Catrina Florence: Blacksmith ApprenticeMature

I rush to get back to the house. If he realizes I am gone, I better have an excuse. I can't tel him the truth, so what shall I tell him.

I was in the mines? I was taking a walk? I was taking care of my garden?

I wasn't in the mine cause I have no coal. So, I guess the best is just taking a walk.

While pondering this, I have been running at full speed, feeling the warmth of the sun on my back, contrasting and fighting for sensation with the cool breeze that you can only feel in the hills.

My house is approaching. I see the stone house and my heart fills with love. All I have ever known is right here in this valley. Inside is my father. Inside is the life of my family.

Upon entering,  see that my father is asleep. All that worrying for nothing. I go to the kitchen and start to make breakfast.


My father is at the fire, heating the beginnings of a sword. I am melting down some copper in one tray and some tin in another. I am to make shield, strong enough to block any attack, but lighter enough that it doesn't cut into the holders hand.

As I wait for the metal to become liquid, I think about my "walk" this morning. I am almost ready. I need only a few more and to be able to get a market day off.


"Yes father, what is it?"

"I am going to go to a meeting today, and I don't think you are old enough to stop anything from happening at market, so we are not going to set up a stall, OK."

"Yes father."

I guess I dont need some more. I can make do with what I have. Then, if all goed well, I will tell my father what I have been doing.


Father left a ways ago and I am hitching up the wooden cart to our horse, Tikeila. I run my hand over her flank and stop once I get to her ears. I whisper things into them. Sweet nothings to soothe her. She is nervous bacause father is not here.

I hop into the cart, and grab the reigns. I get her started down the dirt road. We have to stop to pick up our whares t he place I hide them. Inside a rabbit hole long abbandoned, with a cover of leaves, I pull, one by one my treasures. My art. Not shovels and sords like my father is faous for. but sculptures and carvings and things I have no name for.


My stall is set up, not in fathers space, near people that know me, but on the other side of the market, where welthier patrons without need for sword or shield shop. The ones that can afford to spend money on art.

Within ten minutes, I have sold three things. Much better than fathers stall. I am replacing the sold items with new from behind me, when I am distracted with a cleared throat.

The End

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