Merchant of Death

The birds exploded upward in fear with each strike

of hammer to anvil. His fiery beard was matted in sweat

and he became aware of an armored man at the entrance

of his forge. He took five minutes more and turned.

"What is it, my lord?"

The helmet in the soldier's hands gleamed like raven's eyes

and he said, "I have come for what I am owed. I cannot wait

a single day longer. Why do you delay me? Do you think

that I will not take your head for this treason?

Remember what can be lost."

The smith's eyebrows narrowed and in his eyes there was danger.

"Would you hurry Arrhenius? Shall I send you afield,

upon some mighty charger, wielding a weapon brittle as a virgin?

It cannot be today. Tomorrow. Tomorrow."

The warrior left behind the horseshoes and bundled nails

hanging on their hooks beneath the meager overhang,

mounted his roan horse, and rode away, muttering.

The metal was insulated for its annealing.

In the hands of the smith were small and intricate tools

and he was carving delicate patterns into brass.

Tonight he would not be permitted to return home.

While he slept with fitful dreams the crystals had shifted.

When the sun was threatening to come again he rolled from

his woven reed mat and put blade to grindstone,

the sparks less pain than point would grant,

the clamor weak in compare to clash of edge on bone.

An immense blaze,

red as a lover's tongue when speech has ceased, lapped at the sky.

With heavy tongs he pulled the iron free and plunged it into water.

The steam was an offering to that god who never fails to thirst.

A dozen times more, he made this violent prayer.

In the distance, dust came from wind that was not wind,

the feet of men keeping strong-booted time, their greaves

no longer bright. A stallion sped ahead and was held in reins

just as hilt and guard were fastened. There was no sunset

but the air held the promise of blood and so for a time all men

were dusted crimson. The smith handed the sword

to a man bred for battle, raised from the womb

for the raw work of war. (Oh, better that his mother drank him away!)

The champion tossed a pouch of copper and silver on the ground

and said, "You have done your duty." He rode to be with the banners.

The men marched by. There may have been a thousand. Who could count

so many? He saw their dirty greaves and recognized his hammerstrokes.

The metal plates fitted to their tunics had been mostly his work,

though for such pedestrian labor others had been contracted.

No helm seemed to sit upon a brow as design intended.

Their scabbards were worn and some blades were notched even then.

In front there were the greybeards, their faces stony and proud,

who having been pious all their lives felt no need to beg mercy.

There was the baker's first son, walking beside his brother,

neither having the embarrassment of a shaving cut beneath their belts,

marching. There was the son of a farmer, his skin brown

as the loam he worked just two weeks before. There was

the son of a woodcutter, his face harder than the throwing axes

hanging from harnesses about his waist.

Who would return? Their faces all became the same.

One mother's boy through darkest magic made a hundred,

a sacrifice set with loaded dice, death hurried

though death has never failed to find a door to knock upon,

somewhere in the distance a field parched, laying fallow,

waiting patiently for the sweet gift of the spear.

Behind the conscripts strode men armored head to foot.

The birds no longer seemed to fear a sound.

On all their chests, he saw his breastplates bound,

each longsword from his forge waiting to be whetted,

and all for an offense none recalled but none could forgive,

four hundred men-at-arms clothed for killing by his craft.

He placed two sacks of provisions onto his donkey's back

and heard the hooves but did not feel the air. Each o'erturned

rock seemed the sound of a crushed instep, the tired panting

of everyday exertion of the tenor of pierced lungs,

an indistinct animal cry of pain in the forest the gasping

of a horse that had always preferred sugar to apples

(though of course it would eagerly accept either).

Six days later he arrived at his village.

He knocked upon the door of Greta, who sold cheese and bread.

He knew that her husband would not be home.

In his outstretched hand were silver and copper, pieces of round metal

stamped with the visage of a noble man, and he found he had no words.

She shook her head and with hands thinner than rice paper she

gathered two loaves and a half pound of a hard yellow wedge,

tied it in a leather satchel, and nodded her head in goodbye.

He came to his house, fed his animal, gathered his things,

and opened his door. Immediately he was struck in his stomach.

He looked down to see a mass of bouncing curls with arms

pulled as far around his body as they could go. He lifted his son aloft.

"Ah, Goibniu, you grow stronger by the day. Have you tended the garden?

Are the eggs of the chickens gathered? A month is long to be alone

for one of seven years, even for a man so fine as yourself,

and to remember all the responsibilities of our house is a feat indeed!

Now, if you have made mistakes, it is of no great importance.

Oh, how overjoyed I am to see you! Come, speak to me!"

Goibniu released his grip upon his father and said,

"I have behaved honorably, sir. I have said prayers

to my dear departed mother each night as the stars grow bright,

I have treated animals with kindness, foiled the advances of the weeds,

trusted that the supplies of food you left would suffice until you came again.

Why were you gone so long? You said you held no anger for me,

that all would be explained when you returned. Do not think me rude,

but now that we have embraced, will you keep your promise?"

The smith reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of brass

of exceedingly fine workmanship. All around its treelike form

were birds in miniature (the jay with its proud crown, a sparrow forlorn,

a swan without a home). "Look," the man said, and he removed

a slender pin from what must have been the eye of a owl.

"They all will sing a different song."

He placed the pin through the eye of the sparrow and twisted a dial

beneath the sculpted gift. The strains of the nightingale emerged.

He laughed, "Oh, yes, they all sing different songs, but I'm afraid

that they're not always right for the birds!"

Seven feathered beauties were contained therein and with each

passing song Goibniu's eyes grew with tears. "These tunes,"

he said, "they were not just of the birds. Did not my mother

whistle them at my cradle? Did she make that mournful song

while hanging laundry on a line? Oh, what skill you have!

My father, the most skilled craftsman who drew breath!"

"Ah, my son, you will make the very gods rise against me in anger.

I am but a man, and you too can make anything you desire.

We are not better than others, we must work. Why do you think

that I had to be so long departed? I needed perfect concentration

in order to make you this gift, time for contemplation so that

it would be perfect, would preserve my beloved wife's voice

for you, you who I love above all others. I am sorry to have left you.

Please forgive me." The boy murmured tired phrases.

Soon both were asleep.