The birds had grown lazy by the time Mel reached her house and snuck into her father’s workshop. They sat in the trees, swaying back and forth in the wind, or picked at various small stones and seeds on the ground, trying to find some food. There was no more song coming from outside, and Mel looked back over her shoulder at the setting sun before she closed the sliding doors to the workshop.
Her father sat with his back to the entrance, holding a tong in his hand and a sanded paper in his other. He scrubbed the tong clean from various gunk that had stuck to it during the smithing process. He always used to tell Mel about the importance of keeping your tools and workshop clean. Anything could get stuck in the hot metal and make it weak.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Mel said. “School ran a bit long.”
She threw her backpack down on the ground and picked the leather apron off the hook by the door. Mel threaded the top over her head and fastened the strap around her waist.
“We have a commission for a couple of thousand iron nails for the construction of the new town hall,” her father said. “Do you think you could fulfill that order?”
“Yeah,” Mel said. “How many days?”
Her father turned around and gave her a warm smile.
“They said weeks. Apparently, they’re early with all the orders for material and we got lucky. It pays well too.”
“That’s great,” Mel said. “I can handle that.”
She walked up to the oven and took up the fire poker from the side. She prodded the charcoals and sparks flew up from the burning embers. Mel put the poker down and went to her father’s storage cabinet. She picked out a long, thin, rounded billet, perfect for making nails.
Her father would buy them from the iron mine in Ferron, to the south, usually only a couple of times a year. The trip took a long time, and they had no Windbrook born traders who would travel that way. They had to rely on the Ferron merchants, coming to town especially to sell billets to blacksmiths in the area.
These merchants would pick up a huge supply of iron from Ferron and silver from Cairn twice a year and then go around from town to town, making trades with the smiths. Her father had never bought the silver. It was too expensive, and he wasn’t a whitesmith. At most, he was a blacksmith who sometimes dabbled in the reds from the copper mines.
Mel stuck the end of the billet into the fire and put on her leather gloves. She walked around the oven to the bellows and pressed one down after the other, giving the fire its breath. Sparks flew around the room, but her father just kept scrubbing his tongs with sandpaper. Mel always admired his ability for concentration.
She wasn’t a natural at focusing like he was. If their places had been swapped, she would have looked up from her cleaning duties to see what was going on. The iron billet glowed hot from the fire, red and angry. Mel stopped working the bellows and pulled the long, rounded stick out from the oven.
She placed the glowing end on top of the anvil and took out her small chisel from a pocket on her apron. Mel grabbed her hammer and hefted the chisel against the glowing stick. She measured the length against the markings on her anvil and then slammed the hammer down on the head of the chisel.
Mel hit the chisel one time, two times, three, and the billet was cut.
Her father looked up then from cleaning the tongs, a sour expression covering his face.
Mel winced.
She knew what he would say. It hadn’t sounded right. She hadn’t used the right tempo when hitting the hammer. Something Mel had always struggled with.
“Is something on your mind?” her father asked.
Mel shook her head.
“No, I’m just in my head today,” Mel said. “A lot to do at school and stuff, you know.”
“Mhmm…” her father said.
She felt his disappointed glare as she placed the rest of the billet into the fire again. She walked back to the anvil and grabbed a tong on the way.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Yes,” her father said.
“Were you nervous before your sixteenth birthday?” Mel asked.
“No,” her father said.
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“Oh, not at all?”
Her father was quiet for a while and Mel grabbed the glowing soon-to-be nail, holding it with a tong. The edge where she had cut the metal was uneven, a sign that her rhythm was off. The iron didn’t respond to her in the way she wanted.
“Well, I guess, maybe. A little,” her father said.
“Oh?” Mel asked.
“Yeah, I was worried, I believe, about things changing afterwards,” he said. “But it was completely stupid, since nothing changed. Before my sixteenth birthday, I worked in my father’s forge and after that, I kept working there. My destiny wasn’t a big reveal or anything. I mean, I was already almost a blacksmith. So to get to know that my destiny was to become a blacksmith wasn’t really a big shock for me. It more felt like a confirmation of what I had always known. And I also always wanted children, so to get my destiny to confirm that I would teach my firstborn the art, was just delightful. I love handing down our family traditions to you, you know that.”
“Yes,” Mel said.
She grabbed her hammer once more and took a deep breath.
“Maybe you should try the song again,” her father said. “To get the rhythm right. You know how expensive iron is. Maybe hit the anvil a few times before you take out your frustrations on your work.”
Mel puffed out air from her lungs and deflated. She placed the small, soon-to-be nail, back into the fire and walked over to the anvil. There, she took a tight grip around her hammer and sucked in a deep breath.
She hit the hammer on the anvil, a loud metal clunk from the iron rang out through the room. She hit it again and again, each time making herself wince. It didn’t sound right. Her father was right. Mel tried to find the rhythm without the song, but she kept hitting the anvil and making the weirdest noises. She couldn’t feel the iron’s soul at all.
Her father scrunched up his nose and Mel could see that he didn’t like the sounds she made either. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Why couldn’t she find the tempo she needed? Why couldn’t Mel succeed at anything in life?
“It was in dirt and water we found,” Mel sang.
She forced out the words her father had taught her when she first started working in his shop. Apparently some old song that had been handed down through generations in her family. One that was supposed to make you feel the iron.
Clunk, it sounded from the hammer on the anvil.
“That glowing gold of war we bound,” Mel kept singing.
Clink, clank.
“Glittering, sparkling and charred you are,”
“We found you, yes, you changed our hearts.”
Clank, clank, clank.
“In the depths of Bahlan we sought,”
“There we woke the screaming beasts,”
“By the void when we were caught,”
“We found you, yes, you changed our hearts,”
“Hey, ho, hey, ho, now they’re awake.”
Clank, clank, clank.
“Hey, ho, hey, ho, now we’re dead.”
Clank, clank, clank.
The sound was right; the rhythm was there. Mel didn’t know if it was really the song itself that made her find the tempo, but she knew she thought it sounded ridiculous. When she had been a child, it had been fun to sing this song, but the more that she sang it over the years, the more she had come to hate it. It sounded childish and stupid and also very dark somehow.
Mel walked to the oven once more and took up the glowing soon-to-be nail with her tong. She laid the tong across the anvil and took up her hammer. From the corner of her eye, she saw her dad smiling.
She hit the hammer on the anvil and continued her song.
“Hey, ho, hey, ho, now they’re awake.”
Clank, clank, clank.
Mel hit the hammer on the nail now.
“Hey, ho, hey, ho, now we’re dead.”
Clank, clank, clank.
Mel placed the hammer on the anvil and lifted the tong, inspecting the nail. It had a head now. She sank the nail down in a barrel of sunflower oil. The metal hissed at Mel and steam rose from the barrel.
On the anvil she released the nail from the tong and the small object clattered against the metal. It had the right color, black, and she measured it against her markings. It was the right size, too.
“A perfect nail,” her father said.
Mel blew out air from her lungs and looked at her creation. Only a couple of thousands more to go. She walked back to the oven and picked up the remainder of the billet, with the end glowing red.
Mel brought out her chisel once more to start the process over.
“I don’t think you need to worry about your birthday coming up,” her father said. “If anything, I believe, your destiny will be tied to this place. Just like me and your mum, I think you will find that your destiny is going to be here in Windbrook.”
Mel shivered. That was what she was afraid of. She didn’t want to be stuck here in this town, with her parents and the cult. She wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else.
“You really think so?” she asked.
“Yeah,” her father said. “I mean, you have a great destiny, so that’s a bit different. But only look at High Priest Alcon. He had a great destiny too, and he's still here living in Windbrook.”
“High Priest Alcon?” Mel said, almost dropping her chisel.
“I don’t mean you will become the new High Priest or anything,” her father added. “But you might just find that your destiny will be to stay here with us. It doesn’t have to take you far away or to meet deadly adventures. It can just be something important, but not quite so dangerous.”
“But what about Ben Ramsen?” Mel asked. “He had a great destiny too, and no one has seen or heard from him for over ten years. He went beyond the mountains and never returned.”
“I know,” her father said, looking down suddenly at his hands. “But we don’t know that will be your destiny yet. Let’s not worry about Ben or what happened to some people. You’re not just someone, you’re my daughter and I believe you will stay here with me.”
Mel slammed her hammer down on the chisel and tried to block out her worried thoughts. She wanted to focus on making nails today, not on the letter of rejection from Falden or about her birthday coming up. Just for today, she wanted to hit stuff with her hammer and that was all.