The Blacksmith
by Jared Zygarlicke
Birdsong joined the morning symphony, alongside the millings about of everyday humans. Carts and horses. Leather boots and mud. Children calling to friends or being chastised by their elders. Delicate sunlight snaked through tall Scots pine and maple trees, bathing the small village in an amber blanket. Robin stepped out the door of her small home, the final gift to the young woman from her parents. Her face reflected the emerging sun’s radiance as she took in the day. Walking into town, she nodded to passersby, undaunted by their looks and snickers. A wrap of blacksmith tools jangled on her shoulder, adding bassy percussion to her steps.
“Going to the smithy, are ya, Robin?” called her neighbor as he enjoyed his pipe.
“Yes, sir, Mr. McCurtey! Let me know if that spade of yours gets bent. We can fix it up right away,” she replied, ignoring his sardonic tone.
Mr. McCurtey guffawed and went about his business. Early morning conversations filled the air. Topics included war in this city, starvation in that, the plague all over the country, and, everyone’s favorite, death. The end of days, they said. Armies gathering in Megiddo and all that. The chatter ceased when men, women, and children alike spied the young woman strutting through town. Staring after Robin they rolled their eyes and smirked to one another as if to say: “There goes batty Robin Wilkenshire. Off to chase her fool dream.”
Robin’s chin stayed upright and resolute, the figurehead at the bow of a mighty ship, her chestnut eyes alight with flames, ready for a challenge. A tight bun and smudged, azure headscarf kept her unruly, midnight locks in check. Long, powerful limbs carried her step-by-step past the acrimonious townsfolk and towards her destination. The smithy resided at the village center, next to the stocks and masked, black-garbed doctor. Absent from his small apothecary now that she thought about it. That wasn’t the only odd thing about the square. Robin didn’t hear the “clink, clink, clink” of a hammer on an anvil. She neither smelled, nor saw, smoke rising from the bellows. And there was a lack of impatient customers loitering about. Robin’s gaze flew to a small structure, next to the bakery. The blacksmith’s house sported a new decoration: a blood red cross, the paint dripping in macabre streaks drying down the rough wood.
“No,” breathed Robin.
She knew that symbol well. And knew even better what followed in its wake. Not so long ago she’d washed it away from her own door. Racing to the home, she pounded on its surface calling for those inside. The door opened and out stepped a greying woman wringing her hands with reckless abandon.
“Mrs. Hampsted,” exclaimed Robin. “When…what’s happened?”
“Oh, Robin! You’ve come at last, thank the Lord,” exclaimed Mrs. Hampsted, removing her bonnet and attempting to strangle it in her hands.
“He, he was fine just yesterday. I don’t understand.” Robin stammered. She dropped her tools and moved to the middle-aged woman. Mrs. Hampsted’s face contorted with anxiety and sorrow, a look all who lived in the village knew the meaning.
“Oh, Mr. Hampsted’s been ill for some time now. Hiding it, of course, the old fool. Didn’t want either of us to get worked up. Doctor came through early this morning and confirmed,” cried Mrs. Hampsted, tears flowing through the grooves of her wrinkled face.
Robin embraced the now sobbing woman, running her hands through the elder’s hair as Mrs. Hampsted had done to Robin only a handful of years prior.
“I don’t know what to do,” Mrs. Hampsted said. “He had a group of special customers coming through today. A big job, he’d said. And now, now he’s…”
Howls racked her body, cutting her off. Taking the bonnet, Robin wiped the woman’s tears away, cooing her quiet like a parent and shrieking babe.
“It’ll be all right, Mrs. Hampsted. It’ll work out,” Robin whispered. “When were today’s orders to be finished?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” moaned Mrs. Hampsted, “I have the message written out in this.”
Wiping her eyes with one hand, she produced a scrap from her pocket. A bright piece of crisp parchment emerged in her gnarled hand. Enraptured, Robin marveled at the novelty. A real piece of paper. Trembling fingers reached out to grasp it with utmost care.
“I can’t read a word of what’s on the damned thing, but Henry insisted that it get to you,” Mrs. Hampsted continued.
Robin barely registered what was being said, her visage transfixed on the prize before her. Unraveling the paper, she gleaned its message.
“It’s the request. Four travelers,” relayed Robin, “they need their horses re-shod by day’s end. The first will arrive at nine bells. The second at noon. And so on. The payment is—”
Robin’s mouth fell open with a gasp. Mrs. Hampsted’s cries subsided at the exclamation. The women eyed each other; one in shock, the other in confusion.
“What?” sniffled Mrs. Hampsted. “Is it a lot?” A nod from Robin. “Well how much?”
“Enough to purchase the smithy tenfold. Enough to buy the whole village outright,” exhaled Robin.
Mrs. Hampsted forgot her troubles for a moment, uttering a bewildered shriek drawing several glances from the surrounding townsfolk. Robin struggled to calm her companion, shooting a strained, panicked grin at those loitering about.
“How will we fill the order? Henry’s—” Mrs. Hampsted began before choking up once more.
“I can fill it!” exclaimed Robin. “I’ve been working the smithy with Mr. Hampsted every day since Ma and Da passed. I’ve shod my fair share of horses. I can do this, Mrs. Hampsted. He would want me to.”
“Aye,” came a gruff voice from the darkness beyond the front door. “He would want you to.”
“Oh, Henry! Get you back to bed and leave that leech where it be,” sputtered Mrs. Hampsted. “You know you must heed the doctor’s orders.”
“He can take those orders and shove them up his arse, so he can,” barked Mr. Hampsted. A course, wet cough exploded from his lungs. Robin took an inadvertent step away from the blacksmith’s home. “This is important work for important folk. Robin’ll do just fine, so she will.”
“But she’s not finished her apprenticeship yet. She’s not a blacksmith true,” wailed Mrs. Hampsted.
“By my reckoning she is,” Mr. Hampsted said, stepping forward into the light.
His wide shoulders slumped and broad chest heaved with each wheezing breath. Robin’s left hand rose to her mouth, hiding a trembling lip. Clenching her teeth, she dropped the hand and fiercely stared at her mentor.
“Aye,” Mr. Hampsted mused, pride swelling. “There’s the fire. You know what must be done?” Robin nodded. Mr Hampsted mirrored her gesture. “You do. I taught you true enough.” Another bout of coughing. Robin noticed fresh blood on his white kerchief. She also spied a parcel in the older man’s left hand.
“Nothing for it then,” continued Mr. Hampsted. “Here, a smithy needs all her tools. Meant to give you this under better circumstances. Man plans and all.”
With a slight chuckle he raised the parcel and offered it to Robin. She stepped forward and accepted. Her hand dropped with the weight of the thing and her heart raced. Rough, hewn cloth fell away, revealing smooth, rounded wood and a large iron head adoring the wooden handle’s top. A hammer. A blacksmith’s hammer. Robin shot an excited glance at Mr. Hampsted.
“You’ve smithing work to do, lass,” he said, smiling through another cough. “Best get to it.”
Robin gripped the hammer, gave a curt nod, and ran to the smithy.
Arriving at a bench, Robin removed the bundle from her shoulder. With the care of a priest handling ancient reliquaries, she set out her tools. Tongs, clinchers, rasp, hoof knife, and most importantly, her newly acquired hammer; all needed for her work to begin. But first, a bit of inspiration. Using an old nail, she christened her new hammer by affixing the inked parchment to one of the smithy’s beams. Determination swelled within her as she once again read the words. Nine bells in the morning. Judging by the sun, that wasn’t too far off.
Robin quickened her pace. Forge fires roared to life. Bellows wheezed and puffed. Heat rose, mingling with the cool spring breeze. A fine day for smithing. Coated with grime and soot, she forgot about the time until the church bell rang out. Nine peals echoed through the village, then fell silent. A shadow fell across the dimly lit forge. Lifting her sweating brow, Robin sought the shadow’s origin.
An immense shape greeted her as she turned round. Twin embers glowed on either side of the beast’s face where eyes should have been. A flaming, red coat seemed to absorb morning sunlight and reflect its color in kind. Deep ridges of rolling muscle carved their ways through its body. Robin gulped down her anxiety and looked up at the equestrian mountain. The beast towered over Robin, almost a perch in height at nearly twice as long.
“Well now, don’t usually make ’em this size. What’re they feedin’ ya? Whole apple trees?”
The horse lolled its head to one side in response. Unimpressed by Robin’s presence, its nostrils flared, searching for something tasty on which to chew. Robin offered the only thing she had, an apple meant to be her lunch. The enormous beast accepted. Robin looked round for a giant rider to match the mount, but to no avail. The horse, it seemed, arrived of its own accord. Shrugging, she shook her head and approached the enormous animal.
“All right, big fella,” she muttered, “let’s have a look at you, then.”
Grabbing the horse by its lead, she guided the giant towards the waiting set of tools and anvil. Her gloved hands deftly wrapped the reins around a buried stake, keeping the animal in place. Retrieving a set of pincers from the tool bag at her feet, she took hold of the beast’s already raised, tree-trunk sized leg.
“My word,” Robin struggled, “Hefty lad aren’t we? Oop, someone’s been busy.”
The old shoe had worn down to almost nothing, leaving the hoof to grow unevenly.
“You must have been run into the ground, poor thing,” she mused.
Taking hold of the hoof, Robin used pincers to pry out the old nails and remove the scrapped shoe. No easy feat, as each nail was six inches long and thick as her thumb. Sweat built up as she moved from the second to the third, to the fourth shoe. Morning burned away at a breakneck pace. Townsfolk walked past the smithy’s entrance, some poking a curious head inside to see the new blacksmith at work.
“Look at her go,” said one.
“In my day womenfolk stayed in the home,” another quipped.
“Let her be for now. She’ll remember how things work soon enough,” a third droned.
Robin grabbed her rasp and set to work on the hooves. Over and back, over and back, she worked the rasp over each hoof wearing off the natural growth and allowing for the presence of a fresh shoe. Fiery equine eyes looked down at her progress. Robin met them. A look that bordered on provocation passed from animal to human. The rasp slipped in her hand, her momentum propelling her away from the horse’s massive shin. An eruption of giggles resounded behind her and stifled just as quick. Robin’s head snapped to the laughter’s direction, eyes alight with mounting fury. Two boys and a young man stood in the doorway, all smirks and smug faces.
“Having a bit of trouble eh, Robin,” jeered the man.
“Just slipped, thanks,” she spat back, with such vitriol it spurned the trio away from the smithy.
A low snort issued from the horse, pushing her to resume. To rage on. Robin snatched the rasp from the ground and went back to work, doubling her intensity. Heat emanated from her. Her lungs acting as bellows on the forge fires of her soul. How dare they laugh at me. I’ve worked harder than any of them ever could. I’ve lived harder than they. They’ll be sorry for the jests and insults and snide remarks.
Clouds of keratin dusted the air, sticking to her sweat-coated flesh like ash. Her teeth gritted together with the effort and ground with anger. The horse remained steadfast, approving of the frenzy building within Robin. Her heart beat a fevered rhythm. The townsfolk’s jeering faces flashed through her mind and spurred her to violence. Robin finished with the third hoof. Just two arm lengths away sat her new hammer. I could do it. Grasp it in my hand. And take my revenge on them all. The thoughts raged loud in her brain. A blissful fantasy that could be real. Robin looked at the horse.
“How bout it, my old son? You wouldn’t mind a quick break to bash some skulls in, would you?”
The horse’s glowing eyes flared red. It stamped and issued a powerful snort as if in agreement. Robin took a step towards the hammer, vision swimming red with the blood of all who’d mistreated her. A breeze blew in from behind her. The parchment she’d nailed rustled, drawing her attention away from her hammer. Robin saw the words of the order and thought of Mr. and Mrs. Hampsted. And the work she needed to complete. She shook her head, blinked, and the world cooled down.
Running a hand down her face, Robin looked around as if awakening from a trance. The fire in her soul still raged, but not with the intensity of a moment ago. Her gaze fell on the hammer, then moved to the paper, and finally, the horse. The monster peered into her. Colossal, heated breaths still coming in quick bursts. A steadfast, primal look of violence on its face. Muscles taut and ready for action. For war. Robin stared at the beast for a long moment. Then she picked up her rasp and hoof knife, sat down next to the horse, and got back to work. Anger dully knocked at her inner thoughts, eager to escape and run rampant through her psyche.
One, two, three.
One, two, three.
One, two, three.
She worked the rasp to the rhythm of a waltz, focusing on the motions. Moving on to the dig, dig, scrape of farrier’s knife, Robin drove all other thoughts to just below the surface. Sweat trickled down her brow at the mental effort. She finished with the knife just as someone approached her from the outside with a cheerful greeting.
“Good day, Robin! How’re things in the sm—”
“Back off!” Robin growled, flinging the curved blade at her accoster.
“Whoa whoa,” said the young man.
He raised his hands in surrender and ducked out of the projectile’s path, dropping a parcel he’d held. Robin’s enraged countenance morphed into one more apologetic as she beheld her guest. Confused, green eyes bulged at his attacker. Trembling fingers reached down to retrieve the fallen parcel, as shaking legs stood to face Robin. William Overton held out the package to her.
“Uh, fresh bread? I doubt you’ve eaten anything yet.” he offered.
“Oh, uh, no thanks, Will,” she replied, moving behind him and snatching up the flung knife. “Sorry about that.” Robin gave the horse another cursory glance. An impatient snort issued its response.
“No—not a problem,” Will continued, “I’d heard about Mr. Hampsted and that you were alone today and, well…” He trailed off clutching the bread for comfort and searching around the smithy, emitting a low whistle when his eyes leveled with the horse.
“Quite the specimen, eh?” he said.
“I guess he is, biggest I’ve ever seen. Look, Will,” she said, placing the rasp down and replacing it with tongs and a hammer. “I’ve a lot to handle with him and he’s just the first of four. Would you mind?” Will nodded like a pigeon seeking food and backed away to the door.
“Yes, yes, of course, sorry to, uh, bother you,” he stammered. “I’ll let you get back to it. And you know, uh, if you need anything I’m right across the street.”
Robin gave him an offhanded smile and turned to the forge. Will’s mouth opened to speak, thought the better of it, and left the smithy. Robin thought she heard him cursing as he did but put it out of her mind. There was work to do.
“All right, you beast, let’s see the shape of ya,” she said, moving to the horse. Carefully Robin examined the newly shaped hoof, getting a feel for how large to craft the shoe. Quite large, she thought as she moved to the forge. Orange-red steel simmering in the blazing coals like the fires of Hell. Grasping a red-hot hunk of iron with her tongs, Robin brought it to her anvil, shaped the shoe, then carried it to the horse’s waiting hoof.
Deliberate as a master painter making a first stroke, Robin pressed the horseshoe to the exposed hoof. A noxious, burning smell and a large amount of steam released into the forge once iron met hoof. Robin’s eyes teared at the sensation. Once finished, she dunked the shoe in water and carried it to her awaiting anvil. The hammer fell like a shooting star. Sparks shot out, attacking her face and exposed skin. Robin never flinched. She intensified. Faces flashed with the “clang” of each impact. The boys who laughed at her. The women with their clicking tongues and hushed tones. Men, all rolling eyes and guffaws. The horse leaned its head down to her own; appreciating her ferocity and inciting more. She glanced at the parchment for relief, but this time found none. Anger consumed her. Her teeth gritted and a furious cry escaped from a primal section of her being. Hammer strokes vibrated through her arms, urging her to savagery. The horse’s request was granted.
A flurry of motion and stout nails appeared in Robin’s hand. The hammer trained itself on the shoe, hoof, and nail. Her breathing increased to a rugged pace like someone running a race. The hammer let loose once again, straining her forearms and shoulders with its velocity. Each nail found its home with a single swing of the hammer. The horse neighed and shook its fiery mane as if to say: “Give in.”
The second shoe introduced itself to the horse’s hoof. Then the third. Finally the fourth. Sweat poured from every opening on Robin’s face. Her brow tightened into a look of hatred. The forge fires seemed to transplant themselves into her eyes, creating two inhuman orbs of barbarity. Robin snarled at every hammer blow. She hissed each time she lifted its weight. She bellowed when she forced the hammer down. The horse snorted, egging her on. A final clang of the hammer and the job was finished.
Robin stood and backed away from the horse. It issued an approving whinny and stamping of hooves, then froze and stared at Robin. Her chest heaved with the effort of her work and more. Rage. She looked from the horse’s burning eyes to her hammer. Her blacksmith’s hammer. Hers. Turning around she peered at the smithy’s door and to those beyond who deserved punishment. For the mockery. The disdain. The pity in their hearts. One step. Then two, three, four. Robin stood inches from the door. Looking over her shoulder, she beheld the beast. But it had changed. Its crimson coat, obfuscated by thick plates of blood red armor with ornate golden trim. A horned helmet sat atop its head, creating the image of a unicorn going to battle. From under the helmet the beast’s eyes no longer merely glowed, but blazed with twin flames.
Robin gasped, backed out the smithy’s front door, and dropped the hammer. It thudded to earth with the impact of someone being punched. Air struggled into her lungs through hunched shoulders and clenched teeth. The embers in her eyes began to die out. Robin examined her hands, contorted in a position fit only for violence. When she finally looked up, she beheld the armored horse and something more. Its rider.
The hulking figure sat atop the horse wearing armor identical in design to that of his mount. His left hand held the horse’s reins. His right gripped an immense double-bladed war axe, the size of Robin’s torso. Blood dripped off the axe’s blades like water from a leaf after a hard rain. The figure faced Robin. Her hair stood on end and her stomach folded in on itself. A voice boomed in her mind.
“Fine work, blacksmith.”
Horror wrenched her from within and Robin flew away from horse and rider and into the middle of the street. Her knees gave way, introducing themselves to the earth. Robin gasped in breaths like a woman near drowning. Hands found themselves around her shoulders. She reeled about meeting Will’s gaze for the second time that morning.
“Are you all right?” he inquired.
“I’m fine,” she muttered, pushing herself up to her feet and away from Will’s concerned grasp.
“Are you sure?” he asked, “You should really eat something or take a break because if you’re coming down with something I’m sure the Hampsteds would understa—”
“No!” she snapped, causing Will to retreat a few steps. “Just… Just leave me be. I’ll be fine.”
Robin paced around the smithy’s entrance a few times, building up her courage as she did. The townsfolk exchanged confused glances as they observed her strange behavior. After a few minutes Robin let out a frustrated grunt and stormed back into the smithy prepared to face the monster within. In the distance a church bell rang twelve times.
“All right you—”
She halted. A roan shape replaced the previous flame red frame. Backing away, Robin searched the room before throwing a curious glance at another, quite different horse. The animal stamped a twig-thin leg into the dirt, skin stretched around its taut muscles. No footprints led to or from the smithy. No evidence showed the presence of another life other than the frail being in front of her. The vermilion hulk from before was a phantom, the shrunken, dusty form a reality. She approached, casting a tenuous hand out to touch the thing. It backed away from her extending hand with a start. Robin halted her advance.
“Easy now, easy,” Robin cooed.
All fluttering mane and nervous whinnies, the horse lowered its emaciated neck, a prisoner accepting their fate. Robin’s fingers explored a patchy, rough coat which seemed to only be housing a skeleton. The horse shivered, not from her touch, but from the air around it, though the smithy’s fires raised kept the room warm. Her fingers ran their way from exposed ribs down a malnourished flank to a minuscule leg. Robin encircled the entire foot with her fingers and gingerly examined the hoof. Rust covered the shoe but it retained its shape and sturdiness, a stark contrast to the previous customer’s worn down condition. A low growl vibrated from Robin’s stomach throughout the smithy. The horse backtracked a few steps more.
“Whoops,” she said, “It’s alright. Nothing to worry about. Just a bit peckish is all.”
She cursed herself for not taking young William up on his offer of bread. The horse settled and Robin resumed her work. The nibs returned to wrench out oxidized nails and remove the tainted shoe. She clucked her tongue at the sight. Residue clung to a malnourished hoof, like barnacles on a decaying ship. Grabbing a rough brush, Robin took to the hoof, cleaning out the interior and readying it for a fresh shoe. A sharp twist grabbed at her insides as hunger reached out and attempted control once more. Struggling, she breathed until the spasm passed; steady streams of in and out, in and out. Her roan companion gazed down at her. Robin swore the beast wore an expression of pained sympathy.
Robin rose from her stooped perch, moving to the forge. Retrieving a fresh shoe, the tongs dipped low under its weight. Confusion spread throughout her, as she fought to keep the iron upright. Her vision darkened at the corners. Dizziness washed over her entire being. She stumbled and collapsed to the dirt. Hoisting herself up with one hand, she held the shoe against an upraised hoof. Three times she grasped at her hammer, unable to elevate the head off the ground. Shallow breaths and tingling limbs accompanied her efforts. At last gaining a solid hold, she connected hammer with shoe. Debility ruled her movements, the first nail going in after ten hits. Her stomach protested with each hoist and heave. Meat pies, pastries, and roast chicken flew past her vision, settling in the periphery. A lake built up in her mouth, contained by her dam of teeth.
Blinking away the mirage, Robin progressed to the second shoe. Her stomach screamed for nourishment. She ignored the request. Instead she snatched up a bucket of water, gulping down the liquid with a fervor. Hunger pangs quieted for a moment, allowing her to finish the third shoe, in nearly thirty hits, and progress to the finale. Vision blurred, Robin took up the hammer once more. Grunting, she struggled to move it above her head, almost bludgeoning herself in the process. The horse neighed next to her ear, a distance as wide as a vast sea. Her entire body felt like air, light and immaterial. As if she was panting her soul out of her being.
“Just one more,” she urged, “I have enough strength for one more.”
Faint hammer strokes echoed throughout the smithy, like a jeweler designing an intricate ring. Another bout of dizziness nearly sent her reeling to the ground once more. She lay in a pool of sweat, shivering despite the smithy’s heat. A weak whiny came from miles away. Opening her eyes, Robin focused on the sound, fighting her way back to consciousness. White flashed in her peripheral vision: the parchment nailed to the smithy’s beam. The Hampsteds needed her help. She couldn’t give up on them. With excruciating effort, Robin grunted herself upright and came face to face with the desiccated horse.
“Not—” she whispered through cracked lips. “Not quite yet done, my old son. Just one left to go, then you’re in ship shape.”
Gripping the final shoe with all her strength, she held it against the horse’s hoof. It danced, unsteady, against the rough surface as Robin suffered to keep it in place. Tunnels of blackness enclosed around the edges of her eyes. In went one nail. Then two, three, four. The seventh marked the job complete. Starvation wrapped Robin in a blanket of cold sweat and shivering extremities, and she again collapsed onto cold dirt. The horse empathized with a soft whine. Robin cracked a fallow smile at the beast and opened heavy eyelids. Her eyes widened at the sight. Once more a rider mounted the horse. Unlike its stalwart compatriot, this figure desperately clung to the beast. It wore ragged cloths, that flowed in the cool afternoon breeze, revealing a skeletal body matching its mount, except for a protruding, distended stomach. Wisps of hair clung to the rider’s skull which looked down at Robin’s prone form. Sunken eyes wrinkled and a horrid smile of broken, rotted teeth broke out across the figure’s visage. In Robin’s mind another voice came, this one so soft it barely qualified as a whisper.
“Thank you, blacksmith. Fine work.”
Robin stared at the mounted rider for as long as she could before the dark embrace of sleep enveloped her completely. She awoke with a start. Stars flew around the room as she oriented herself. The dull ache in her stomach lingered, growling with every movement. Late afternoon sunshine crept through gaps in the smithy’s walls. Bursting through the doors, Robin greeted what remained of the day. William noticed her from across the street, jogging to her side toting the same bread as before.
“Hope you’re hungry this time,” he said, extending the bread out to her.
Robin snatched and tore into the loaf, eviscerating the bread in a minute Once finished, she staggered back, hands on knees, panting. William moved to aid but was cut off by a demanding inquisition.
“A few hours ago, did a rider pass through here? Huge, red mount? Or another just now, riding a dwindling, blue roan?” Robin asked with rapid fire. William gave her a speculative crook of the head.
“None that I noticed. So far as I’ve seen, you’re the only one who’s been in and out of there all day. In all manners of duress, I might add.” Robin turned towards the smithy, hand drawn to her forehead, as if trying to pull information from her brain. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m actually not sure that I am, William,” she responded and recounted the events of the day so far to the captivated young man.
“Seems a tale straight from Scripture, all things told,” said William, scrunching his face in concentration. “In fact, I think that these riders of yours sound downright familiar. But I can’t quite put my thumb on it.”
“But you believe me right?” Robin asked. William searched her frantic gaze for any sort of insanity.
“Of course I do,” he said, “Why would I have any reason to doubt? You’ve never proved untrustworthy to me, just the opposite. If you say so, then it must be. But what of the final two orders?”
As she opened her mouth to speak, something clicked within Robin’s mind. Four orders. Mysterious comings and goings. Scripture. She reeled away from William, pacing in the sun dried mud. Mutters escaped her lips like incantations. Her fingers attempted to burrow trenches into her chin. Then: an upright spine. Snapping fingers. A twirl. Brisk strides set her on a collision course for William.
“What?” he exclaimed, “What is it?” Her hands gripped his arms like vices, fingers digging deep enough to make him wince.
“You said something about the Scripture. And the four orders,” she whispered.
Passing townsfolk shot the pair suspicious glances. William’s lopsided, but pained, grin attempted to appease the wandering throng. The process made difficult due to Robin shaking his slender frame.
“So?” he whispered, “What does that have anything to do with anything?”
“So,” she retorted, “Think about it: four orders, four horses needing shoes, four riders. The two so far: a red, raging behemoth, a frail, roan beast that nearly starved me to death. Don’t tell me you haven’t been listening to Father Brennhill’s sermons of late.”
Realization dawned on William’s face like the morning sun over a hill.
“No,” croaked William, “That’s impossible.”
Church bells rang, marking the time. Four in the afternoon. The two trained their gaze to the smithy’s ajar doors. Robin led the charge, her lengthy limbs crossing the gap in four strides, leaving William to stumble along behind. Throwing the doors open they greeted a new guest.
“I think we’ve passed impossible, Will,” whispered Robin. Before them stood a lithe, semi-obsidian creature. Its ratty coat thinned to the skin in patches around its body, worn away entirely in some places, leaving open, oozing stretches of infected flesh. Boils and cysts gathered in sporadic clumps all over the beast. Pus and ichor flowed from open wounds, ocular cavities, and nostrils. Rot permeated the air, overcoming the smells of burning wood and heating metal.
“Proof enough?” gagged Robin.
William stood in rank disbelief. “It…it can’t be,” he mumbled. “That’s just a story. From the Revelation of St. John.”
“And yet here it stands,” Robin said, resolute, “Now get out; I’ve work to do.”
Pushing forward, Robin took her post at the beast’s feet, grabbing a rag and fashioning a crude face mask.
“Now just hold on,” William protested, “You can’t seriously be thinking about finishing the job, can you?” Robin returned William’s frantic gaze with resolution.
“I gave my word.”
“Just think about this for a minute,” he pleaded, “If these things are what we think they are, imagine what would happen if you didn’t complete the task. All the lives that might be affected for the better?”
“And if their masters exact revenge on us? What then?” Robin faced William down. Daring him to disagree. Silence was his only response. “That’s what I thought. Close the doors on your way out.”
He acquiesced, slamming the doors closed with a definitive thud. Alone, Robin faced the day’s latest horror.
“All right then, you damned bastard. Just you and me.”
Her hands dove for a leg as she rushed to complete her task. Grabbing hold of a shin, Robin yelped when hair and skin sloughed away like a discarded glove. Tallow mucus flowed with watery blood from the wound, creating a pink porridge. Robin threw the foot down, forcing herself not to retch. A sneeze shot out of her nose. Rage. Starvation. Now sickness.
Panic threatened to consume her. She breathed deep through her face mask. The parchment. The payment. The Hampsteds. Determination quickened her pace. In minutes all shoes had been removed and she began rasping the hooves. Filed keratin dust lined her lungs, bequeathing her a persistent cough. Her face mask dampened with snot and saliva until she gave up and threw it off. Robin noticed blood mixed with the other fluids in the soaked rag. Standing upright from her stooped position brought nausea and dizziness. Objects rearranged themselves as she soldiered on to the forge, difficult with a floor that didn’t want to stay still. Robin gulped down her fear and pain. Taking hold of the tongs proved too much for her constitution.
Rash and lesions pockmarked her forearm, popping pus and spreading irritation wherever they advanced. Escaping from the smithy, Robin ran around to the building’s back where she could collapse and vomit in peace. Cool air flooded her lungs, igniting a flame in her chest. A torrent of coughs, half digested bread, and stomach acids rained to the ground. Tears streamed down her eyes from the strain. She lifted her gaze to the reddening sky demanding vitality and steadying her will. Cawing crows and buzzing insects responded. Images flared in her mind. Red crosses on doors. Abandoned families weeping. Funerals every other week. With a snarl she slammed a fist to against the smithy’s wall. She wouldn’t succumb. Not till the job was done. Lurching to her shaking, unsteady legs, she limped back to the smithy. Her baleful companion gave her a dead-eyed stare in welcome.
“Not happening,” said Robin, “You’re not beating me.”
A sneer peeled up her mouth. She hastened to the forge, taking hold of the tongs and quenched a heated shoe with a hiss and release of steam. Robin’s hammer produced showers of sparks which poured over her arms and new wounds, singeing the tender flesh like a million tiny bites. Faces again danced past Robin’s vision. Mr. Hampsted, hacking up viscous fluid from his lungs. Physicians with their ominous uniforms and too long masks. Her parents, bleeding from their noses and black toothed mouths, voiding their bowels and drowning in their own fluids. She wept; from the strain of work, from the mountains of loss, from the knowledge of what was to come.
Robin progressed at an agonized pace. Her blackening, gangrenous fingers struggled to find their dexterity, dropping nail after nail. A film enveloped her left eye. Upon investigating she felt yellow pus oozing out a constant flow. Her skin flared with each movement of her limbs, begging to be itched or flayed. The horse’s condition seemed to mirror her own. Flesh fell away in more and more places, like fracturing ice. Course breaths chopped through the air as it exhaled. Its coat glistened with gore.
The hammer clattered to the ground; blood raining down on the hilt. Robin clenched her fists, willing them to cease trembling. Gaining control, she drove the final nails to their new home. Ragged gasps filled the smithy. The horse lowered its head to hers and gave her a neigh of thanks. She gazed up to the horse and past. A sickly figure looked back, its yellowed skin sloughing off in wide patches. The figure raised a boil-infected hand and waved to Robin. A voice the sound of a thousand buzzing flies filling her mind.
“Thank you for your fine work, blacksmith. My final brother awaits.”
Robin watched the pair trot away from her, walking through the solid, back wall and out of sight. Minutes passed like years. Music from the pub across the day wafted into the smithy, followed by the raucous noises of revelry. Robin examined her arms and legs. The rash faded away, boils and lesions dissipated, sensation returned. Her mind cleared, no longer focused on the pain.
Thoughts flickered past at dizzying speeds. She needed a plan. Her final customer would soon arrive. Would she dare to try and interfere? How could she do so? What would happen if she did?
Pacing around the smithy helped slow her velocious thoughts. Gathering the fresh shoes and nails, organizing her tools, stoking the fires—all aided in steadying her resolve. The plan came together quick enough. Though a bit ramshackle, Robin convinced herself it would be sufficient. It had to be. A shudder dove from neck to tailbone. Every hair on her body stood at attention. A primal sense of fear covered her like a shadow. Nine vibrating tones filtered into the smithy. The time had come. She turned to the anvil and faced her adversary.
Robin registered the smell first. A putrid, decaying stench that was becoming all too common around the village. Flies buzzed around her in the dim firelight. From the shadows a pale horse materialized, drawing the insects to its being. Ashen and pallid, with a tinge of greenish rot, and black, empty wells for eyes. The thing ignored Robin. Statuesque, it stood with one foot raised in an invitation to begin.
Robin hesitated. She shot a look over her shoulder at the smithy’s door and beyond. At all the people in the village, worthy and unworthy of her help. Mr. and Mrs. Hampsted who’d cared for her in her own time of need. And poor William. Robin grinned sadly at William’s conjuration. With a quick inhale she grabbed her tools and set to work. Worn shoes, almost disintegrated from use, met her eyes. Tut-tutting at the neglect, Robin removed each with little effort. Her breath came in desperate gasps, as her heartbeat accelerated. Icy tendrils stretched through her veins, causing shivers over her body. By the time she’d finished rasping the third hoof, Robin could see her breath hanging in the air.
Robin’s mind reeled with apprehension. She moved from the horse to her fast-dying forge fires. Pumping the bellows, she sneaked a glance at the horse. With a start she jumped backwards, nearly falling into the forge. The pale horse regarded her with a calculated gaze. Unlike the fiery visage, pained sympathy, and sickly features of the other three; the pale horse beheld her with a blank expression. It just stared. Unmoving. Uncaring. An inevitability. Tentative steps carried Robin back to the pale horse. Dark, monstrous shapes played in her periphery. Robin gulped down her fear and proceeded.
The first shoe went on with no trouble. On the second she questioned her plan as the air grew colder. At the third, her steadfastness faltered. An unnatural darkness fell upon the smithy, extinguishing all light, leaving Robin and the pale horse surrounded by a faint halo. Demonic shapes in the inky blackness now gained voices. Ancient tongues Robin didn’t recognize reverberated taunts through her ears and into her core. Vicious howls and pained moans echoed out of the night. Screams of the damned and their tormentors. Then came the final shoe. The pale horse hadn’t averted its eyes, daring Robin to make a mistake or checking that she didn’t. A cold sweat draped her body like dew, followed by weakness. She struggled to breathe, as if her body counted each intake of air as its last. Six nails down. One to go.
Robin knew this was her last chance to act. The pale horse lowered its face to hers. No sound or breath emanated from the beast. Just the stench of corpses. Lifting the hammer, Robin felt tears fall down her cheeks in single file. The faces of all those she’d lost, or could lose, swept past her. She had to do this. She knew the price. The pale horse confirmed it. The hammer fell, impacting the nail’s head at a slight angle. Instead of the straight path inward, the nail took a curve right, landing directly where Robin intended. Letting down the pale horse’s leg, she sat motionless, the stillness before a storm. It would work. It had to.
Movement attracted her view. The pale horse walked a few paces. Robin cracked a tiny grin when she noticed her handiwork. A minuscule thing, really; the most infinitesimal of flaws. The pale horse’s front right leg limped ever so slightly as it walked. A thing one would need to study closely to notice at all. Her back straightening, Robin glared at the pale horse in victory.
“Not today. Nor tomorrow,” she said, “But eventually. It’ll take a little longer to get you where you’re going. Slowing you down; that’s enough for me.”
A cold sensation wrapped around her throat. Skeletal fingers gripped her shoulder. The world stopped.
“Knew you’d show up,” she said, “Have fun with that quicking. Let’s see how fast you go on a lame mount.”
A raspy, hushed voice responded. All bone meal and dirt and ice. The final voice everyone hears as they shuffle off.
“Well played, blacksmith. Though my dissatisfaction comes with a price,” it said.
“Oh, I thought so, and it’s fine by me. So long as you take a little longer getting where you’re going.”
The rider in black bowed in acknowledgment and strode out into the darkening evening. Robin felt her chest tighten, but nothing more. She took three steps towards the smithy’s entrance and collapsed.
The townspeople found Robin the next morning, a large, overflowing sack of gold coins in her arms. It was ruled that exhaustion was her killer, though no one remembered there being any customers in the smithy that day. Almost no one. William and Mrs. Hampsted exchanged stories, filling in the gaps as they did. A few days later, they relayed everything to the fast recovering Mr. Hampsted. In fact, after Robin’s untimely demise there were fewer and fewer red crosses painted on doors. Many, healthy seasons later, folks wondered whether old Mrs. Hampsted and William Overton spoke the truth. That something strange and extraordinary had occurred on the day Robin Wilkenshire died. Something magical. But it was all speculation, of course.
Robin was buried, with her hammer, atop a hill overlooking the village. The epitaph read simply: “A blacksmith true.” All the townsfolk attended her funeral and marveled over the same detail. For years on they would recall the story of the blacksmith who’d died at her forge, and how she’d been buried wearing the biggest smile they’d ever seen. As if she knew some great joke she’d never share.
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Jared Zygarlicke is a weird fiction, horror, and fantasy author, based out of Brooklyn, New York. An avid consumer of all things strange, he particularly enjoys reading (and collecting) comic books, and is always ready for a lengthy discussion of the Great Worldeater, Galactus. Jared’s work has appeared in the anthologies: Summer’s End, The Heart of a Devil, and MAGICK & MALICE. Jared can be found online posting many pictures of his lovely wife and cat at his Instagram @teh_question.