Another Governess / The Least Blacksmith: A Diptych (12 page)

In the morning, I cannot remember how I got to my bed. The house smells good, like toasted bread. My brother is frying bread in butter in the pan. I eat the hot bread ravenously. Every muscle in my body aches. The calluses on my hands are cracked and they sting when I move my fingers. My brother says he will hire a helper, a boy to pump the bellows and sweep the floor. We will need a helper once we have the contract with the foreigners. He had better find a helper now. My brother goes down the path to the town. I stand in front of the forge and watch my brother walk down the path. Nothing blocks the sun and my brother's shadow is a dark bar on the grass. Once we have a contract with the foreigners, I will make my brother buy paint. I will paint ax handles. First I will paint the boards on either side of the windows in the front of the house. I will paint them yellow or blue.

Waiting for my brother, I fall asleep in the sun. When I wake up, my brother has returned from town with a boy. My brother does not look at me. He is embarrassed to see me stretched out sleeping in the sun. The boy does not look at me. He follows my brother into the forge. He is the same size as my brother, taller than my brother, but narrower than my brother, with narrow shoulders and a narrow head. His big hands dangle at his sides. I stand at the double doors. After lying in the sun, I can barely see the two dim figures in the forge. For a moment, I think that the figures are my brother and our father. The two figures move in the dimness of the forge. Then I remember there is a boy, a narrow-headed boy. He has come to be a helper, to help my brother and me, to perform the tasks that I will not have time to do.

My brother puts the iron on the hearth. The boy takes my position at the anvil. I wait for my brother to send the boy to the bellows. I wait for my brother to call me to the anvil. My brother calls to me. He does not turn his head. His back is to me. He faces the boy across the anvil. I do not see my brother's face but I hear what he calls. He has sent me to the bellows. I go to the bellows. I pump the bellows. I pump the bellows as fast as I can. My palms bleed. The fire in the hearth grows hotter and hotter. The iron on the hearth turns red. I do not stop. My brother and the striker work on and on. They stream with sweat. The din in the forge is louder than ever before.

When work stops for the day, my brother can speak. He does not look at me, but he speaks. The foreigners do not want my brother to repair the hardware for their ships. Instead, they have given my brother a contract for gates. He will make gates to enclose the foreign district of town. Too many townspeople are shopping in the foreign district of the town. It is more difficult for soldiers to recognize thieves when there are so many townspeople. The gates will help control access to the foreign district. Forging the gates is certain to be a very big job. With a reliable striker, my brother will not disappoint the foreigners. He will produce high-quality gates that the foreigners may open and close to control access to the foreign district. He will crown the gates with spikes. Climbing, the thieves will gouge their bodies on the spikes. Soldiers will remove those thieves who fail to extricate their bodies from the spikes. The foreign district will continue to expand. My brother will need to forge more and more gates. My brother could not have asked for a better contract from the foreigners.

My brother shows the striker to the bed. My brother tells the striker that I do not mind the pallet. I am happy to give the striker the bed. I do not mind the pallet. I am happy to give the striker the bed. When my brother pulls the pallet from beneath the bed, he gags. The pallet is white as though there were a clean sheet on the pallet. The sheet is composed of maggots, the many maggots that have hatched in the meat and the vomit I hid beneath the bed. The maggots wiggle on the pallet but the sound in the house is not the maggots. It is the sound of my brother holding back his vomit. I would laugh if my brother were to add his vomit to the vomit that produced the maggots. My brother does not vomit. He lets me push past him. I seize a corner of the pallet. I drag the pallet through the door and across the grass. Behind me I hear my brother stamping, crushing the maggots that dropped to the floor with his heels. I drag the pallet to the scrap pile behind the forge. I leave the pallet on the scrap pile. I lie down on the grass in front of the forge. The lights from the foreign district of the town are reflected on the waters of the bay.

I think that it is morning when I hear my brother coming toward me. He is ready to begin work in the forge. I open my eyes and it is very dark. I smell the salty thickness of the fog, the fog that hides the moon and the stars. It is not morning. My back is stiff and wet. There is moisture on my face, moisture from the air. My brother wipes my face with his hands. He pushes my hair. I close my eyes. I feel my brother lift my head. He puts my head on his leg. He is sitting up beside me, watching the dark fog, while I sleep against his leg. I want to tell my brother to lie back, that we can both sleep on the grass before the forge, but I cannot move my mouth. I cannot move my head or my arms. My body is very heavy but my brother is strong enough to bear my weight. He keeps pushing my hair, and the pressure of the fog is warmer, and the droplets that run on my body do not itch or tickle anymore. I let them run over me.

The next time I open my eyes, it is morning. I sit up. Everything is dim, but there is a paleness at the edges, coming evenly from all directions. The fog is hanging just above the hill, thin and moon-colored, holding the same kind of light. My brother is sitting next to me. I look past him through the double doors of the forge, into the darkness of the forge. It is morning. We must begin work at the forge. My body is stiff from sleeping on the grass but I am ready to face my brother across the anvil. I remember that I am not my brother's striker. There is a boy in the bed in the house. He is waiting for my brother to wake him, to call him to his place at the anvil. I say my brother's name and he turns his face. I see his dark face in the light that comes from the fog. I pull the talisman from beneath my shirt. My brother's face darkens as he examines the misshapen iron. I untie the apron string and hold the talisman in my hand. It is a lump. No blacksmith would ever have forged such a lump. I throw the talisman away from the forge, down the hill. It is impossible to see where it lands through the fog. I give my brother the apron string and I open my pants. My hands are too small. They are not getting enough blood. There may be a blockage or there may be too much blood going somewhere else. The doctor said there was no blockage. Too much blood is going somewhere else.

I get up on my knees. I show my brother where the blood goes, how the blood goes too quickly away from my hands. My brother looks at the apron string in his hands. He does not look at me. I move closer. I lower my pants. My brother twists the apron string through his fingers. I take my brother's fingers and I move them toward me. The apron string drops and I drape it again through his fingers. I put his hand on me. When I let go, his hand falls away. He does not look at me. It is too hard to tie the knot myself, to pull it tight. I need my brother's help. How I can be my brother's striker if he refuses to do the thing that I need? There is moisture on my brother's face. His fingers are clumsy. The apron string burns then slackens. It falls on the grass. My brother has never failed to perform a task. He loops the apron string around me. The ends hang loose. My brother's hands dangle at his sides. He touches me but he does not tighten the strings. I feel the blood that follows his touch. I do not need my brother's touch. I need my brother to twist the strings tight. I need him to cut off the blood. He cannot fail to do this thing for me. It is good to have a brother for a striker. It is almost as good as having a son. I can be a son to my brother if he cuts off the blood. My hands will grow. I will be able to grip the sledge in my hands. My brother pulls the ends of the strings. He pulls the strings tight. He sits beside me. I put my head on his leg. The blood moves up. It moves up too slowly, but my brother waits. He will wait. He will hold my hands until they fill his grasp.