Thomas

I sighed and threw aside the hammer. I didn't know why I felt so obligated to follow in my father's footsteps as a blacksmith. Now, as I hammered my thumb for the twelfth time today, I was really beginning to question my decision. Having a place in the family business was the only incentive to this work, and as I looked down at my swollen thumb, that hardly seemed enough of an excuse.

"Thomas, how is that order coming?" My father's gruff voice was hardly audible over the loud noise of the forge. He grabbed another piece of iron from the fire and brought it over to his anvil. I wasn't able to answer over the noise of the hammering, and realized that he didn't expect an answer.

My father had that way about him. He would ask something of you without directly posing a question.

I knew it meant picking up my hammer and finishing the small order that my father had entrusted me with. I was crafting numerous utensils to showcase during the harvest festival. As I was still in training, my father wouldn't dare allow me to work on weaponry or farming tools.

I muttered to myself as I tiredly hammered the slightly flattened piece of iron in front of me. After a few more tries, I hit my thumb for the last time. I turned from the anvil and held my thumb up to the scarce amount of light coming through the window. It was quite swollen and I could feel it throbbing as though it had a pulse of its own.

My mouth also felt quite dry and the room seemed to be getting smaller. It was so hot that I decided now was a good time to quit for the day. The soon to be fork could wait until later.

My father looked up from his work questioningly as I walked past him and left the shop. He didn't bother to say anything as he shook his head sadly in disapproval.

I breathed a sigh of relief as I stepped outside. The gentle breeze tousled my black hair and cooled the sweat on my brow. The forge in the shop, along with the intense work of hammering, made the shop too warm to be able to work comfortably or to think properly. This troubled me as I had much to ponder these days.

My father had given me the news that the king's stable master was looking to hire a farrier. The position was offered to me and it greatly distressed me, as I had much to learn. I could hardly handle utensils and now I was expected to make horseshoes.

I entered our small cottage next to the shop and made my way to the table. The water bucket was sitting there, tempting with its promise of quenching my thirst. I grabbed the ladle and scooped up some water. I held it up to my lips and gulped it down. My dry throat was instantly relieved as I replaced the ladle and headed towards my small room.

Since I was twelve years old, I had always collected books. My father found it quite odd, and assumed that I would drop the habit eventually. Now, seven years later, I had more than enough books, yet still the amount kept growing. Books covered my room from the floor to the ceiling. They covered my shelf, the chairs, and my small working desk. They were stuffed under my bed, under my desk, and in my dresser. Yet the clutter didn't bother me, as seeing the books were comfort enough to ease all of the stressful thoughts that were going through my head throughout the day.

I sat on my bed and grabbed a dusty book from underneath. It was one that I hardly understood, considering I had never been schooled; yet I found the lettering fascinating. I flipped through the pages and the musty smell of the book sufficed in clearing my thoughts.

I heard the front door open and then close. My father's rough cough could be heard from the other room.

"Thomas?"

I got up and tossed my book onto the bed. I left the room and went to my father.

"Yes sir?"

"What's the meaning of not finishing your work?" He spoke calmly with a solemn look on his face.

"Sorry sir, I will finish it soon. I just needed a quick break," I said, looking down at the floor, feeling more like a young boy rather than the man I was.

"You cannot take quick breaks once you work for the king. You best be getting used to the work now." My father sat down in his chair and clasped his hands together. His hands were rough and white with age, along with the work he had done for so long.

"About that, father. I'm not sure if I am ready to take on such a difficult job as that. What if I fail at it?"

My father's chest heaved with a cough before he was able to answer.

"Son, you can do the job, and you will. It'll get you a reputation with His majesty once he hears about the good work you are doing for him."

I tried to speak, but my father held up his hand and stood up.

"Pass me my kerchief," he said as he went to the door.

I grabbed it for him, quickly glancing at the initials that had been sewn there. EP: Elroy Parr. My mother had sewn my father's initials on that kerchief as a gift for him years ago. She had since passed away during childbirth after the baby had been born stillborn. It had been a sorrowful time for the both of us, especially since I was only ten years old at the time.

He took his cloth from me and coughed into it. I hoped he wasn't coming down with an illness, as it was something neither of us could afford.

My father went outside, heading back to the shop. I clenched my jaw. He had already made the decision for me. I was to work for the king whether I liked it or not. I could not bear to go against my father's wishes, yet I felt that this one request was something I could not possibly go through with.

I went outside the cottage and looked down the street. Villagers bustled here and there with livestock, food, and other types of materials in their possession.

A young man on a horse trotted down the lane and stopped in front of our shop. He tied his horse up to the post and went inside, the shop bell ringing loudly.

I went over to the horse and held up my hand. The horse barely acknowledged I was there. I shook my head and turned to enter the shop.

I overheard my father and the man talking. He needed new shoes for his horse and needed the work done quickly. He wasn't from around here and he seemed to be in quite the hurry to leave. My father nodded and followed the man outside to examine the horse's hooves.

I went back to my anvil and picked up my tongs. I had to reheat the iron in order to shape it.

My father trod back inside. He bustled around at the back of the shop and then called for me.

"Boy, it's time for you to make your first horse shoe."

My shoulders sagged as the meaning of his words hit me. "Yes sir," I said in a quiet, yet obedient voice. It seemed as though I would be moving to the castle sooner than expected.

My father already had the measurements for the horse's shoes. He heated a piece of iron in the forge and brought it over to his anvil. I joined him in silence.

"Take this," he said, handing me his hammer. "Put the iron on the hook and hammer it into a rounder shape."

I held the iron with the tongs and put it on the hook. I began to hammer the left side of the iron. My muscles screamed with the intense work of hammering. With my father watching, I could not take my time like I usually did.

The iron began to take shape, so my father instructed me to switch sides. I began to hammer the right side until it was equally as round.

"Now that we have the shape, we have to punch holes in it so we can nail it on the horse's hoof."

He took the tongs from me and grabbed the formed shoe from the hook. He put down the shoe and grabbed a sharp tool. Aiming the tool over the beginning of the shoe, he hammered it repeatedly until the tool went through the iron. He had made the first hole. He then handed the hammer and sharp tool over to me and waited while I struggled to hammer the next five holes. By the time I was finished, I was drenched in my own sweat and my muscles ached.

My father chuckled. "Well, that's one shoe completed. Now you have three more to go. Good luck son." He clapped me on the back, forcing me to stumble forward slightly. I clenched my teeth together as he set out the remaining pieces of cool iron.

"Come get me when you're finished, and then we can nail those shoes onto the horse."

I nodded slightly, finding it hard to believe that this is what I would be doing for a good part of my life. My father left the shop as I grabbed the next piece of iron and brought it over to the forge, thus regretting my choice of trade once again.