Seeing Red [Crafting/Reforging]

[Ériu]

The lighting in the workshop is dim, bad for the eyes. Waverly made a point to say as much anytime the Werecat meandered into the barn at night in search of her baby sister and found the teenaged Elf bent over a project, the low-hanging light-bulb swaying only some inches above Ériu’s head. Then she’d say something along the lines of the Shaman going stark blind if she didn’t find a new way to work. Ériu would always nod, mumble –at most- an affirmative, and just keep whittling away on whatever branches she’d managed to pilfer from the Forest Treant remains.

The bulb still dangles from the ceiling to this day, like some sort of mockery of a festival decoration. She’s hit her head on it numerous times, has hissed a curse or two here-and-there, swearing to replace it, and yet has never made a move to fix the problem. Go figure.

“Ach! And here you are.”

Waverly leans against the entrance to the barn, fluffy coat casting a queer cloud-like shadow over the hay-laced floor. Her tone says she’s not surprised to see the Elf up late again, merely peeved. “Y’know, you missed supper.” Ériu's striping a branch of its bark, going in-and-out of her reality. She says,

“I know. Sorry.” She doesn’t think to do little else to acknowledge her Werecat sister’s presence until she sees the lighting grow brighter with each step that Waverly takes. Piqued, the Elf looks up and spots the puff of Magic Light orbiting around the Scottish Fold’s head, its illuminating face a mirror image of Waverly’s smug expression.

“Bah, not half as sorry if you collapse from an empty belly.” The Sorcerer had worked hard on that meal too. It always annoys her when people skip out on her carefully prepared delicacies. She folds her arms beneath her chest and observes Ériu as she works. She notes the tools scattered across the work bench. The combined smells of varnish, paint, and freshly-cut wood are almost overwhelming. She’s surprised the Elf isn’t hallucinating. Finally, Waverly speaks again. “Another project?”

“Huh? . . .Oh, yeah.”

“What is it this time?” Dark-blue eyes scan the desk for schematics and spot a rough sketch of an item she has never seen before.

Ériu glances at her sister, then at the sketch, and then stands-up to stretch. Reality brings her to her body's aches and its needs. “Something called a tonfa,” there’s a question at the end of that statement, as if she’s having a hard time remembering the name. “It’s a weapon used by martial artists.” A hand moves through her bound hair. “It was an order for old man Emery, but he asked me to do it. It’s the third order this month.”

“Ah. A weapon then. . .” The Werecat sniffs, twitches her ear when a milk cow in the corner stable of the barn moos. The pair of sisters meets each other’s eyes, a silence falling between them, before Ériu looks away and studies the work ahead of her, a look of something in her eyes, but Waverly knows.

“It’s the war.”

“You know about that?” To her credit, the Scottish Fold looks surprised but only for a moment. “Of course you do.” She knows about the spiders. Maple, too. “Well, it’s all talk for now. I wouldn't even call it a war. Just a scuffle. I wouldn't give it much thought, if I were you.” She turns to leave, waving her hand in a dismissive manner. Ériu stares after the Sorcerer, brow furrowed as she considers her sister’s words.

“I want to fight, you know.” Waverly stops short and turns back to the Elf, face blank of expression. There’s that old, heavy silence again as she reads Ériu’s face, notes the coals burning in her teal eyes.

“Ah. Is that so?. . . .Well, just make sure you come in soon. We have a lot of work to do in the morning.” And that is all she has to say as she disappears into the open air, the Magic Light hovering behind her. For a long time, Ériu doesn't move, just thinks, and then she looks down at her sketch, at the vials of red paint and varnish, and takes her seat back at her work bench.

---

words: 714

[Ériu]

The wood in her hand becomes smoother as chips and slivers of bark gather at her feet. This part is mechanical. Repetition gives way to thought and imagination. Tonfa, a weapon for martial artists. That’s all she knows about it. She is acquainted with a few Monks from around Green. One of them is a frequent visitor to the farmer’s market. Ériu briefly wonders if this weapon was ordered by him. It’s an intriguing design. The shriveled blacksmith Emery had given her the instructions on how to make one along with the necessary measurements. Three inches past the elbow. That’s how long it’d be to fit the wielder. She’s admittedly frustrated that she couldn't meet the orderer. Curiosity for their identity aside, Ériu likes a picture for comparison. She was told that tonfa are normally wielded in pairs. She thinks it’s interesting that the customer only wants one. How skilled are they that they can make use of just one? Maybe not skilled. Perhaps they’re crazy.

When she’s done whittling, she checks for knobs and bumps, and when she’s done with that, the Woodcrafter runs sandpaper up and down the length of the stick, humming a little tune as she thinks about what the spiders have told her.

“The districts are contending.”

“We fled from Orange. Green is quieter . . . but not by much.”

“They are hungry.”

In her head, there are war cries and songs of metal clashing against metal, against bone and through meat. It is a song she likes to hear, would like to play, but Waverly and Maple look at her weird whenever she mentions it. She keeps her mouth shut for the most part, but with the spiders’ whisperings of disruption in the Districts, it is becoming that much harder to argue with her impulses. Perhaps it’s instinct, forged by years of killing beasts that dare come near her flocks and herds. Needless to say, it isn't enough anymore. When and where she is called, Ériu will heed, with Papa’s glaive and Mama’s magic in-hand. That is all.

“I am hungry. . .” she says to herself. The young cow in the stall closest to her careens its head her way and only offers a long, strange stare, too young to detect the bloodlust radiating from the teenager. The Elf doesn't notice, too far gone, waltzing in a blood-bathed battlefield with Samhain as her only fit dance-partner.

“Why don’t you eat then,” the heifer replies matter-of-factly, flicking its ear when a fly buzzes too close.

She never does get an answer.

One piece placed to the side –smooth and pretty- she starts on another branch, this one smaller and intended to be the handle of the weapon. This part’s harder and takes great care. The handle has to fit just right, not too thin or else the gripping will be off, and not too thick or it’ll slip out of hand in the middle of battle, leaving the user exposed to the mercies of his opponent. When she’s met a happy medium, the process becomes smoother. She feels herself shaping the weapon to fit the sketched design. Outside, the wind-chimes dangling from the barn roof spin in the wind, clanging wildly.

She smells rain.

---

words: 541

[Ériu]

A sharp edge carves molds. An indention is made. The pieces are fitted together then pulled apart. The indention is made wider, and then the pieces fit perfectly! Through the workings of her imagination and musings, the Elf pulls a distant, albeit pleased smile. She counts the steps as she goes. It’s important not to skip ahead. Emery has put his faith in her abilities. She would not want to disappoint the customer and have it fall on the old man’s bowed shoulders. Ériu reminds herself to pour a little bit of magic into it, as requested. The customer had wanted something special for this order.

Passed the wall of varnish and paint odors, the scent of rain grows riper, sharper, mingling with the dirt. They need to catch the water when they can. She imagines that Maple has made the preparations. The clouds could be seen for miles earlier that day, engorged with rain and dripping black. She doesn’t hear thunder yet, but with the way that the cows are behaving and fretting –from her place, she can hear every word they say- she knows that lightning will be along shortly. She hopes the spiders have found refuge.

“At least. . . .” the elderly cow works her joints with a groan, “Thhhirty inches, I imagine.” She feels the cool air by the arthritis. This cow won’t be around much longer. She’s grown dry. The last face she’ll probably ever see is Ériu’s. That is to say, if Waverly can’t stomach the thought of killing the cow. They have an odd friendship, that Werecat and bovine.

The Elf glances in the direction of the cow’s voice as she pulls out the glue and begins to piece together the weapon. When they are fitted together, she has to sit back and stretch in her chair. Her stomach is starting to growl, that fetter of reality pulling her away from her fantasies. Food would be good. It would keep Waverly from chiding her. Standing, the Shaman mosies out of the barn, stretching her arms high over her head as she walks. Outside, she can’t smell paint and varnish. It makes her head feel light and free. The muggy, night air tickles her skin, prickles it into gooseflesh.

Her stomach groans, driving her at a faster speed towards her home.

~*~*~*~

“Riiiise and shiiiiine.”

~*~*~*~

There are alleyways, maze-like, dark. Bodies littered down the wall. Her hearts pounds war-drum beats in her ears as she walks the length of the alley, stepping over corpses that are so fresh they might possibly reach out for her. The spiders in her hair are whispering,

“They are hungryyyyiiii-”

~*~*~*~

“-iiiuuuu. Breakfast is ready. Hurry up!”

A mass of fur and fist runs its course down the scalp of her head. Ériu jolts up, dead bodies still swarming around her mind. She looks about and sees the round kitchen table before her and the dinner she hadn’t finished last night still in front of her. She doesn’t even remember eating; although, the crumbs of food crammed between her teeth is evidence enough.

Maple’s sitting across the table from her. Waverly’s piling pancakes high on a plate between them. A cup of syrup, a saucer of butter, a plate of sizzling bacon, and a myriad of eating utensils take up the rest of the space. “Aye, see? I told you you’d pass out from hunger, now didn’t I,” Waverly says, plopping in her own chair.”Bet you won’t do that no more.” Maple shakes her head and spears a pancake onto her plate with a fork.

Ériu blinks the sleep from her eyes and gets up to leave the room, wanting to freshen up for the day. As she leaves, she hears Maple call out to her. “It’s still raining. Leave the animals where they are.”

---

words: 638

[Ériu]

Back at the workshop, the glue has dried. The animals look happier. The thunder had passed over the area quickly last night and hadn't been heard from since. Ériu walks under the spider webs but doesn't stop to chat. The relationship is as frail as the gossamer they spin. She confronts them only so often these days. After offering the cattle feed, the Elf settles back at her desk, inspects last night’s work, and reaches for the red paint.

Red. . .The color of courage and strength.. .

“Are you almost done,” Waverly asks from the sink as Ériu hands her the dirty dishes. Maple dries what her sister washes. Ériu cleans the table. It makes quick work of an otherwise tedious job. They’ve done it this way for years. At Waverly’s apparent  interest in her work, the Elf beams like a child.

“Yes!” She nods. “All I need is to paint it and touch it up with varnish. . .” For some reason, she fails to mention the magical qualities that she’ll be adding to the weapon.

A work-roughened hand works the paint brush down the sides of the tonfa, leaving a trail of red in its wake. Magic is channeled, flowing through the brush, pooling into the paint, bleeding into the weapon.

Maple stacks the dried dishes to the side and wipes down her hands with the dish towel. “Are you going to be taking anymore orders?’ Ériu doesn't even have to think about the answer. She is adamant about it.

“Yes. I will.” The Werecat sisters exchange a look but have little intention of pursuing the topic that’s really got them concerned.

The brush rounds the handle, the strokes gentle and short. Pale-pink lips purse in focus. She can’t daydream here. She’ll mess up if she does.

“Very well then. Emery will be happy to hear that,” Maple responds, grabbing her work boots at the door and motioning for Ériu to follow. “Let’s make our rounds for the morning then. It’s supposed to be like this all day.”The Shaman glances at Waverly for a count of two heart-beats before trailing after the other Werecat.

Ériu sets the tonfa on the desk. The paint on this side needs to dry before she can work on the other half. In the meantime, she leans her head over the back of her chair, closes her eyes, and tries to salvage the remains of last night’s dream. Rain pitter-patters against the roof of the barn. The cows chatter amongst themselves, gossiping. Ériu briefly wonders what the other animals are doing. The monotony of it all lulls her into a half-sleep, where the cows’ voices become the murmurings of dream-beings and the pitter-patter of rain is the sound of feet scurrying across a stone floor. She wanders in half-dreams before the sound of thunder awakens her. The cows bellow at the overwhelming boom. Ériu jolts from her sleep for the second time that day, looks around and then down at her work, and brandishes the paint brush.

---

words: 506

[Ériu]

With each lightning strike, the bulb above shudders, flickering pitifully. The cows have calmed considerably, with the exception of the calves. They jitter against their mothers, who coo softly in their ears. Ériu keeps her focus on her work, wanting to finish by the end of the day. It’ll take time for the varnish to dry as well. She doesn't like having to wait. Patience is not a social grace that she possesses, but she also knows that one cannot simply rush art, and this weapon will be a thing of beauty. She breathes in the clouded, muggy air and steels herself.

The process of painting is relaxing in its repetition. It helps that she can hear the wind-chimes just outside. Though wild in the wind they may be, the sound they offer brings her a sense of peace that few other things can provide. She’d be lying if she didn't admit  that the red color reminds her of blood. It’s been on her mind a lot lately, but her conversation earlier this morning with Maple and Waverly makes her question her decision to participate in the district scuffles, makes her second-guess what she’s felt so strongly about for so long. She will be missed here. The sisters have taught her much, raised her as if she were blood kin. By all rights, she owes it to them –her family- to stay, but. . .then. . .

Doesn't she kind of owe it to them to protect them at all costs? If the scuffling turns out to be more serious, what will become of little farmlands like theirs? Will it be razed to the ground? She doesn't know, but the thought rattles her insides, gets them hissing like a nest of snakes. Like any good snake, her best retaliation is to bite, and bite she will. Ériu bears her teeth just as she applies the finishing touches to the paint job. All that’s left is to wait. . .

That’s the hard part, so in order to make the wait less painful, she decides to take a walk outside to see how things are faring against the storm. Perhaps there are chores to be done, animals to console.

~*~*~*~

Some time later, the Elf meanders back into the barn, replaying snippets of conversations she’s had with the animals. The sheep kept asking “how much longer- how much longer?” They’re sweet on free-range grazing and hate being locked away. The rains have finally started to slow, trinkling against the barn roof in a lulling rhythm. The wind’s a breeze now, playing tenderly with the chimes.

And the best news? The paint’s finally dry! The varnish is set off to the side as she inspects the job, making sure there aren't any bald spots. Emery had come to the farm to visit with Waverly and Maple and to ask about her progress. He’d told her to nix the varnish. It messes with the grip, a thought that hadn't crossed her mind before. She’d have to remember that for the next time. She handles the weapon herself, not entirely sure how to go about the motions, but it feels sturdy, powerful. She imagines breaking bones with it, crippling hands and smashing-in noses. A job well-done indeed.

Satisfied, she packs away the weapon in a wooden box , patting the lid with a proud slap of her hand and a glowing smile. She heads out the door and towards the house to deliver the package to Emery, rubbing her strained eyes in the process, her vision blurred for the time being.

Maybe Waverly has a point after all.

---

words: 604