forged on into the night, the metal being worked and molded, glowing with magic as well as heat every time it met the fire. The songs of lament lifted outside in the village, the people sending their loved ones up to the gods, with promises of peace and love and vengeance. As midnight neared, the apprentice began to instruct his son on what was to be done. He would have to gain more skill at sword-fighting, learn subterfuge and the ways of the people of the world.

Clang clang, clang clang.

Things would be hard, his father told him. But he would be there for him, always there for him, throughout the whole ordeal. He instructed him to build a pyre after the  whole thing was done and burn the sword. It would survive anything but being placed on a funeral pyre for all the souls it would release would render it down into the ash from the first pyre it was heated in.

Clang clang, clang clang.

The boy nodded, his tears running down his face and splashing on the anvil as he moved the sword slightly, anticipating his father's blow. The sword glowed as midnight approached, becoming brighter than the fire. You know how to finish it, his father said. How to put on the handle, give it an edge. Make it a good one, serviceable, don't let it call attention to itself.

Clang clang, clang clang.

"Bear witness, my boy," the smith said as midnight struck. "Avenge your mother and sister."

Hissssssssss.

The boy watched as the sword they had forged in hate and anger and grief was cooled in his father's heart's blood. A great explosion rent the air and, when he could see again, his father's body had turned to a pile of ash. He took up the sword and finished his fathers work.

Then, he began his own.

Bonus Flash Fiction: The Detective and the Archaeologist

Eliza Carlisle had never given much thought to the ancient Babylonians. So, it’s no surprise that when she first appeared in the middle of a crowded marketplace, she was confused and more than a little pissed off about being there.

A strange man, not wearing near enough clothes, had grabbed her and started babbling at her on the street. Assuming the man was one of the crazy homeless who occasionally inhabit every large city, she did her best to extricate herself from his grasp without setting him off further. The man was strong and began shoving something into her hand that she later recognized as a pocket watch and mumbled “Baker, Baker, help.” When she closed her hand around the object, the man let go of her and stumbled off through the crowd.

It took her a moment to realize she was the one who was wearing the wrong clothes.

“Oy! Come back here!” She called after the man then started shoving her way through the crowd after him. He ducked into an alleyway and she followed quickly after him. She followed him through the maze of the unfamiliar city, rudely shoving people so she could keep following the bouncing head that she couldn’t quite catch up with. When he ducked into a fabric covered doorway, she saw her chance and ducked in behind him.

Going from the hot desert sun into the dark house blinded her long enough for the man to get away from her. By the time her eyes had adjusted to the dim lighting, the only person she could see was a man who looked as out of place as she did.

“Oh good, he found you,” the man said, standing up and handing her a cup.

“Who are you?” Eliza said, taking the cup from him.

“I do realize I’m dressed a bit differently from the last time I saw you, but I should think you’d recognize the person you punched in the middle of a busy London street.”

Her mind raced but, try as she might, she couldn’t recall punching anybody the last time she was in London. “I never punched anybody in London,” she told him. “I haven’t been there since I was 7, anyway, so I’m certain you have the wrong person.”

“Oh,” the man looked at her, his face guilt stricken. “Oh dear. I deserved it then.”

“I’m sure you did, if a strange woman just walked up to you and punched you in the middle of the street.”

“It was you, my dear, just not yet. I know, because you told me to not bother asking for your help when I found the pocket watch.”

“This pocket watch?” She opened her hand to show him the pocket watch the Babylonian had given her.

“That’s the one,” he said, sitting back down on a cushion and taking a sip from his drink. “Please, sit, have some tea. It’s actually quite good.”

Something had been nagging her about him and it suddenly clicked. “You’re British.”

“And you’re American, as evidenced by your appalling manners. Do sit down, time, while fluid, is currently not on our side.”

“Well, excuse me for asking,” she snapped and sat on the cushion opposite him. “You’re not modern British, are you?”

“Strictly speaking, there is no ‘modern British’ right now.” He smiled at her. “But I understand your question and the answer is no, my understanding is that I am from approximately 100 years earlier than you.”

Questions dragged through her head, each not wanting to be asked. “How…” she started than trailed off. He smirked at her and she shook her head. “That’s not important. No, it is important but not particularly relevant to this discussion right now. Why am I here, why are you here and how do we get out of here?”

“You are here because you punched me in the face and mentioned a pocket watch I hadn’t found yet. I’m here because I was shocked to find a working pocket watch when I was on an expedition to find the ancient city of Babylon. As you can see, I found it.” He gestured to the city around him.

“Yes, very good, well done. Now, how do we get out of here?”

“I wonder if you think I brought you here for revenge. If I knew how to get out of here, I would not be here. You seemed to know how to work the watch when last we met.”

“We haven’t met yet.” Eliza sniffed at the tea in her hand.

“And I accused you of bad manners. My name is Sir Richard Baker, archeologist. And you are?”

“You’re a sir?” She laughed. “I am Ms. Eliza Carlisle, private investigator.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Carlisle. Now, if you could, I’d like to go home.”

“Sucks to be you because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

They look at each other in expectation. “Damn,” he says. “I was hoping to not have to live through an ancient battle. There’s an army on the way and the walls aren’t finished. Won’t be for quite some time, I’m afraid.”

Eliza suddenly figured out why she had punched him in the middle of a street in London. She was hard pressed not to punch him right there. “How did you send the guy to me to bring me here?”

“I could tell you a very long, convoluted story but it comes down to, I don’t know. The man who came from you was one of the few people I know here. I mentioned I was lonely, that if I was going to be stuck here, I’d prefer to be stuck here with somebody I had more in common with. He had the watch in his hand and said he would bring me a companion if he could. Then, he disappeared.”

“What were you talking about the first time you held the watch?”

“My desire to see Babylon as it was being built.”

“Did you think to ask it to take you home?”

He opened his mouth and she could see the sharp retort forming on his face then his expression changed to one of chagrin.  

“Didn’t think of that, did you?” She laughed at him.

“Well, now that you have, I’ll have the watch back, thank you.” He put his hand out expectantly.

Eliza smiled and looked down at the watch in her hand. “Maybe I’ll make a wish, then. Since my life was so rudely interrupted because you were an idiot.”

“I do apologize for the inconvenience. Now, if I could just have the watch back, I’ll see to it we get where we need to be.”

“I’ll wish for us to get where we need to be, thank you very much.” The world around her changed abruptly and Eliza Carlisle found herself in the middle of a street in Victorian London. She scrambled out of the road as quickly as she could and very nearly ran into a man who looked very familiar.

“I beg your pardon, miss,” the man said. “Are you all right?”

Eliza cocked her arm back and punched him across the jaw, knocking him to the ground. “You jackass! Leave me alone! And don’t you even think about coming to me for help with that damned pocket watch! I want to go home!”

She found herself back in her apartment, the pocket watch making itself felt in her hand. The urge to check what time it was, what day it was, was overwhelming. It was only the man coming out of her kitchen, dressed in modern clothes and bearing two cups of tea that stopped her.

“It’s about time you got home,” he said, handing her a cup. “We need to start planning the wedding.”

Why Do I Sew?

This question was posed to readers of Threads Magazine and it struck me as a question that could be incredibly mundane as well as incredibly profound. Why does one really do anything? We eat, drink, sleep and mate out of a desire for survival. Everything we do beyond that is for reasons that are far more complex, though most of them boil down to a survival as a creature that is more complex than a simple beast.

I first became aware of sewing as something beyond a way to make clothes when my mom started making a quilt for me. She pulled scraps of fabric that looked familiar out of boxes with no labels on them that had sat in the back of closets at 2 houses. These were leftovers from the clothes my mother had been making for me since I could walk.

Making a quilt takes time and I was fascinated by the process. I sat with her while she cut out and pinned together the pieces. She told me stories about making my dresses and making her dresses when she was younger. Winning awards in 4-H and designing aprons from scratch without a pattern were magic to a very young me.

As I got older, I wanted to make magic myself. I made pillows. Lots and lots of pillows. Then I made a stuffed unicorn. It was difficult but I did it, and I loved it. When it came time to try and make my own clothes, I insisted on doing them all by myself. I grew out of the first few outfits before I finished them but my mom saved them. They're in her attic still and may some day fit my daughter.

I designed the dress I wore to my senior prom because nothing in the stores that year looked good on me. This was to become a theme. Once I discovered what shapes looked good on me, I began to lament the lack of age appropriate clothing for girls my size. Fashion has come a long way since then but I got a lot of practice making clothes that looked good on me.

I can now find clothes off the rack that look good but costumes? Forget it. While my obsession with costumes, particularly period costumes, is another story, my closet full of them, most of them ones I designed myself, is a very clear indication of the direction my journey has taken. The books on corsets and the making of undergarments that I have give a good indication of where it's going but the why of the journey goes all the way back to the beginning.

I sew because it's magic.