The Village Blacksmith
The next evenin' I began me storytellin' where I'd ended previously...
'News of Fikta's return after a ten-year absence quickly spread through the village. Anyone who needed anythin' repaired or wanted news from the lands outside Misthallow rushed to see the old Dwarf. Truth be told, it were a bit overwhelmin'. Among those vyin' for Fikta's attention were the village blacksmith.
"Fikta, I'm needin' a new apprentice," said the blackmsith. 'Me last one took up farmin' after decidin' that blacksmithin' were too much work. Ha! Is he in for a surprise!" the blacksmith laughed. "I'd hoped ye'd be able to help me sort the lads who're wantin' to become me new apprentice. It's difficult to choose among so many fine candidates."
"Apprentice, eh?" said the Dwarf, speakin' to himself aloud more than anythin' else. "Blacksmith, have you considered taking on a lass on as an apprentice?"
"Ye must be havin' be on, Dwarf!" the blacksmith said with a laugh so loud that it could've woke the dead. "Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!"
"No, I'm not," said the Dwarf, as serious as he could be. "I have a candidate right here." He waved his arm towards Beannaithe.
"I'm sorry if I offended ye, Fikta, but I've never heard of a blacksmith lass. Is this common among Dwarves?" said Lyndelby's one and only full-time blacksmith.
"No, as a matter of fact it is not," the Dwarf answered, "but this lass is exceptionally skilled with hammer and tongs in her hands. My own folk have marvelled at her work."
The blacksmith looked Beannaithe over. He were beginnin' to think that advancin' age had affected the Dwarf's reason. "How old is she?" he asked doubtfully. "From the looks of her I'd say 'bout eight or nine years."
"She's been with me these past ten years," answered the Dwarf, "and I reckon she was about four years of age at the time that I found her."
"Found? Ye mean she isn't your daughter," asked the blacksmith.
"She's my daughter all right, but not my flesh and blood, if you take my meaning," Fikta replied. "She's a foundling, and I have reason to believe that she was born in this very village."
"Ah," said the blacksmith with a look of understandin'. "So ye're returnin' to Lyndelby to restore the lass to her family, and settin' her up with a trade for good measure."
"Aye," said the Dwarf, "you've put your finger firmly on the matter."
"I still have me doubts, mind ye," said the blacksmith with a smile, "but if she passes me tests the position is hers."
"Fair enough," said the Fikta. "Let the tests begin!"
The blacksmith did not make things easy for wee Beannaithe. He had her liftin' and carryin' things that should've been far too heavy for someone of her stature. In fact, the blacksmith made the tests far more difficult for Beannaithe than if she'd been a lad. To his surprise, she passed this test with no more than a few beads of sweat upon her snow white brow.
"Impressive!" said the blacksmith when Beannaithe had finished. "Liftin' and carryin' is one thing, but the true test of a blacksmith is with a hammer in his hand."
"In *her* hand, you mean," said Fikta with a grin.
"Aye, her hand, beggin' your pardon," said the blacksmith.
"In the ten years that Beannaithe has been with me," said Fikta, "she's acquired more skill than anyone twice her age normally would have. Nay, three times."'
'Three times?' interjected Diolun. 'This really *is* a fairy-story!'
Darowva gave him a fierce look, but said nothin'.
'While Beannaithe worked at the tasks set before her, Fikta and the blacksmith made the most out of the opportunity to speak out of range of her hearin'.
"I noticed the lass don't say much," the blacksmith observed.
"Much?" the Dwarf replied. "She doesn't say anything at all."
"Ever?" asked the blacksmith.
"Never," Fikta replied.
The blacksmith were befuddled. "How has she communicated with ye these last ten years?"
Fikta answered, "Mostly through facial expressions, but she occasionally makes funny little sounds. She's also good at talking with her hands."
The blacksmith asked, "With her hands?"
"Aye, her hands," said Fikta. "You'll see for yourself soon enough."
At the forge Beannaithe proved that Fikta's boasts were no mere exaggeration. She made door hinges and latches, repaired an iron gate, and shod a pony with expert precision.
For the final test she forged a steel knife with an antler handle, the quality of which the village blacksmith had never before seen.
"May I see the knife, lass?" asked the blacksmith. She nodded and handed him the knife, handle first as Fikta had taught her. The Dwarf smiled and gave her a knowin' wink.
The blacksmith tested the knife's strength and durability by choppin' on a block of wood with great force. Beannaithe winced with alarm to see her work misused in this manner. Fikta remained calm and confident.
Next the blacksmith tested the point of the blade by stabbin' the same block of wood several times. Beannaithe cringed, but Fikta remained steady. The knife had withstood the choppin' and stabbin' tests, but what of the blade's edge?
"Now try slicing this," said Fikta to the blacksmith. He tossed him a large red apple. The blacksmith caught the fruit then placed it on top of the wood block. He sliced the apple surely and cleanly in neat strokes. The blade were still sharp despite the abuse he'd given it.
The blacksmith were abashed. "I owe ye both an apology," he said. "I suppose I should never have doubted your word, Fikta, but seein' is believin'."
"It is indeed, Blacksmith," said Fikta with a satisfied grin. "I don't blame you for your skepticism. In your place I would have felt the same."
The Dwarf extended his hand in friendship. The blacksmith took Fikta's hand in both of his and shook it vigourously.
"Thank'ee, Fikta, I won't ever able to repay ye for this kindness."
"Sure you will, Blacksmith, and I'll stay around long enough to see that you do!" said Fikta with a laugh.
"That's fine, Dwarf, that's fine," said the smilin' blacksmith while wipin' the sweat from his brow.
"You can start by taking me to the nearest tavern for a few tankards of ale," said Fikta.
"I'd be happy to do so, but there're no taverns in this small village," the blacksmith replied. "However, I know a farmer with the best brew ye'll ever taste..."
The Dwarf looked at him suspiciously.
"...outside of the Dwarf-lands, that is," the blacksmith added.
Both Dwarf and Hobad ("Hobbit") laughed.
"Introduce me to this farmer," exhorted the Dwarf, "and to his barrels!"
"Bring along the lass," said the blacksmith, "and I'll introduce her as well. I'm sure they'll have somethin' a bit milder that'll wet her thirst. She's certainly earned it." Beannaithe's eyes twinkled as she smiled. She knew that she'd done well.'
'Seems like a good place to end the storytellin' for the evenin',' said me daughter Ériu. She and her sisters Bandba and Fódla had stood listenin' just out of the sight of their wee ones before steppin' forward.
'Aye, it is,' says I.
Me three daughters gathered their children for bed, but not before givin' me a gentle pat on the back. Seems they were enjoyin' the story, too.
'Good night, Granda,' said wee Darowva with as big a hug as she could give. 'This is the best story ever!'
I laughed with delight. 'That it pleases ye, lass, gladdens me heart more than ye can imagine.'
''Tis all right, Granda,' said Daibhidh in his typical understated fashion.
'Thank'ee, lad,' I replied smilin'.
'It is good, Granda, even if it were about a lass,' said Diolun. I smiled and gave him a pat on the head.
Dooli merely gave me a nod of approval. That's as good as gold from me eldest grandson.
