a rebellious boy that needs the billows of discipline, not the fires of war,” John said flatly.
Nathan made his way to the fire where the sword John had been forging still lay in it, its white hot metal beginning to spark. “This sword that you have been forging… What would happen if you were to leave it sitting here in the billows?” questioned the captain. “Would it not fight for life, spark, crackle, and hold on to its form just before it smelted into something else altogether different?”
“I know what you’re saying, Nathan.” interjected the weapon master still blotting his stained face… “But my son is not hardened metal. He’s just a boy that’s grown up in this village… And Safehaven is just that for him. It’s a place where he can have the goodness of life. Have we not worked toward this safety? Have we not bled for such a place? Now that it has grown into a township, it has become the perfect place for him to begin a life of his own, forging his own name in the world. In this safe world...” Nathan watched as John settled himself onto the stool that he had fallen over, brushing his clothes off. “… He built this stool on his own. It was his first craftsmanship. The fire was too dangerous for him, so I told him he could start by working with wood. He so much wanted to be like me back then. Now, things are so different.”
“When your campaign days were over, and you were finally healed of your wounds… When I brought you here… you knew that sense of confinement as well. John, it was like a prison sentence for you. You told me that, remember? Why do you expect your son, your first born not to feel the same way?” asked Nathan.
“My wounds were barely survivable, Nathan,” John replied, his voice gaining in strength.
“But you did survive,” Nathan quickly interjected. “We all did.”
“Only by the merciful grace of God did I survive my infirmities… I don’t want him to go through that ever. He wants soldiery… And soldiery is certain destruction… Nathan, we go back a long way, but I have to disagree with you, respectively. My son cannot have that life. I will not allow it,” John stated with finality.
“… And I will not push you, my friend. I cannot…,” Nathan replied after a long pause. “I will only say this more. You are a forger of weapons, a weapon’s master… A weapon is not fashioned to merely hang on the wall or ornament a living quarter is it?”
The silence grew thick as John stood to his feet and made his way to the still baking sword struggling for the life of its form. Nathan thought that he may have pushed the issue to the edge, but trusted that their years of fighting side by side in death defying situations would hold them fast.
“John, I did come on business however,” The silence still palpable. “I’ve come to ask if the latest order of weapons could move ahead of schedule by three days. I know it is a lot to ask, but I’ve brought workers to assist you. They’re waiting outside if you need them.” Still, John’s silence continued. “This is the kingdoms and the council’s command, John, and our need is urgent. We have never seen this kind of enemy movement since, well, since the Campaign of Eight. Our spies are not returning from their missions anymore. Only a handful have made it there and back again and they’ve reported an increase in activity.” Nathan’s voice was taking on an air of authority that was his just due, and John slowly perceived that his small world issues were becoming of minor concern.
Removing the sword from the fire, John struck it a couple of times with his forgers hammer, and placed it into the water basin that sat next to the hearth. Instantly, a massive amount of steam and hissing exploded, filling the room with its humid odor. John’s forehead beaded and dripped with sweat that mixed with the already drying blood on his face. Together, the crimson hued streaks ran around the forming smile on his face. Nathan responded in like manner, satisfied that their friendship had held intact.
“I can have the order done and I won’t need the workers, though I thank you for the gesture. My son and I will accomplish this task together…, or only I will,” stated John with a warmed heart.
“I can always count on you my friend… I always have.” With that, Nathan slapped John on the back and exited the hovel of the weapon master’s shop. John held the sword over the basin momentarily before plunging it into the swirling water once again. At times, he imagined that he could see his reflection, but alas, it was only the distant memory of a face much younger, younger and more naïve, like his firstborn son.
- The River -
Jonathan approached the swirling liquid of the river cautiously. He tried not to startle the already jittery horse as she drank from its crystal clear waters at an eddy near a crop of trees. The horse was the family’s backbone of sorts, due to her tireless and burdensome work that she had always performed with blind obedience and yet, Swift as she was called, was pregnant almost to her full term. Her gray coat was beginning to take on its winter thickness. Only by the closeness of their camaraderie was Jonathan allowed to grab her broken reign and calm her demeanor. If it were anyone else, she would have turned and taken off in another direction.
Life, as of late, had not been easy on Jonathan for everything that Swift had been utilized for, he had to shoulder himself. At times, his younger brother Samuel would help, but he was only seven years old and that was enough to make most tasks more frustrating than fruitful.
The river, Safehaven’s natural southern border, separated Jonathan’s homeland from the vast wilderness that lay beyond his understanding and had become the demarcation line between the life that he had and the life that he had longed for. He had visited the shore many times throughout his lifetime for the family had spent many hours eating by its shores, playing in its waters, and of course, drinking from its life giving sustenance. It was an endless source of refreshment and a place of peace in the midst of an often difficult existence. Endearing were the memories when his father would explain, and re-explain, to the family what their role in the kingdom was and how they, “as an important brush stroke in the painting of progress,” fit into the larger fresco of life.
That’s how the young Jonathan learned that Safehaven was just one of seven establishments throughout the realm, and how theirs was the most fortunate to have been assigned as the productions capital when the lots were cast. And, that their contributions to the supply line played one of the most, if not the most, important role in the kingdom. It was also at those riverside chats that John of Scharp would speak of a dynasty of weapon forgers such as the world had never seen, perhaps even producing a plethora of guilds. They were dreams and concepts beyond the youngling’s years, but the family enjoyed seeing the enthusiasms by which the “Da’” had made his grand speeches and colorful tales, for where he lacked in sight, he made up in imaginations and stories… And what stories he could tell.
As of late, the task of fetching water was passed from Jonathan to his younger brother although the elder would often defer, or rather refer, the task back to his self. This served the purpose of slipping away for moments of respite amidst his tiresome task filled days. It was thus that Jonathan grew to cherish the times he spent by the shoreline. So much so, that he would often make up excuses or even create circumstances to get away to the water’s edge. Once there, he had grown fond of a childhood game that was once revealed to him by his father, but had quickly become more of an obsession nay, more of a mission.
The simple task of skipping stones had, in Jonathan’s heart, become much more than a mere children’s game. As he grew in strength, he realized that his arm would afford him the opportunity to skip the stones further and further into the passing current and thus, closer to the opposite shoreline; that is, the undiscovered land that had come to represent the life he had longed for. Was it the monotonous task of day to day life that urged his heart to wonder, or was it the mere fact that there had to be more to the life than that which was apparently laid out before him like a walkway made of immovable stepping stones? Whatever be the reason, young Jonathan’s heart was determined to change his world, and the unfortunate stones that lay upon the shoreline would have to bear the brunt of his adolescent chemicals which created the frustrations and determinations for his symbolic escape.
A stone tossed