The Value Of A Man
Bethesda 854 ADI
The hot bitter liquid slides down my throat, warming my insides and pulling my lips into a tight smile. Has it been that long since I’ve had a chance to indulge, or has it just been a long year? I scan the sea of tents that surround Bethesda’s central mountain. People are rushing about in the early morning sun, preparing food stalls, gathering children, and watering plants. In the distance, carpenters hammer and saw away, assembling farmhouses.
On the other side of my anvil in a taut canvas chair sits Kristen, her face pulled tight after her first sip of coffee, her tongue licking her lips and smacking inside her mouth, most likely trying to wash away the aftertaste. “You know, just because we’re siblings doesn’t mean you're allowed to torture me,” she says, staring at the remaining coffee, apparently unsure of what to do with it.
I smile at her, take another measured sip, and reach out for her mug, which she quickly hands over. Reluctantly, I pour her coffee into the metal basin to my right and let out an audible pained groan. “Are we siblings?” I ask, trying to distract myself. “You’re old enough to be my grandmother.” (It’s not an unreasonable question. We are only siblings by technicality. By the time I was born, Kristen lived three settlements over. Such is the nature of our family. We don’t tend to stay in the nest for long.)
Not pleased with my joke, Kristen stands, walks over, and punches me firmly in my left shoulder. I mock surprise. “Hey. That’s my little arm. You could do some real damage.”
“Oh, you’ll live,” she says, wandering around my outdoor smithing station, her eyes searching for something. “So, where is it? Your offering.”
I look at the billet of steel sitting on the anvil and then back to her. “That’s it.”
“This?” she says, picking it up. “You’ve been working on this for three weeks?”
It’s hard to hide my smile. “Yes, Kristen. I’ve been working on that for three weeks.”
She scoffs out a laugh and shakes her head in disbelief.
We have only really known each other for a few months now, so it makes sense that she wouldn’t understand, but that’s okay. She doesn’t have to.
“You know, Jeremy is already done," she says, oozing pride for her husband. "I had to tell him to stop because he kept trying to make his piece more perfect. I told him it couldn’t be done.”
This doesn’t bother me. I know he isn’t going to brag about himself. Jeremy is a good guy, and a better smith. If he talked more, I’m sure we would be closer friends, but he lets Kristen do all of the talking.
“Speaking of Jeremy. Tell him I’m rooting for him. I hope he gets the spot.”
She blinks, taken aback by my response. Is she judging me for my lack of openly competitive remarks or just confused because I extended a nicety after she so blatantly criticized my work? Whatever it is, she figures it out after a moment. “Well, don’t just give up, Sammy.”
I tilt my head at her and grin. Is she allowed to give me nicknames after only knowing me for so short a time? “Don’t worry, Gram Gram, I’ll hit it a few more times before I bring it to the fair.”
She rolls her eyes, and I can see her processing whether she should hit me again. She doesn’t. Instead, she ruffles my messy auburn locks and heads off toward Bethesda’s mountain without a goodbye. Such is custom for her. I smile and wave, more for myself than anything else.
Most of the buildings on the mountain are unoccupied, even some towards the top. They are reserved for those who earn them. Even from here, I can see the balcony of the small smith's shop that overlooks the farmlands to the south of Bethesda and the ruins of the prison beyond. It’s a long shot, but I wouldn’t mind the view. My eyes draw to the billet. Maybe. Just maybe.
Into the metal bin goes the rest of my coffee. I pray Lucas doesn’t pay me a visit and see how I am so blatantly pouring away his gift. If he did, I would tell him it is for the greater good and hope that he keeps bringing me more. I’m not sure how rare of a resource coffee is or how hard it is to grow. For all I know, I have just one of one hundred bags that they make every year. Through my processing, I remember the errand I need to run. My project is nothing without quality wood, and I know just the guy who can get me some.
As I head away from Bethesda’s core, I take the time to wander by the other smith’s shops. Roger, an elderly smith with hundreds of years under his belt, works on a case of nails, each perfectly uniform and indistinguishable from the rest. I’m sure he has made millions of nails in his lifetime, so this is the perfect way to show his attention to detail and the steadiness of his hands. Thomas, a younger and much more ambitious smith, takes a different approach. I can feel the heat coming from his station as he welds a sizable hunk of steel that looks like a locking mechanism onto the front of one of the two massive metal doors that lean against the thick wooden posts in front of his tent.
There are more than a dozen smiths that have settled here in Bethesda, some have been here since the start. I can’t imagine sitting around, waiting for the trees to grow, but I commend them for their patience. Without trees, we wouldn’t have homes, and without Thadius, we wouldn’t have trees. Of all the settlers, Thadius is my favorite. I look for him as I enter the forest that surrounds the settlement. It doesn’t take long.
“Samson!” I hear his voice call from deeper in.
I lean left and right, peering through the trees, and find Thadius standing in the middle of a circle of workers. As I get closer, it becomes apparent that he is teaching a lesson. A tree lays flat on the ground nearby, its butchered stump a testament to the principle that enough effort gets the job done eventually.
“Thadius!” I stroll over and give him a hug. “How are you doing, old man?”
The group looks puzzled by the remark. Many look older than the great woodsman. Probably are. I hope they ask him about the nickname later. It is a great story they need to hear.
“Today is God’s gift and so are my new friends.” He looks at the group. “Raise your hand if you feel confident you could bring down another tree like this.”
A little over half of the men raise their hands.
“Good! Those who didn’t raise their hands, learn from those who did. Watch them, and when you are ready, take some swings yourself.” Thadius looks at a taller man standing behind the group. “Michah, keep an eye on them. If you see arms flying, get the tea.”
The tall man nods with a stoic smirk and a few of the men chuckle. Others look around nervously. As the group disperses, Thadius turns to me and places a hand on my shoulder. “Are you here for what we talked about?”
I’m overjoyed that he remembered our conversation. “Yes sir, I am.”
“Good. I have just what you asked for, put it aside for you this morning.”
I can’t hold back my excitement. I giggle and clench my hands into fists, wiggling them in front of me. It must look strange to see a six-foot-six man shake and giggle, but I don’t care; it feels like my birthday, except today, I’m getting a present.
We walk slowly through the perfect lines of pines until we reach the refinery, an open building with a tall roof. Inside are saws, sanders, and other equipment. Sawdust clings to everything, the workers, the floor, the tools. There is even some on the ceiling. I’m sure only God knows how it got up there. Thadius takes the time to check on his workers, and I’m amazed at how deeply he knows and understands each. Oh, to be a part of this family. If I wasn’t a smith, this is where I would be.
At the back of the main floor is a table filled with the scraps of at least a dozen refined trees. I scan it for what I’m after, but all I see are several small chipped pieces, nothing usable, not for what I’m working on. Too bad. I’ll have to get a piece of maple or oak. I’m sure I can make either fit the bill. “Looks like I missed my chance," I say with a smile. "It seems the other craftsmen have picked the table clean, but don’t worry about that. I’ll make do.”
When I look at him, he is grinning and giving me a look like I missed something. Did I miss something? Before I have time to stop him, he squats down and reaches under the table, and a pained expression pushes past his cheerful features.
“Woah there, old man,” I say, grabbing his arm and helping him with the wrapped parcel that he is sliding out from under the table.
He stands with a grunt. “That’s funny. My knee was working fine this morning,” he says with a laugh, bumping his knee with his palm as though that will fix it. “Go ahead and open that up.”
The giddiness returns, causing me to wiggle again. My meaty fingers are not meant for delicate tasks, like opening presents, so the string provides a fair amount of challenge for me. Eventually, determination wins, I get the parcel opened, and my eyes go wide at the sight of mahogany. It’s just what I need. I practically scream with excitement but hold in the emotion and channel it into a hug, which Thadius happily accepts. “This is absolutely perfect. Thank you so much! The grain…” I look it up and down. “It’s like the ocean.” I’m mesmerized as my brain rushes with thoughts of the finished product. I hope he knows how much this means to me.
“There is more where that came from," he says. "I planted a few fields of exotic trees back when all this started. That piece is from the very first mahogany tree I planted. It takes some effort to get a tree like that down.”
“Did you…” I start.
“Cut it down myself early this week, and I chose the piece I thought would suit you best.”
“You could not have chosen better, old man. This is perfect.”
“I know you will use it well.”
“I will. And maybe one day, you can learn how to grow coffee around here,” I say with a grin.
“Coffee? How do you know about coffee?” he says with a probing smile.
“Lucas brings me a bag once a year. It's from his hometown, a place called Espirito Santos,” I attempt the accent. “If you ever come looking for me and I’m gone, that’s where I’ll be headed.”
Thadius chuckles. “Noted. I have some farmer friends who might be able to take that up as a crop. For now, If you have any to spare, I wouldn’t mind a mug.”
“I’ll do you one better.“ I place the mahogany on the table and offer one of my mits in appreciation. He grips it and I pull him closer. Disregarding his confusion, I open his hand to examine his palm and fingers, imagining them around the handle of an axe. “Got it,” I say.
“Got what?” he asks with a laugh.
“You’ll see.”
He pauses for a moment and then nods. “Well, alright.”
Thadius walks me out, but I stop him as we leave the front of the refinery; he has already put too much strain on his knee for my sake. “You coming to the fair?” I ask.
“Oh, I’ll be there, but it’ll be hard deciding who to come see. Half the craftsmen came to me for their wood, and then, of course, there is the wife. If I’m being a realist, and I know I should, I’ll bet she has the whole day planned out for me already.”
“Wife,” I say with a smile. “What’s that like?”
He takes a moment to respond, looking off at the trees and, at the same time, nothing at all. “Life-changing,” he finally says, a gleam in his eye.
I’m unsure how to respond. I want what he has. I know it’s not my time, but that doesn’t mean I’ll have to wait forever. I’ll get my shop first, then I can think about marriage. I look at the piece of wood. Maybe I won’t have to wait that long. “You’re a good friend, Thadius. Thank you for everything you do.”
He smiles and gives a small bow of his head. “All the glory to God, friend. Now get going. I know you have work to do.”
“It never stops,” I return.
It doesn’t take long to get the coal forge red hot. The hand crank for the bellows is a bit worn, but it gets the job done. I would get a powered system, one that blows air on its own—there are plenty of pylons around to keep it running—but it just doesn’t seem like something I need yet.
Into the forge goes the steel billet, and I wait patiently until it matches the color of the coals. I breathe in the heat of the forge and all the aromas of the midday air. Someone is cooking venison. I breathe out.
It’s going to be a good day.
Three weeks of hammering and forge welding, all for this, the final stretch. I pull the glowing billet from the coals and lay it on the anvil. Tink, tink, TINK! Tink, tink, TINK! I hit the metal with a familiar rhythm, timing my more powerful strikes. With each round, the billet flattens and I pull from it a collar that will connect to the mahogany handle. Next, I carefully draw out the spade, making sure to taper it properly down to its blade to maximize structural integrity. When I’m satisfied with the shape, I heat it to a perfect orange glow and then quench it in my vat of oil. By instinct alone, I’m confident there are no warps, cracks, or inclusions. I take a moment to check anyway. Using a metal file, I find nothing but perfectly hardened steel. By the time the sun is setting, I have the rough end of a shovel, unrefined and unpolished, but a good start.
I end the day with a freshly brewed cup of coffee, sitting with it under the stars, feet propped against my anvil. It smells amazing. I allow myself to enjoy the aroma deep into the night, only taking a few small sips. When it grows cold and the smell fades, I pour what remains into the metal bin and climb into my hammock that hangs between the two sturdy wooden posts inside my tent. I hope my future wife enjoys hammocks. There is little to no chance I will sleep in a bed ever again, not after discovering that such an amazing sleeping style exists. Delightfully cocooned and cooled by the midnight air, I drift off.
The next four days are spent with hand sanders and files as I shape and sharpen the shovel’s spade. I only stop when I’m certain that every angle and corner is perfect and every surface without blemish.
Coffee steams in the pot that rests on the cooling coals of my forge. Using my tongs, I pour myself a cup. It has become a ritual at this point.
“Beautiful night we’re having,” says a voice from behind.
I turn in my chair to find Thomas. He looks beat, exhausted I’m sure from a long day of working on those doors. Sweat lingers on his brow. I look at the pot on the coals and consider the metal bin which is only half full at this point.
“Have you ever tried coffee, Thomas?”
“Can’t say I have,” he says, taking a deep breath through his nose. “Smells… interesting.”
“It tastes even better,” I say, grabbing a mug from a stump nearby. I fill it to the brim and offer him my seat. He hesitates but accepts the hospitality. I use the anvil as a chair after delicately moving the spade to a metal shelf at the edge of my outdoor workstation. Thomas tracks it with interest.
“Is that for a job?” he asks and then takes a sip of the hot brew. “Woo! That’s… that’s not half bad. If there was room for hair to grow on my chest, I’m sure this would help with that.”
This elicits a louder-than-expected laugh from me and I worry for a moment that I may have awakened some of the early sleepers around camp. “Just wait for the buzz to kick in. First time I tried it, I felt like I was flying. As for that little thing,” I say, looking at the spade, “that is going to be my offering.”
“Really?" He looks surprised. "Not to be rude, but is there something special about it that I can’t see?”
I smile. “It’s nothing compared to the gates to heaven you’re building. Those are quite something.”
He seems to appreciate the compliment. “Part of me wishes I had made a shovel too,” he says with a chortle and a stretch of his back. “Seems less… time-consuming.”
“I’m sure it is,” I say.
“What steel did you use?”
“It’s a mix,” I say, pouring myself a mug of coffee and reminding myself not to sip it.
“Damascus? You’re making Damascus, aren’t you? That explains a lot.”
I can’t help but grin. “You’re the first person to find that out.”
“I didn’t think anyone would do it. How many times did you fold it?”
A laugh escapes. “More than it needed but still not enough, I’m sure.”
Thomas sighs. “Tell me about it. Say, how are you going to etch the metal?”
I nod my head to the coffee he is sipping.
“That’s incredible,” he says, taking another sip. “Mmm. This really is good, but you probably need every drop you got, so where might I get some for myself?”
“Talk to Lucas—or wait until the local farmers find out how to grow the beans for it.”
“Bean juice? Hah. Who would have guessed?”
We talk into the night, and with great effort, I make it through without taking a single sip of my coffee. Best decision I have made. Pouring it into the bin with the rest of the brew, I find it brings the level just high enough so that when I slide the shovel head in, it is fully submerged.
“Perfect,” I whisper to myself.
With two days left till the fair, I begin to shape the wood that will be the shaft and handle for my masterpiece. The mahogany slides off easily with the help of my lathe. Once the piece is the right size, I start with the finer details. Garth, a teacher and smith from the late 18th century, will be judging, so I carve with his hand in mind. It’s a slow and arduous process. By the end of the first day, all I have is the basic shape of the shaft and a mostly finished top handle. It feels small and awkward in my hand, but I know it will be just right.
As silence falls over the sea of tents, I retire, sore and exhausted. I feel sleep’s grip the moment I swing my feet into my hammock. “One more day,” I say to myself, as my mind goes blank.
“Samson,” a gentle voice pulls me back.
I open my eyes and pull down the corner of my hammock to look toward the front of my tent. A silhouette stands just outside, illuminated on the canvas by a lamppost beyond.
“Samson?” It beckons again, and this time, I recognize the disparity in the tone.
“Ester? Is that you?”
She doesn’t respond but I can hear the soft sound of her whimpered crying. With one motion, I’m out of the hammock and through the front flap of the tent. Standing in the dim glow of the nearby lamppost is Ester Breaker. Her nightgown rustles in the midnight breeze. Her black hair is disheveled, but not enough to hide her clear beauty. She sniffles and wipes tears from her cheek. When she looks up at me, I know what has happened. “He’s gone.” Her words are shaky.
I clench my teeth behind a sympathetic expression and pull her into a hug. “I’m so sorry,” I say, as sobs wrack her chest and tears soak through my linen shirt. To hide her sorrow from prying eyes, I lead her into the tent, still holding her close. I don’t ask the questions that I already know the answers to, so I don’t say anything.
It’s a long time before the crying stops. There is exhaustion behind Esters's eyes as she pulls away, but I know she won’t sleep tonight. “What am I doing wrong?” she chokes out.
Rage boils in my chest. I pull her into another hug so she doesn’t see it.
“I’m not enough for him,” she says, emotion leaving her tone. “That’s why he left.”
“You’ve done nothing wrong,” I say. Then I allow my mind to speak what I won’t say out loud. If he comes back, I will hurt him like he has hurt you. I won’t let you go back to him, even if he comes back. Why did you marry him when you knew he was this way? The last thought stings. There was a time when I wanted nothing more than to marry Ester myself. That desire has faded, but the care for her remains. I fight the hatred that bubbles inside and the thoughts of violence that come with it. God, keep him away. If he comes back tonight, I will defile myself with his blood.
Ester jerks in my arms as another wave of sorrow crashes over.
“It’s okay. It’s alright. You’re safe here.”
Her eyes look up to find mine. “Tell me he's going to come back.”
I look away, afraid that the tsunami inside me will wash her away. The silence is deafening as she waits for my response. “The teachers will not let him go without a word,” is all I can manage. It seems to be enough. Ester nods and buries her head back into my chest.
Emotions come in waves throughout the night. For hours she sits in complete silence, a blank expression dominating her features. Although my body begs me to sleep, I resist. I’m afraid of what she might do if I drift off. Many would go to a teacher for help. Not Ester. Only God knows why I’m the only one she trusts when this happens.
Sometime in the early morning, before sunrise, she goes to sleep on a pile of blankets in the corner of the tent, her head on my lap. It is only then that I cry, wiping my tears away so they do not fall on her nightgown. Why me, God? Why do you waste my love on someone who throws it away? I would say this is meant to torment me, but I know you are not cruel. I process my next words and almost decide to push them away from my thoughts. This time… can he not come back? Can she be free? I look down at Ester as she breathes slowly, calm in the embrace of sleep. In that calmness, I hear a still small voice deep in my mind.
“You do not know my plans for her.”
I awaken the next morning, unsure of when I dozed off. Looking around, I find Ester still asleep in my lap. The aroma of breakfast fills my nostrils and I scan the tent to find two steaming plates to my right, just within reach. It is a beautiful assortment of rolls, eggs, and ham. I’m too tired to question where they came from and promptly start to devour the first plate. Ester stirs as I finish, and with some coaxing, she eats a few bites from her own.
Her instability is palpable as we start the day. Although she does her best to hide it, and claims that everything is alright, I know better. After some convincing, she agrees to go on a walk. Leaving the tent, I can’t help but stare at the unfinished handle sitting on the shelf outside. “Can you give me a moment?" I say with a gentle smile. "I just need to do one thing.”
“I don’t want to get in your way,” she starts, her words anxious. “I’m just a burden.”
“Shh. Don’t say that. It’s just something I might forget if I don’t do it now.”
She nods, and I feel her suppressing herself.
I walk to the metal bin and reach for the spade. I don’t pull it out immediately. My mind is racing. What if I did something wrong? Two deep breaths and I lift it from the coffee. Brown drips from its perfectly polished surface, revealing segmented patterns of ripples and waves contrasted by the combination and folding of dark and light metal. In the center of each of the segments is a lasso. It reads well. It’s exactly how I planned it to be. I take another deep breath and do everything I can to keep my composure, to not let this emotion seep through.
I had a chance. That’s all I really wanted. But to try, and come this close… I think of the empty table, or worse, a table with an incomplete offering. My head shakes, despite my effort to keep my body still.
“You don’t have to take care of me, you know,” Ester says, her eyes finding mine. “I know you have other more important things to do.”
I continue to shake my head, but this time towards her. Standing, I offer my arm, and with a final deep breath, I make my decision. “You are more important.”
I see tears well in her eyes and words pushing to leave her lips, but she stays silent. With a slight hesitation, she takes my arm, and we walk away. Away from the forge and the chances of me finishing my offering in time for the fair. Away from the small chance of me earning my spot. I don’t look back. Instead, I remind myself of the words of that still small voice. “You do not know my plans for her.” Arm in arm with Ester, I let my dream die. There will be plenty of shops. I’ll build one myself if I have to. This is more important. I look at Ester with a smile, and she smiles back. You’re going to be okay, I say internally.
The day passes, filled with little nothings, distractions from what lingers just beneath the surface. As the sun sets, I insist that Ester sleep in her own bed and provide reassurance that I will stay with her again through the night. She reluctantly agrees and I sense her hesitation to return to where the memory of her husband lingers.
We walk most of the way without a word. It’s only as we approach the last bend that leads to her tent that Ester speaks, if only a whisper. “If he loved me, he would come back.”
I bite my tongue. If he loved you, he wouldn’t have left.
We turn the bend and I feel a tug on my arm as Ester stops dead in her tracks, her head jutting out, her eyes locked on something down the road. I track and see what has grabbed her attention. Standing in front of her tent are two men: a teacher—and her husband, Evan Breaker.
It seems he saw us first. He stares me down as I walk arm-in-arm with his wife, and I catch a spiteful gleam in his eye. He hides it quickly as Ester releases my arm, runs to him, and leaps into his open arms. The teacher's face is flat and unreadable, but I catch a glimmer of concern as I approach.
“I'm so sorry I left, love,” Evan says, with Ester wrapped in his arms. “I didn't mean to scare you, I needed to…” He stops and looks at the teacher. “I made a mistake.”
He will save the lies for later when no one is holding him accountable.
“It's good to see you, Samson,” the teacher says.
I don't recognize him. He must be from one of the settlements west of here. Did Evan get that far in a day? Why was he out there? There are no words, and my desire to fight has diminished enough so that I can stand here with my anger. I know the teacher senses it, but I do my best to hide it from Ester as she turns back.
“Thank you for keeping me company,” is all she says.
It’s easy to care for her, even now, but I have to force a smile. “You’re welcome.”
Evan steps forward to give me his required gratitude, extending a hand. I take it and squeeze, harder than I should, my jaw tight behind my fake smile, my eyes telling a story written just for him. “I’m glad you're back, for her sake,” I say as I feel his knuckles pop.
He tries hard not to react, but I see him wince.
Only after he nods do I let him go.
Ester clings to his arm, nuzzling her nose into his bicep. I’m happy she’s happy. I just hope it lasts longer this time. She mouths another “thank you” my way and I smile and nod in return. If this is within God’s plan, I will trust that He will work out the details. I'll also trust that, if He sees fit, He will have vengeance for the pain Evan has caused, and will cause. Not me.
With nothing left to say, at least nothing beneficial, I return to my tent. The night grows late, and I spend it next to my forge, watching the coals glow, but using them for nothing. It’s only as exhaustion outpaces my thoughts that I find my way to my hammock. I’m asleep in seconds.
Music wakes me, a sign that the fair has begun. I look at the spade that sits next to the metal bin in the corner of my tent and my heart groans. Grabbing a mug, I dip it into the bin, pull out some coffee, and take a sip. It’s not bad. I could warm it up over the coals, but something is keeping me in my tent. I can’t bear to see them, the streams of people walking up and down the mountain and through its many streets. No. The day must come and go on its own.
“Hey, Samson. You in there?” I hear Thomas’ voice call from beyond.
Why is he here?
“Yeah,” is all I can manage.
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah,” I add more pep to my tone.
He pushes his way through the front folds of the tent, dressed in what I’m sure is the finest clothing he has. I’m wearing the same clothes I had on when I talked with Thadius.
“What are you doing?” he says bluntly.
“I don’t have an offering.” I pause. “Something important came up.”
He scans the room and finds the spade in the corner. His eyes go wide as he examines the pattern, entranced by the waves and imagry. “Garth asked where you were,” he says, eyes transfixed. “I offered to come check on you. He told me to ask if you got the breakfast he left… That isn’t. Is that?”
I smile, understanding his question. “Mosaic,” I respond.
“Wow,” is all he can get out.
“It’s still not finished, it would take at least a day to fit the handle and engrave the wood.”
“Well, I suppose you are going to have to bring what you’ve got,” Thomas says, picking up and handing me the spade.
I take it and shake my head. “Fine. But I’m only coming to see you win.”
He shakes his head too and grins at me. “That’s not happening.”
The way he says it makes me think there is something truly spectacular at the fair. For that alone, I suppose I have no choice. I grab the unfinished handle, and we head off. The blacksmith's competition is being held towards the top of the mountain. Booths line the smooth stone street up to and beyond the coveted blacksmith’s shop, hosting all manner of creations, some more functional than others.
Passersby, 'ooo' and 'ahh' as they go from booth to booth. Some are already requesting that items be saved for them after the teachers assign prices. I see Jeremy’s booth, and Kristen by his side. He has made a pair of metal birds, little gems in the plumage beautifully catch and disperse the morning sun into speckles of colored light. I nod to him as we pass.
At the end of the row is a free booth that I claim for myself. I’m glad to be so far up. There are fewer people, plus it’s getting close to judging time. I hardly have time to set down my offering before Garth rings the bell, indicating that it is time to judge the smith’s competition. Without instruction, people scoot backward, allowing a path for Garth to walk up the line. One by one, he inspects the offerings, giving praises and critiques for each. He spends extra time with Thomas and his doors. They seem to be a crowd favorite. Seeing the support and hearing the praise brings me joy.
Finally, it's my turn and I stand tall, trying hard not to show my displeasure.
Garth is nearly as tall as I am, but is paper thin. He wears simple clothing from his time and a worn cowboy hat. The only sign that he was ever a smith lies in the musculature of his left arm. “Samson,” he greets me with a wide approving smile.
“Garth,” I return, nodding over my offering.
His eyes grow wider than his smile as he takes in the spade. I watch intently as he picks it up and examines the edges and curves, nodding every so often and letting out soft “hmm’s.” Next, he picks up the handle and holds it as if it were connected to the spade. He tilts his head with surprise as his hand finds its place in the grain of the wood.
“I was going to name her Betty,” I interject. “I just didn’t get a chance to engrave her properly.”
This warms his features. “You remembered my story—and, apparently my hand as well,” he says, placing the handle back onto the table and turning to face the crowd. “What makes a good smith?” he asks in a booming voice.
Silence falls over the street.
“Should I reward delicate craftsmanship or consistency? Or should the measure of a man fall to something greater? There is not a smith here who has not brought his best.”
I want to protest. This is not a representation of my best. Where others have brought masterpieces, I have offered up pieces, parts that are useless on their own.
“Tell me then,” Garth continues, “should I judge on the work that you see, or from something that is hidden?”
A wave of confusion washes over the crowd. As I scan their faces, I find Thadius among them. At his side is his wife, her red, styled hair glinting in the sunlight. They do not seem confused, and I can’t tell if they are smiling at Garth or at me.
“We trust you, teacher,” Thomas says from down the row. “We know you will do what is right.”
This elicits a grin from Garth as he turns to me. “Many will come to this shop. It will be a representation of the best we have to give. I trust it to your care, Samson.”
Breath eludes me as I stand in stunned silence. The crowd erupts in cheers before I can open my mouth to speak, and I’m lost in the moment, lost in Garth’s proud smile. Rough hands grab my shoulders and I realize that the smiths are gathering around. They are smiling too. Not a single one holds jealousy or malice in their eyes. It’s only as the cheering subsides that I mumble out a response. “Why me?”
Garth reaches out a hand and I take it as he looks into my eyes. “Because you won’t just forge great things, you will help to forge great people.”
Is that it? If it is, I don’t want anything more. Garth lets go, and I am moved by the crowd to the shop down the hill. Thomas stops me before we walk through the open massive wooden doors that decorate the front of the building. He speaks over the murmuring crowd. “I never planned on winning. God settled my heart before they called for offerings. That’s why I built doors. I want you to have them. They should be a perfect fit.”
Tears well in my eyes, and I take him in for a hug. Looking beyond, through the beautiful and well-stocked interior of the shop, I find the back door that leads to the balcony. My balcony. It overlooks Bethesda, the prison of ancient buildings in the far distance, and the ocean even farther beyond. Overcome with gratitude, I drape my arm over Thomas’s shoulder and we enter the shop together. “If you don’t mind the taste of metal," I say, "I would love to share a cup of coffee with you this evening.”
He smiles and nods. “I’d like that.”
“Then it shall be.”
I turn to the powered forge, hover my hand over the controls, and watch as its interior starts to glow.
“No more coal, I suppose,” Thomas says.
“Guess not,” I say, looking back to Garth and the others lingering just beyond the doorway.
I think of my offering for Garth and how I might finish it properly. I think of Thadius and the gift I wish to make for him. I think of Ester and pray that her circumstances do not leave her broken. A lifetime is plenty of time to make a difference. All I have to do—is get to work.
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