This time, I approached the tasks of the day like a civilized man, that is, fully rested, relatively shaved, with a crispy fresh white shirt on, and sipping coffee. Well, the coffee was made of acorns, and I used a bark ladle instead of a cup, but still, I felt less like a caveman, and more like a corporate mid-manager handling a project meeting.

I realized that after nearly two months in the wilderness, I probably knew more about the life of a caveman than a corporate jockey.

“Hello people, everybody rested? You guys had a good breakfast?” I asked my mute audience consisting of neatly arranged hammers, tongs, stone handaxes, and odd bits of flint and bone I thought may be useful. I spent some time the previous day trimming the furnace down to a manageable forge, and prepared a giant pile of charcoal right next to it, so as to not waste time making more.

“Right,” I continued, uninterrupted, “first motion of the meeting is that you guys watch out for otter thieves. I don’t want any of my professional tools to get snatched, and I especially would hate it if they stole my precious, precious metal,” I finished with a Gollum’s throaty rasp, caressing the iron chunk.

“Second motion, bulletpoint, or whatever, is that we know very little about blacksmithing, but that should not hold us back!” I shoveled some charcoal into the burning forge and gave the blower a few spins. “The best ideas come when you approach a problem with a clear mind, not overburdened with knowledge. Let us think outside the box, and, by outside, I mean inside, that is, inside the forge pit.”

This time, I had an answer. A bird of unknown species, which I dubbed Ringtone Bird, for they sounded like an old cellphone trill, sounded off in the canopy.

“Ah, music! What we needed to start a day with good energy, synergy and uhh, all kinds of ‘ergy in general.” I exclaimed. “Wonderful idea, Ringtone Bird. I promote you to Senior Ringtone Bird, for your ingenuity.”

The bird kept on chirping, so I jammed in with a song of my own. It gave spinning the blower fan a good rhythm.

“Hey, ho, pull yer rope,

t’shore is near, don’t lose yer hope,

we sail her well, we soon get there,

so,

hey, ho, pull yer rope…”

The bird seemed to appreciate half-remembered shanty tunes and kept its song for a longer while.

Meanwhile, the coals became bright yellow, and the heat formed a steady jet over the top of the forge. I gently put in one of the many copies of the iron bit.

I realized I had no plan for what to make out of it. Or rather, I had all the plans, at once. I needed knives, chisels, rasps, saws, axes and adzes, spearheads and arrowheads, and nails, and hooks and chain links and, and… everything. Logic dictated I should start by making a proper pair of tongs and a hammer, to make future work easier, but ironically, those two items sounded hardest to make right.

“Ok, let's start with something simple.” I said to the stone hammer in my hand, which now felt very much too crude a tool for the task at hand. “We will try to make a flat, rectangular bar. It cannot be all that difficult.”

It was extremely difficult. Twenty minutes later, I was shouting, swearing in frustration, and tossed away the ruined piece of iron to start anew with another one. In my few forays at blacksmithing, I always worked with modern steel, which was uniform in structure, and precisely designed to be heated and shaped. The lump I had, was a porous piece of iron sponge full of slag grits, bits of coal and cracks going in random directions. It was probably closer to cast iron than any kind of steel. When I heated it to bright yellow, it simply started to burn, and disintegrate under the hammer blows. When I kept it cooler, at orange or red hues, it did not burn, but cracked and broke apart instead. It was like trying to hammer a piece of stale bread into shape. All the chipping and compressing made the resulting bar much smaller than the original piece.

“This is all your fault, Senior Ringtone Bird! You’re fired!” I yelled and tossed a pair of tongs at the tree where the wild musician sat.

This was a disaster!

Have I done all the work for nothing? If I kept hammering it like that, I would at best end up with a rod of metal big enough for a single nail, if that, and a lot of useless iron crumbs.

One option would be to hammer the lump into the densest cube I could make, then multiply that, and smelt it all again, hopefully to produce a purer, more uniform bloom. But even thinking about doing that gave me a headache. That would mean another one or two days of hard labor even before I got to hammer any tools out of it.

But maybe I was going all wrong about that? I kept forgetting I could just multiply the result of my work endlessly, at any point. Maybe there was no need to fill a whole furnace again, just reiterate the process itself by doubling the bars?

“Mister Bird, I changed my mind. You are not fired. Please put on another track, something motivational and upbeat, fit for a divinely inspired hero honing his skills in a classic training montage.”

Predictably, the bird did not oblige, having left a while ago. I just had to hum “Eye of the Tiger” to myself.

I took a new iron lump from the pile and heated it to incandescent yellow. Then I gently put it on the anvil and rapped at it with soft love-taps of the hammer, until it compacted and flattened into a small bar. I let it cool slowly and examined it. Hammering it that hot meant that most of the material just burned off or crumbled away, but what was left had fused into a relatively continuous strip, with no obvious cracks. I scrubbed the scale off the top, to make it as smooth and flat as possible, doubled it, and tossed both copies into the forge. Once they got glowing yellow, almost white with heat, I pulled them out, put one on top of the other, and started hammering them together.

The strips cooled within seconds, and I had to reheat them several times, but in the end, they seemed to have partially welded into a doubly thick bar. I took a stone chisel and painstakingly trimmed all the unwelded parts that would only cause problems later. The result was a mostly continuous rectangular bar about the size of my thumb.

“Ahah! And they called me mad!” I laughed, brandishing it. Ringtone Bird must have returned in the meantime, and with some friends in tow, because the nearby oak exploded with triumphant tweets.

Invigorated with my success, I repeated the process. Fusing two already continuous doubled bars into a quadruple bar was much easier. I also noticed that the part of the bar that was buried deep in the white-hot ash at the opposite end of the forge welded much better than the one near the air intake. Maybe too much oxygen was a bad thing?

Soon, the quadruple bar became an eightfold bar, and then sixteen-fold. At that point, It became too thick to work properly, so I hammered it as flat as I possibly could, and trimmed the edges. The thirty-two-fold bar was really tricky to weld at all, as even flattened, it was the size of my palm and just as thick.

There was no real way to double that into a sixty-four-fold one. I tried welding two together, or folding one on itself, but the surface was just too big to allow a good weld with my primitive tools. I simply opted to keep reheating and pummeling the existing bar until all the easily accessible impurities, air gaps, and bad welds were hammered out or burned off.

Two hours later, I had a rectangular bar the size and shape of a hammer head. My hands were blistered and bleeding, But I was beside myself with pride. I immediately multiplied the bar until I had a whole bag of them, and hid half in my hut in case of thieves.

You never know with the otters.

I looked with disgust at the stone mace that gave me blisters. I knew exactly what I wanted to make first.

“Sorry guys, but I always wanted to say this, and could never find a good moment. Until now.” I said in the general direction of the birds and struck a dancing pose. My baggy pants billowed just right as they should. “Stop! Hammer time!”

As it turned out, I knew how to make a hammer, and had no tools to actually do it. I saw my blacksmith friend make one once, and he simply chiseled a hole in the bar of steel, then widened it to fit the handle into it. Well, there were likely many different additional steps, but this is what I remembered.

I tried to do exactly that and failed miserably. The iron bars I had, were too soft and brittle to act like chisels, and immediately dulled and bent. The hammer head started splitting and cracking when I tried to make a hole through it. So much for fancy blacksmithing tricks. Seeing no other option, I folded the iron bar in half, and using another as a temporary wedge, created a loop to stick the handle into.

I chopped off a part of a spearshaft and rammed it into the loop. The resulting hammer was…well, serviceable, was the most charitable way to put it. Definitely better than the stone one.

With that done, I finally had a proper tool to work on the rest of my projects. I used another iron bar as an anvil, as it offered a much smoother surface. I foregoed trying to make metal tongs, the iron was way too brittle and hard to work with, to try something that complex.

I could easily make an axe or an adze out of a copy of my hammer, but I had another thing in mind.

Most of my time in this wilderness was governed by fear. Fear of the teeth, fangs, talons and beaks in the green darkness around me. I needed a fang of my own.

I took an iron bar and elongated it into a triangular tongue with a tang at the opposite end. This was not a crude tool like the hammer, this one needed love and care, with gentle and thought-out hammer strikes. I kept working along the edges of the triangle, stretching it, and flattening it, keeping it as symmetrical as I could.

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When I was satisfied with the shape, I reheated it to an orange glow, and dumped it into a tray of water to harden it. It did not seem to have gotten appreciably harder, but I loved the iconic hiss of steam coming off the blade. Very cinematic.

Once that part was done, I wetted the stone anvil and ground the edges smooth on it. Then I honed the edges on a brick until they were knife sharp. And then, still not satisfied, I spread some ground pottery powder on a wet piece of leather and sharpened them to a razor’s edge.

Finally, I heated the tang to orange hot, and burned it into the end of my staff, setting it securely in. Just to be extra sure, I wrapped it in silk thread soaked in elk glue.

Maybe it was my imagination, but the forest became awfully quiet.

I whirred the result of my work over my head, and practiced dynamic stabs and thrusts.

I had a spear.

A real spear with a big metal spearhead, sharp as a scalpel. It was beautiful. It was deadly. It was badass.

“Hey nature, see this? I'm in charge now. Me. Human.” Nothing dared to roar back a challenge, which was a good thing, because I felt so pumped up I might have run into the woods to engage it in mortal combat.

The forge was still hot, and the tools and the coal were waiting, but I could not resist the temptation of playing with my new toy. I just had enough sense to first copy my spear several dozen times, and place some of them in easy-to-reach places all over my camp, so that I would never be too far away from a weapon. I also wrapped a roll of bark over the blade, so that I would not accidentally cut myself handling it, but a thrust would snap the flimsy sheath off.

At first, I tried throwing my spears at the trunk of the fallen pine. It took some practice, but the spearhead was so heavy that the spears usually flew true, if not exactly where I wanted them to go. After a while, I could hit the trunk reliably at about twelve paces, and with enough force, that I had trouble pulling the spears out. I decided to work on javelins at some point, but this day was about fun and play.

Then, as it usually happens with men who get a new and dangerous toy, I decided to field-test it.

I was not going to go hunting, I told myself. I was going to take a stroll around the safe part of the woods, the one way away from the monster-infested swamps. Just a short trip towards the willow copse down-river.

And if I happened to encounter an animal that acted unwisely aggressive, or simply looked too tasty for its own good, well, that’s what a spear was designed for.

Determined, I put a bundle of spears into a bag and slung it over my shoulder like a quiver. Lacking pockets, I put my hood on backwards and filled it with snacks so that I could munch along the way. As a final touch, I put my blacksmithing hammer under my belt, reasoning that it didn't hurt to have yet another weapon handy.

This time, rather than trying to go around the bramble patch I just went straight through it, carving myself a path with the blade of the spear working like a machete.

As I crossed the part where the stream fell into the river, I saw plenty of tracks.

Small hoof tracks. It couldn't be the unicorns, their hooves were enormous. It couldn't be an elk either. I spent many, many hours butchering one and its hooves sure looked different. What else could it be? Some species of a dear?

I decided to investigate.

I followed the trail to where the river spread into a funnel. The animal prints disappeared into the tangled mess of dwarf willows and hanging moss. I almost gave up and turned around when the bushes rustled, and a little pig emerged from them.

When it saw me, it tried to sprint past me into the woods, but it ran out of courage halfway and stopped, frozen with indecision and fear. It was small, barely up to my knee, and stood less than ten paces away, presenting its fat striped flank.

Without even thinking, I raised a spear to throw.

And I just… didn't. Previous experiences led me to expect that the local wildlife consisted of oversized prehistoric monstrosities. Meanwhile, this guy looked like he was waiting for Winnie the Pooh to come save him. It was completely harmless, just a mobile piece of ham on stumpy legs. Were I starving, or if it somehow decided to attack me, I would have speared it.

But I knew this piglet was just a terrified child separated from its mom.

This thought saved my life.

Sudden realization that the piglet could not possibly be here alone, made me drop my spear into a defensive stance and tense up. There was no warning, no squeal, just a speeding train of muscle that exploded out of the woods behind me, its head bristling with ivory murder. The sow hit me as I was trying to turn around. I felt its tusk stab into my thigh with tremendous force.

The impact flipped me like a ragdoll, and I almost impaled myself on my own spear, falling down.

The she-boar ran past me, took a sharp turn next to its child, and charged again.

I did not have time to stand up. I just grabbed the nearest spear, rammed its end into the ground, and pointed the point at the charging animal.

The sow was smarter than I thought.

It veered off course at the last possible moment, and instead of getting pierced through, only had its flank cut. This time, rather than run past me, it stopped abruptly and snapped at me with its enormous jaws, closing them on my injured leg.

My thigh exploded with pain. I grabbed the spear mid-shaft and stabbed it in the neck, but it would not let go! I pressed on, and felt the spearhead slip into the animal's throat.

The damned pig just started thrashing savagely, slamming me against the ground.

Something broke with a crack. I thought it was my leg, but it was just the wooden shaft. Desperate, I pulled the blacksmithing hammer from under my belt and hit the pig in the eye with all my strength.

It released me, uttering an ear-splitting squeal. I kicked myself away with the other leg and reached for another spear.

The pig attacked again, but in its confusion tried to bite the weapon instead of me. I started slicing and stabbing at its snout and managed to poke out its other eye.

Now its squealing has reached almost supersonic levels. Blind and enraged, it charged straight ahead, missing me completely, and crashed into a willow trunk.

For a second it just stood there, stunned. It could not see me anymore, but it sniffed the air trying to catch my scent.

I did not dare to move, afraid to make a sound. I assumed its hearing was just as good. Its piglet ran away, but the sow kept searching for me, snorting angrily.

That the terror bird and the wolverine I encountered earlier were hunters. Killing and eating other creatures was just their job, they held no specific animosity against me.

But the pig?

It was a killer.

It was not looking for a meal, it was looking for vengeance on a man that threatened its child. I knew it was patient and intelligent enough to find me sooner or later.

I considered my options. I had just one spear. The others spilled too far away, beyond my reach. If I tried to crawing toward them, the pig would hear me and charge. So I had to wait for an opportune moment and make it count.

I did not have to wait long. The piglet squeaked in the bushes and the pig turned to face the sound, showing me its side. I exploded off the ground, despite the searing pain in my thigh, and added my body's momentum to the throw.

I aimed for the pig’s chest, hoping to pierce the heart or the lungs, but I hit it right in the belly instead. It shrieked in agony and rocketed straight ahead.

The last I saw of it, was it rushing through the bushes, scything the undergrowth with the shaft of the spear.

I sighed with enormous relief and lost consciousness.

A gentle drizzle woke me up. The weather must have changed when I was out.

My left leg was a supernova of pulsating pain. But the worst was the feeling of terror brought by the realization of what my reckless stupidity had put me into.

I won that fight by a stroke of luck. I could have easily been already dead. In truth, I was still not out of the woods yet, metaphorically or literally.

I tried to get up and immediately regretted it. Instead, I laid back down and examined my leg. Surprisingly, there was very little blood.

The pig’s tusks did not manage to pierce the Kevlar-like cloth of my pants.

Lately, I got into the habit of wearing two or three layers of clothing, not just for warmth, but because working around bonfires I kept burning holes in my sleeves and pants legs. This layering very likely saved my life, at least temporarily. I was not gored, but the muscle of my thigh was a bruised mess, with marks of the pig’s teeth impressed deep into my flesh. Ignoring the pain, I pushed my fingers into the muscle, to find how bad the damage was.

My thigh bone did not feel broken, or at least separated, but it did not feel right either. I found the broken spear shaft and used it, along with my belt, to tie a makeshift splint over my leg. I was not sure if a splint was even necessary in this case. My knowledge of first aid was pretty sparse, and I did not feel fully lucid. Grunting with pain, I crawled to the remaining spear and slowly got up using it as a crutch.

The route back to my camp was such a torture that I barely remember any of it. If the pig burst from the bushes and attacked me again, I would have died in a confused haze.

I managed to limp, then crawl, back to my hut. I did not close the gate, I did not have the strength. My final effort was to close the door of my house, and bar it. I was going in and out of consciousness, the pain either making me faint or waking me up again.

I do not remember much of the next two days.

The days and nights passed, and the pain subsided to a more manageable level. I crawled out of the hut, and loaded myself on the travois, using it like a lean-back chair. Pulling my pants down was a challenge in itself. My thigh was purple and green, and so swollen it almost filled the baggy trouser leg. Worst still, my groin was swollen as well, with what looked like a hernia, or maybe just blood welled right under the skin.

The yard, what I started to call the inside of my fortifications, was a mess. All the fires died, and the rain, despite its gentle nature, made the hot furnace bricks crack, and left a puddle inside.

Some enterprising thieves got into my pantry and ate my collection of nuts, dried fruit, and marmalade, but inexplicably they left the toffee bars intact. I wolfed down five, washing them down with dirty rainwater. I was too weak to even try to purify it.

I wanted to, no, I needed to restart the fires. I grew to have a superstitious, almost religious conviction that it was the fire that kept me safe, despite all the evidence to the contrary. I tied myself to the travois, and crawling backward awkwardly like a beached lobster, reached the bonfire nearest to the duplicators.

Luckily, a while ago I decided to store an emergency kit of dry kindling, fire sticks and tinder for rainy days, wrapped in a pitch soaked rag. And a good thing too, because this time starting the fire, a task I could usually do half asleep, proved to be a tremendous challenge to my tortured body and mind.

After a long while, trying to bow at the firestick without moving too much and hurting my leg, I managed to light a sad little fire.

With not enough kindling in sight, I started duplicating and burning my spears. What started as a love affair with a new weapon, soon turned into a sour breakup. At least, I gathered a whole load of broken-off iron spearheads, which could be used for something more reasonable, like chisels, or hoes maybe?

In a fit of inspiration, I grabbed one spearhead, and used it to carve a message to myself on the shaft of another.

“YOU ARE NOT A BADASS.”

I took the spear marked thus, and put it into one of the duplicators, at a flat angle. I held it as long as I could, until the tremendous gravity within the pool of twisted reality tore it out of my hand. Instantly, two spears, each bearing the carved words, shot out into the woods, like projectiles from a ballista.

One disappeared into the green, the other hit an oak trunk with a loud thud. I could not see it from the distance, but it looked like it went halfway through the wood and the shaft shattered on impact.

“I’ll be damned,” I said to myself. “” I do have siege weaponry. Shame I didn’t have it at hand when the boar charged.”

Curiosity was eating me. Despite my injury, I wanted to see how much damage the launched spear did. Previously, I shot several objects up in the sky that way, but never used the duplicators for target practice. And I really needed to close the gate anyway.

With a painful effort, I rose up and limped towards the gate. I used two spears as crutches, sharp ends down. I needed to find a better solution soon because I felt every move sloshing a balloon of blood under the skin of my inner thigh.

I got as far as the end of the palisade. I looked at the oak tree and admired the impact. The projectile hit with enough force to split the trunk.

Then I looked down on the ground.

I laughed hysterically, nearly collapsing in the process.

A few paces away from the gate, around the place where I left fish snacks for Logan the last time, sat a gift for me.

A real peace offering.

A tribute from a hard-won ally.

A torn-off boar’s ass.