Chapter 121

Sharp Age

Brewer’s Reputation: 395

There it was, the sudden slope of the land. It was like a giant had tucked in under the earth, and it lay frozen for eons. It was the last major hurdle. However steep, a little trail management could fix that.

As trail markers were slapped to tree trunks, I worked to fell the broadleaves whose canopies soared there. With my axe I cut faster than anyone. This led to competition among the dungeon crawlers which had inevitably led to injuries. I put a stop to that right away and took up more of the labor to carve our way west.

The wood of the forester axe handle took the shockwaves of each strike and sent them up my arm. My hands sometimes suffered pins and needles, and often I had to shake them out. Blisters had begun to form again, but a few sips of healing beers returned the skin to thick and woods-ready.

“Down!” I called.

The tree took 5 whole seconds to fall. It slammed into the ground and put a boom through my chest. Branches were ripped down from other trees as though a hurricane had squeezed through. A couple dozen axe-wielding adventurers swooped in to divide the tree.

“Down!” I called a minute later. “Down! Down! Down!” I called throughout the hour, and at last I was at the top of the slope. I put the bit of my axe halfway through an oak. On my next swing, the handle exploded in my hands. Splinters of wood, as many as bristles on a straw broom, burst away. A single crack hit my ears like a rip of lightning. The force blew me back and I tumbled down the slope.

A commotion rose, as when anyone received an injury. Those with healing capabilities surrounded me immediately. Abigail was there so quickly, tendrils of her hair arrived a moment after.

The fall and the roll had taken the breath from me.

Abigail’s eyes and hands scanned me. “Breathe!”

It took a moment, but I rasped a breath. It sounded like I was coming up for water from the deep.

I was helped up to my butt. Abigail propped me up against her and I heaved breath after breath. I tried to pat my chest, but only managed to stab myself repeatedly. As it turned out, I had a hard grip on a piece of the handle and didn’t realize. Abigail wrenched it from my hand.

I recovered within the next half hour.

Gazing at the broken handle, I said, “Fifteen years of abuse…I suppose this was well overdue. The handle could never quite match the force of that blade.”

Folk tried to offer their own axes, but I patted the air each time and declined everyone’s insistence.

“I appreciate all the offers, but the bit’s still solid. “

“Are you truly all right?” said Abigail.

I guided us away from the crowd. “I’m gonna take a break and try to carve out a new handle. I’ve got plenty of blocks of wood in my inventory to choose from.”

“We’ll keep at it. Take your time.” She embraced me with strength, like she had suffered worry.

I made my way east back down the trail. It seemed that everyone could now tell when I wanted some peace and quiet, because they left me be. It had taken days for folk to learn that of me.

Away from the sound of everything, where they were probably just installing the first step of the stair, I breathed one big sigh.

It used to always be this quiet.

I sat upon a wide clean-cut stump of oak. Fresh wood-spice aroma fountained from the rings. From my inventory I brought out blocks of wood that I hadn’t thought about since my system became enabled after Thrush had first shown up. I leaned them against my legs. There was ebony, oak burl, pink ivory, osage, and hickory.

…Now, which one…

I heard just then the faint creak of wood. It was repetitive, and it was increasing in volume. Movement down the trail caught my attention. There was a butler, dressed pristine, pulling a rickshaw behind him. An old woman in all black wobbled in her seat upon the rickshaw. I squinted. Was it a woman? Was it black sacks of potatoes in a stack? No, those were arms, even if the skin had liver spots like freckles of dirt on potatoes. There were warts on her face like the eyes on potatoes.

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The butler must have spotted me. “Madam, we have caught them!” said he.

Like a croaking toad, the old woman said, “Good boy. Perceptive as ever.”

The pulled rickshaw bounced over roots and shreds of bark. They slowed to a stop beside me. The old woman leaned over, and I was afraid for a beat that she would fall out.

“Young man, where might I find…” She paused as her eyes took me in. “What’s happened?”

“I shattered the handle taking down some trees.”

She turned to the butler and whipped the air with a saggy arm. “Put me down!”

“Yes, Madam…”

The rickshaw handles were lowered until they touched the ground. With grace, the butler helped the old woman step down from her inclined seat. A fat cushioned stool was scooted under her, and she sat across from me.

She scoffed like she was annoyed. “What’s another fool to bear along this foolish journey? Indulge me. What’s happened to your axe?”

“Tough tree.”

She aimed a crooked finger at the blocks of wood leaned against my thighs. “Osage? For an axe handle?”

“You know wood?”

“Been carving all my life. Was even birthed through the belly.”

“All right, well what handle should I go with then?”

“Ebony is thrice as durable as hickory. A mighty fine cut of it, too. Shame you don’t have any snakewood or camelthorn.”

“Then ebony it is.”

The old woman extended a saggy arm. “May I?”

I handed her the long block of ebony. “Been holding on to that piece for some time now.”

“Lucky I got to it before you did.” Seemingly of its own accord, one of her eyes strayed from its shared vision with the other’s and gazed at my lap. “By the character of those hands, you best stick to breaking the handle, not making it.”

“Y-you want to carve it?”

“Time has taken some of my speed, but none of my skill.”

“Uh…I suppose it’s all right.”

Turning the bit of the axe away from her, I passed the wedge over.

“You were planning on using this?”

“I leveled it up for almost five years. It’s sharp.”

She held the axehead like she was pinching the cheek of a rambunctious child who’d been thrice scolded to behave. She ran the bit down the block of wood along a corner. Pencil wide sheets of black wood peeled off and broke away to float off like flower petals.

The old woman shook her head. “…Calling this sharp is like calling me young.”

What was the meaning of this? What a preposterous woman. What a sudden thing she decided to do. Did she know who I was? Was this an attempt to butter me up? What an upfront woman! The circumstance was so curious, I couldn’t help half smile.

“It’s a forester axe. Well, at least it was.”

“Why thank you, dear. And here I thought it was a metal door stop. How precious of you to enlighten me.”

My half smile was the open door for my laughter to stumble out of. “No, I meant to say that the handle for the bit should be curved. You might not have known.”

“One who’s worked with snakewood and camelthorn hasn’t the ability to discern something so basic?”

“My apologies. I meant no disrespect.”

Re replied with a grunt and a clearing throat. Positioning the wood between her legs like it was a cello, she began a pile of black shavings.

“ What level are you?” I said.

“At my age it doesn’t matter.”

“My grandfather would have been silver.”

“He gave you this axe?”

“No. He gave me a pocket knife when I was a child. He taught me how to whittle. He used to sit like you and I are sitting. We would whittle for hours together. I’d get these little knicks on the tip of my fingers.”

The old woman nodded the way that someone nods when they already know an answer. “The ones that don’t make themselves known while the work is being done? Only the next day can the lines be felt and the dried blood be seen. It’s a wonder how such little pains can sneak in over time; and a curse when their scars are revealed.”

“I guess that’s what a sharp knife will do.”

She held out a hand and shook it like it was a limp octopus with knuckles. “No, a sharp knife will decrease how high you can count. It’s a dull knife that creeps in to leave the knicks.”

“My grandfather used to say that kind of stuff all the time.” In the rhythm of her work, I admired her alternating techniques. “…You’re quite skilled. I’m impressed.”

“Bah. This dull blade is no match for the tool set I’d sold before I started on this foolish quest. But it’ll do.”

“That’s going to turn out to be something my grandfather would be proud of.”

She worked, swift as a wind, while black petals fell from the wood. The unmistakable curve of the forester axe quickly became apparent. She worked ruthlessly at the top notch before testing the fit of the axehead into it. After two repetitions of that, she fit the axehead snug. She drove a wedge of ebony into the eyelet, put the axe head on the leaves between us, and flipped the handle to me. I took it up and rolled the handle in my hands. The wood was so smooth, it made the sound of a sigh as it rubbed against my palm.

“Absolutely amazing,” I said. “Better than the prior handle! What’s your name? How can I thank you?”

“Gertrude. Just tell me which one is Hawkin.” She smiled, and it was a crooked smile. “I’m going to shove my cane so far up his ass, he’ll look like a skewered pig. That fool deserves to be roasted.”

“…I’m Hawkin.”

She became full of expression just then. Her entire face wrinkled to hold the shape of a snarl. “You!”