Chapter Three
"Pardon me, sorry to run into you."
John stepped aside and allowed the man to pass. He glared angrily at John and was greeted with a warm smile, the kind one usually reserves for close friends and family.
John continued on his way to work, eager to begin the day. Not only because he enjoyed being an apprentice swordsmith, but there was the added incentive that Mara would be waiting for him to return home.
John had never been so happy, so content. Since accepting Inoda's offer to live with him and his daughter eight months ago, John's life had changed dramatically. His thin frame had filled out, due in great part to Mara's cooking. And his body had become strong and robust from the heavy work he did at the shop. It also felt good to have the security of a home and people that were concerned for him. Inoda had assumed the role of surrogate father and on those nights when the big man wasn't out hunting, the two would talk about all manner of things. Often John would do the listening as Inoda would spin story after story about his exploits as a hunter-warrior.
But John's happiness could be attributed to one thing which overshadowed all others. He was in love with Mara. Madly, passionately, joyously in love with the girl that greeted him at the door each evening with a warm smile and a kind word.
Of course John had been with other women, but those had been relationships of sex, a haven from the loneliness. He had never met a woman that he wanted to be with all the time, one that occupied his every thought and gave him a reason to live.
But was Mara in love with him? he wondered. John couldn't be sure. The two had never talked about their feelings for each other, let alone kissed or even held hands. In a sense words were more intimate than other things. Because Inoda was frequently out hunting they had spent many evenings alone talking about trivial things and future plans. Never had Mara given him any indication that she felt one way or the other. It was a tacit relationship where certain things were left unsaid, maybe because to say what was in their hearts might change what was an amicable relationship. Or perhaps they were both afraid of rejection. John knew that this was the reason he had never told Mara how he felt about her.
But for now John was satisfied just to be close to her, he couldn't bear the thought of being unable to see her for any reason. And perhaps the situation would change. If they were to become lovers John hoped it would happen soon. Not because he desired to have sex with her though the thought was on his mind, but because he knew that such unexpressed feelings often turned to bitterness and resentment.
John turned into a narrow lane when he hear a loud crack and saw a stone ricochet off a metal post in front of him. He spun on his heels and looked back the way he had come, unsure of what to expect. He saw four young men standing abreast at the entrance of the lane, cutting off any avenue of escape. As one they started to walk toward him, swaggering and laughing, tactics of intimidation that frightened an intended victim. When they were just several meters away the closest one put his hand out, signaling the others to stop. He was obviously the leader of the group. Tall, clean shaven, with a mane of black hair trailing down his back. He stepped forward and looked at John with the intensity of a man who has seen violence, often at his own hand. To any onlookers it would appear as if John were only seconds away from being the victim of a random act of violence. Instead the man reached out and put his arms around John, patting him on the back as if John were a brother that had been presumed dead.
"John, it's great to see you," said the man in a tone that suggested mistrust. "We haven't seen you in a dog's age. Where the hell have you been?"
The man released John and stepped back, waiting for him to answer.
"It's great to see you too Alex," said John smiling. "I'm sorry I haven't contacted you guys to tell you that I'm ok, but I've been pretty busy."
"We thought you were dead," said one of the gang who was standing behind Alex.
"Steve's right," chimed Alex. "We went around to your place several times, but nobody had seen or heard from you."
"What can I say?" answered John. "Things are different for me now. I've decided to settle down, go straight. I just can't keep taking chances anymore. Sooner or later your luck runs out and I didn't like the odds."
"Shit," said Steve, making no attempt to hide his disgust. "It sounds like the guy's found religion."
The others laughed, trading jokes until Alex threw them a look that told them to remain silent. Alex took a step forward until his face was just a few inches away from John's, lowering his voice until it was barely a whisper.
"I don't know what's happened to you John but I know this. It's impossible for someone like you to go straight, I've known guys that have tried. You've probably found yourself a good job, a steady income. And perhaps you have a nice girl waiting for you at home. But that's for other people, not for us. After a while you'll become bored with the same routine day in and day out. You can't deny what you are, you need the action and the easy money. It's better that you come with us now and forget this shit than to find out later that what I'm telling you is true."
John stared at Alex and could feel himself starting to lose his temper. He had known Alex for a long time and was much closer to him than the others. The two had grown up on the street and had saved each other's lives more times than John could count. He could tell that Alex was being sincere in his advice, and that if John rejected it Alex would respect his decision and allow him to go unharmed.
Suddenly Steve spoke up, breaking the silence between the two.
"Come on you guys, this is no time for kiss and make up. We've got a big job planned John, a score that will make us rich. Hell, we'll be rolling in money then and you can have all the girls you want."
Alex spun around and slammed the back of his fist against Steve's jaw, sending the smaller man tumbling to the ground. In a second Alex was on him, pinning Steve's shoulders under his knees and punching him several times until his nose erupted in blood.
"Shut up!" shouted Alex into his victim's face. "That's private business between the four of us and if you ever tell anyone else about it I'll kill you."
The rest of the gang stood in silence, unwilling to interfere. Not only because they were afraid of Alex, but because he was right.
Alex stepped off the injured man and walked back toward John. He was breathing hard and pushed his hand through his hair to smooth it back into place.
"You shouldn't have heard that," said Alex.
John shrugged and put his hands in the pockets of his coat.
"Heard what? I don't have the slightest idea what your talking about."
Alex smiled and placed his hand on John's shoulder, pulling him close to his side.
"Same old John," said Alex. "I know I can count on you to keep a secret."
John took a step back, letting Alex's hand fall away from his shoulder.
"I can't come with you," said John regretfully. "You may be right, perhaps I'm not cut out for a real life but I have to try. If I let this chance go I'll never get another one and I may end up regretting it for as long as I live."
Alex closed his eyes and nodded once. An indication that he accepted John's answer and would press no further. But John also knew that this was the last time the two would meet on friendly terms. John was no longer one of them, and he would never be accepted back if he changed his mind.
Alex turned and waved to his companions.
"Come on," he said. &qout;The man's made his decision, I just hope he can live with it."
The gang fell in behind their leader and followed Alex out of the alley, leaving John alone to contemplate what had just happened and the implications. He felt as if a part of him had been lost, a tie to his recent past that could never be reclaimed. The quiet of the alley thundered in his ears and he felt as if he wanted to scream.
Was Alex right? he wondered. Was the idea of leading a normal life just an illusion, a cruel joke being played on him by a god that delighted in torment?
"You're wrong Alex," thought John aloud. "I have a reason to try, someone that I care about more than you or anyone else."
John continued on his way to Bladehouse, making a mental note to take a different route to work from now on.
***
John stepped into the workshop and looked around. Despite the room being dark he had spent so much time here that he could easily navigate his way to the far wall and switch on the lights. He squinted against the glare and took his coat off, hanging it on a nail driven into the back of the door. Apparently Lam wasn't here yet, and that was as he expected. John had left for work earlier than usual and despite being detained by his former friends he had arrived at the shop before his employer.
John frowned, the encounter with his old gang was still fresh in his mind and he was plagued with a sense of foreboding. Alex had indicated that he would leave John alone and not involve him in any of the gang's activities. But Alex was not a man to be wholly trusted, of that John was sure.
He walked over to the workbench and picked up a file, the same one that Lam had thrown in his direction months ago. For the first two weeks John had indeed been assigned nothing but menial work. Everything from sweeping the floors and carrying heavy boxes to even clearing the immediate area around the shop. John had guessed early on that Lam was testing the young man's resolve, trying to gauge if John had the patience necessary for a profession that involved spending hours working on a single task. Never once had John complained or hesitated in performing any job he was asked to do, no matter how unpleasent. And after a time Lam had relented, letting John work on some of the more rudimentary elements of swordsmithing.
Eventually John found himself working right along side his mentor, performing some of the same tasks, often with the same degree of skill. Lam had never complimented John on his work but he could see in his employer's eyes a glint of satisfaction that he was impressed with John's aptitude and determination. So much so that he had given John several books on the art of weaponry. Dusty volumes containing page after yellowed page of illustrations and text describing weapons of all manner and type. Most were from ancient cultures and civilizations that John had never heard of, but it was apparent that the weapons of today were derivitives, copies at best. Even a man of Lam's considerable talent could never hope to achieve the spectacular results of craftsmen that had lived thousands of years ago.
John pushed aside his thoughts and looked toward a door leading to the back of the building. He could hear the faint yet unmistakable sound of a file being dragged across hard steel.
Apparently Lam was as eager to get to work on that rapier as he was.
John turned the door handle and stepped into the foundry, the large room where most of the heavy work was done. Despite the outward appearance of the shop it housed some of the most sophisticated equipment to be found outside of Tiphares. A high pressure water gun that could cut through steel as it were paper, and a compression chamber that could squeeze the most resistant of metals into any shape the user desired. Yet despite these modern methods Lam was a student of tradition. Relying on a keen eye and deft touch to tell him if a weapon was worthy of bearing his name.
John followed the rasping until he came upon Lam who's back was turned toward him, hunched over a large anvil. Lam seemed to take no notice as John peered over his shoulder, eager to see what his mentor was working on. To his surprise it was not the rapier that they had to have completed by evening, but a strange weapon of a type John had never seen before.
It was made of blue metal, almost the color of deep water. And it gave the similiar impression of being transparent, as if one were to look hard enough you could see right through it. The curve of the blade was extreme compared to others he had seen and was remarkably thin, though it appeared to be quite strong, suggesting it would take a tremendous amount of stress to break it. But what stood out most of all was a series of notches along the trailing edge of the blade, apparently to lighten it and enabling the user to hook an opponent's weapon.
Even a novice such as John could appreciate the beauty of such a deadly thing and he let out a low whistle of appreciation. Lam stopped his work and glanced over his shoulder at John who was staring at the blade with wide eyes.
"What's going on?" inquired John. "I don't recall us getting an order to make anything like this."
"We didn't," replied Lam. "This is a personal project, something I work on every morning before you arrive."
"But why didn't you tell me about it? I would have been happy to help out."
Lam place a hand on his hip and shifted his body toward the apprentice.
"There was no need," replied Lam. "Like I said, this is something personal. I've been trying for years to make this with each attempt ending in failure, though someday I know I'll succeed. It's just a question of persistance and finding the right combination of alloys, and something else."
"Something else?" asked John.
Lam laid the weapon down and stood up. He walked several meters away then turned to face John, slapping his palms together loudly and releasing a cloud of fine metallic dust into the air.
"Soul," he replied simply.
John frowned and gave Lam a puzzled look that begged an explanation. He had no idea what Lam was talking about. Swords and knives, no matter how complex and ornate were nothing more than tools, devices designed to maim or kill a man.
"I don't understand," said John.
"I don't expect you too," replied Lam. "And even if I wanted to I couldn't explain it. You see John all the weapons we make here are just pale imitations of swords that were created centuries ago. Our ancestors were able to achieve perfection with a tenth of the knowledge and resources we have, which means that we're missing something, and it has little to do with the metals used or the person that fashioned it, but rather the user."
John shook his head in confusion.
"I still don't understand."
John picked up the weapon and ran his fingers along the blade, careful to avoid the edge which was razor sharp. His hand came to rest on the pommel, which was nothing than a crude stump that had yet to be completed.
"Is there supposed to be a hilt here?" he asked. "It doesn't look like it's designed to be held like a sword."
"I suppose you could put one there," replied Lam. "It's really a weapon that conforms to the user, applicable to just about any purpose the bearer sees fit. I don't have to tell you that with the exception on Inoda and a few others most of our hard work falls into the hands of fools, men with money to waste and a desire to look tough. If I didn't need the money I wouldn't work for most of them. It breaks my heart to see one of my creations being used as nothing more than an ornament to intimidate men or impress women. If it wasn't for the occasional job I do for customers like Inoda I would close up shop. That's one of the two things that keeps me going."
Lam pointed to the weapon in John's hands.
"And this is the other. But as fine a swordsman as Inoda is I would never give him that blade you're holding. That, or rather a yet to made version if it is intended for someone special. Someday, someone is going to walk in here and take it from me and it will end up in the hands of someone important, someone extraordinary. I don't know any more than that, but I know that's why I was put on this earth."
John still didn't understand but Lam's words made the weapon seem even more special. He carefully laid it down and stepped back, resigning himself in his ignorance of such things. Maybe someday he would understand but for now he was just an apprentice, a man that made swords for whoever had the money to buy them.
"You said something about a yet to made version of this," asked John. "I don't see what the problem is, it looks perfectly fine to me."
Lam walked over to the anvil and reached underneath it. He brought his hand up and in it he held a large hammer of solid steel. John had picked up that hammer on several occasions and found it was necessary to use both hands, but Lam held it in one as if it were a merely a toy. Without any warning Lam brought the hammer down on the weapon with such force that the blade snapped in two with a loud clang.
John was stunned, he couldn't believe that Lam had just destroyed something which had obviously taken so long to create.
Lam put the hammer aside and gathered the two pieces of the blade in his right hand. He held them out to John as if to confirm for the young man that he what he had just seen happen was not an illusion.
"That's what was wrong with it," said Lam
He unceramoniously tossed the two halves into a wooden box designated as scrap and walked away.
John stood for a moment, letting all that he had witnessed carve into his memory. There was so much he didn't understand, and Lam was obviously a more complex man than he had assumed.
"Come on," he heard Lam call to him. "There's work to be done. We have an important customer coming and he expects to see one fine rapier waiting for him."
John followed after Lam who was already busy in the workshop, applying a thin layer of oil to the sword and humming to himself as he worked.
***
John gently pushed the door aside and stepped into the flat. He closed the door behind him and proceeded to take off his shoes, setting them neatly next to Mara's and peering into the sitting room, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.
It was late, John had remained at the shop until after dark helping Lam start a new project for a customer. The man who had taken delivery of the rapier had been pleased and had immediately requested a second piece to be made.
John walked quietly toward the kitchen, hoping that Mara hadn't disposed of his dinner. He was famished and the thought of digging into one of Mara's specialities was more than he could stand. As he entered the kitchen he froze dead in his tracks. Mara was sitting at the table. On her right was a cup of coffee, and in her hands she held a blue covered book with a tassled pagemark sticking from the pages.
She looked up from her reading and stared at the young man who had just entered. It was that look of someone who has been interrupted just at that most critical part of the story. Was it the butler, the maid, or perhaps the chauffeur?
"Hello," she said plainly. "It's about time you got home. Dad's left already, you missed him by a few minutes."
John grinned sheepishly and rubbed his chin, thinking of something clever to say. But nothing came to mind, he was just too tired to think straight right now.
"I was working with Lam," he replied. "Things got busy at the shop and I had to stay and help him out."
"I know," said Mara. "Lam's like that. He and Dad are the same in some respects. Once men like that set their minds to something they usually see it through to the end. I'm glad to see that you're the same way."
John was momentarily silenced by the ambiguity of her words. What did she mean, she was glad to see he was the same way?
"Well I'm here now," said John. "Is my dinner still ready, can I eat it now or do I have to warm it up?"
"I'll warm it for you," she replied. "I won't permit a pot of stew to be served cold in this house."
Mara set the book aside and rose from the table. She walked over to a small oven and gave the large switch a quarter turn.
"There," she said. "Now all we have to do is wait a little while. We can go into the sitting room until it's warmed, the chairs are more comfortable and you can tell me all about your day."
Mara walked past him and John followed. He liked talking to Mara, she was a good listener. And often he would catch himself revealing things that he wished he hadn't. He hoped this wasn't one of those times, for he knew it was best to leave out his encounter with his former gang, and that Lam would disapprove of anyone knowing of the weapon the man was making.
Mara sat on the couch and placed her feet on the small table in front of her. John sat down next to her and smiled. It felt good to take the weight off his legs. The job at Bladehouse often required him to stand in the same spot for several hours as he worked on fashioning a hilt or polishing a blade to a high sheen.
"So tell me about your day," smiled Mara.
"Well," John began. "We finished off that job we had to get done and the customer was pleased."
"That's good to hear,"
"Yeah, I have to admit that I never saw myself doing this for a living. But it feels good, you know? There's a satisfaction that comes from seeing things through to their completion, knowing that a little bit of you is in everything you create."
"I understand John. The value of a person is measured by his accomplishments. It's a lesson that dad taught me a long time ago, when mom was still alive."
"Your father's right Mara, and I really have him to thank for how my life has changed. I've never had a real family and he's almost like a father to me."
"A father?" answered Mara. "And how do you think of me John?"
John felt his heart skip a beat and a huge lump formed in his throat. As hard as he tried, he couldn't swallow it down.
"What do you mean Mara?" asked John, clearing his throat.
"It's not a difficult question to answer John. I want to know how you think of me? Am I the kid sister you never had or am I something else? Just tell me how you think of me John?"
John turned toward Mara who had been looking at him the entire time. This was the moment he had both dread and anticipated. Mara was calling his bluff and asking John to admit how he felt about her. In his days at the shop he had rehearsed the lines many times until they were burned in his memory. But now the words were lost, and as hard as he tried his mouth refused to say what was in his heart.
"No Mara, I don't think of you as a sister. What man could, living in this house with you? I just never told you how I felt because I didn't know how you would react, I didn't want to scare you."
Mara put a finger to his lips, indicating to him that it was her turn to speak.
"You don't frighten me John. Though each of us grew up in different worlds I knew from the moment I saw you that we were supposed to be together. I truly believe that it was more than blind fate that brought you to me."
Mara leaned forward and kissed John full on the lips. He returned the gesture and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. After a moment he released her and looked into her eyes. She smiled and clasped his hand, rising from the couch and pulling him with her.
"Dad will be gone all night," said Mara smiling. "And we have the place all to ourselves."
John laughed and let himself be pulled along the hall toward Mara's room. The two shut the door behind them and the flat fell silent, save for a sizzling pot of stew that was beginning to boil over in the oven.
Chapter Four