So sorry to take so long updating on this. Long story short: I was in prison for a bit (let's see who can guess why) and I had some family drama when I got home. But I'm still here, and for anyone asks I'm sorry to report that I AM NOT IN THE MARKET FOR ART COMMISSIONS. PLEASE SAY SOMETHING SPECIFIC ABOUT THE STORY SO I KNOW YOU'RE NOT JUST FISHING.
Anyway, let's see how things are going with Patrick.
How Mr. Jacques could be so others-centered, Patrick would never be sure. He showed up to work the following day, bound and determined not to burden a cancer patient with his family drama. Five minutes later that resolution had fallen to bits as he took out his frustrations on a piece of hot metal.
"And I know… while I'm there… he's going… to expect… me to just… be whatever… it takes to make… him look good," he vented, pounding away at the bar on the anvil.
"Ease up on the hammer, or you'll need to start again," urged Mr. Jacques.
Patrick fumed, but he reigned in his temper. Spoiling the bar would be a waste of good steel. Mr. Jacques of all people deserved better than that.
"Take a breather, Patrick. Drink something before you fall into the forge."
Much against his will, Patrick set the project aside and grabbed up his sports bottle, taking a long swig of Gatorade. He had to admit, now that he took the time to notice it, he was definitely overheated.
Mr. Jacques put a hand on his shoulder. "Take a moment to rest, young man. I will take a turn."
"But Mr. Jacques…" Patrick started to object, reaching out to stop the man. He might as well have tried to halt a hydraulic press.
"I have cancer, not arthritis. Let me enjoy my occupation while I am still fit for it. Besides, there is something you must still learn that I would show you."
Seeing that he might as well try to debate with a mountain, Patrick sat back and watched as Mr. Jacques raised the hammer and brought it down, stroke after stroke; each one making the metal bounce a little, adding a little curvature, flattening an unwanted bulge.
"If metal had feelings," reasoned Mr. Jacques, "nothing we do to it would be pleasant. Battering it with picks and explosives to tear it from the earth. Heating it until it melts to draw it out of its virgin ore. Heating it again and pounding it with hammers or squeezing it with presses to shape it how we please. Ripping off tiny specks of it with rough tools. Heating it to glowing and plunging it in coldness to quench it. Yet all these things are necessary to make metal lovely and useful. We too have a Maker who puts us through many trials, that we may be lovely and useful."
Patrick knew all that. He was a Christian, after a fashion. It was just hard to feel God in such a messed-up life.
It was also hard to see why Mr. Jacques was telling him all this. "You've taught me that before," he pointed out.
"No," said Mr. Jacques, pausing to point his hammer at Patrick. "I told you this before, but you did not learn it. That's why I'm saying it again, while I still have you for a captive audience."
Patrick had to laugh at the old man's reasoning, and manner. He talked like Uncle Iroh in The Last Airbender. "And what more do you have to teach me, oh wise uncle?" he asked, tongue in cheek. He pressed a fist into a flattened, upright palm just to underscore the joke.
Mr. Jacques chuckled. "That first point is enough to chew on for a while, but since we are in a hurry I shall give you two more. The first is one you might do well to share with your father."
Patrick hesitated, not in the mood to share anything with his father. All things considered he'd be fine with never again sharing a continent with the old buzzard. Even so, he nodded slowly. "I'm listening."
Before continuing, the blacksmith lifted up the hot metal, which he was shaping into a decorative overlay for the woodstove. He studied it, then went back to hammering. "You might have heard of a painter who would say he makes no mistakes; only happy accidents."
Patrick combed through his brain for a moment. "Bob Ross?" he asked.
Mr. Jacques nodded. "Yes; a wise man. To make something take on the shape you want it to have is manufacture, but to make it the shape it wants to be is art. People are not products; they are works of art. That is true of you, and true of everyone you know."
There was a decided implication that this was meant to end with 'including your father,' but Patrick chose not to ask and Mr. Jacques chose not to say. "What's the third?" Patrick asked after a long moment.
"The third, I will say after you finish this piece and quench it so we can start tempering," Mr. Jacques answered, stepping away and passing the hammer off.
Patrick toiled diligently, turning and bending the metal until it was just the right shape. "How about this?" he asked, holding it up for Mr. Jacques to see.
The old master did not look up. "If you are sure of it then I trust your judgment. Into the oil with it before it cools."
Patrick accordingly dunked the piece into the quench, quickly drew it out for an examination, and then set it aside on a metal counter. He picked up a rag and mopped his streaming brow. "What's my third lesson?" he asked, growing slightly impatient.
In answer, Mr. Jacques bent down to open a cabinet. Out came a long-plain-looking wooden box, from which he drew a sword in an ox-hide scabbard with the piebald hair still on the outside. The blade sang a high, clear note as Mr. Jacques drew it out, brandishing it once in a deliberate circle. Patrick stared at it, mesmerized as he always was by the sight of a beautiful weapon.
Mr. Jacques held it out horizontally. "Do you recognize the design?" he asked with the air of one giving a quiz.
Patrick studied it. "French colonial sword," he replied. The long, curved blade was wider than a typical saber, with a keen edge and saw teeth along the spine, giving it dual purpose. Holding it to the light, he could see rippled lines of Damascus steel, forged from layers of different metals welded together under intense force. The basket hilt was simple, yet elegant; the wire grip easy to hold; the balance pure art; the bronze pommel…
"Why is there a rhino's head?" he asked, puzzled.
The old man chuckled. "Your ancestors are from Ireland," he explained, "and the national animal of Ireland is the unicorn. But for someone as thick-headed as you are, I thought a less fanciful breed would be appropriate."
Patrick turned his gaze from the weapon to his instructor, the meaning of this remark slowly sinking in.
"You… you designed this with me in mind?" he asked.
Mr. Jacques extended the sheathe open end first. "I designed it for you to keep," he said. "I was going to give you the first good sword you made, but when I began to suspect that I might not have time to teach you that far I decided to give you one of my own."
Patrick was at a loss for words. "But… but this has to be worth…"
"Far less than for you to remember what I have said, Patrick," Mr. Jacques answered, laying a hand on his shoulder, "and what I am going to say now. That sword can be many things: a pretty trinket to hang on a wall, a weapon of destruction whether noble or senseless, a scepter to honor the worthy, or a tool to blaze new paths to new destinations. Its purpose and worth depend on the choices you make, and so do yours."
Patrick fairly trembled as he sheathed the blade. "I will… I will remember, sir."
Mr. Jacques drew him into a hug. "I know you have had challenges, Patrick, and I cannot begin to guess what challenges still face you. But I want you to hear it from me, even if no other man tells you: you are a good boy, and I will always be proud to call you my student."
Patrick could not easily continue his work that day, especially knowing it would perhaps be his last day ever working for Mr. Jacques.
He had to keep wiping his eyes.
Not so surprisingly, Patrick's mother was not nearly as pleased about the sword as he had been.
"Please tell me you're not going to start carrying that thing around," she said uneasily.
Now that she mentioned it, a sword would be pretty handy to have going to the mailboxes. Wouldn't use it, of course; just have it in his hand, give it a flick or a twist here and there to make sure it was noticed. If the punks stayed within ten feet of him it would be all they could do, and more than he'd expect.
He shook his head anyway. "Mom, it's just a gift. Mr. Jacques said it wasn't even mostly for combat. This is made more for-"
"I don't care what it's made for," she objected. "I just don't want it used for any trouble."
"I will keep it put away," Patrick promised, putting it behind his back as if to emphasize his point. "I'll… only use it if I go camping or something."
She folded her arms. "Not to pick a fight with a bear, I hope."
He shook his head. Okay, so he'd tried to lasso a bear that wandered into their yard. Once. When he was four. "No bears," he promised, raising his free hand. Then, showing that his knack for dumb stuff jumping out of his mouth hadn't failed him, he added, "Maybe a mountain lion."
"That's not funny," she retorted.
Okay, no; not funny at all. Even so, he privately wished something would attack him while he had the sword. Just gripping the hilt made him feel adventurous and almost invincible. Mentally, he knew it was silly, but he longed to test himself; to face someone or something in a battle that really mattered. He'd had impulses like that ever since… well, since he'd found hair in his armpits and realized he could look out the peephole in their front door without standing on a chair. This, though, was different; almost intoxicating. It felt as if he could meet a mountain lion and leave with a new rug. Unfortunately, his options were limited to the occasional neighborhood rugrats who'd cling to him and see how many it took to weigh him down, or the neighborhood thugs who just wanted to see who they could intimidate.
"I won't go looking for trouble; I promise," he said, trying to think how to talk his way out of this. "I just… I want something to remind me of Mr. Jacques in case he doesn't make it, and I want something to remind me that I'm good with metal. Is that so bad?"
She relaxed her stance just a little and clicked her tongue. "Of course it isn't," she relented. She liked Mr. Jacques. Wasn't crazy about him giving her impetuous teenage son an actual sword, but she respected and trusted the man. Goodness knew, Patrick needed someone to model healthy masculinity for him.
That reminded her of something else. "How are you coming along packing for the trip with your father?"
Well, that deflated Patrick's sense of adventure. "Getting there. How many ties do you think I should bring?" This last was a rather sarcastic quip. Back when Patrick's parents had still been married, his father had been very big on Patrick always looking 'respectable.' Aside from a few school photos where he'd managed to wear something he liked – much to his old man's chagrin – nearly every picture of him from before the divorce had him wearing a buttoned shirt and a neck tie. They'd even gotten into one or two small-scale fights when Patrick wanted to change things up with a tie that had Garfield or Santa Claus on it, and the Looney Toons one had gone over about as well as trying to catch the bear.
History aside, his mother didn't appreciate the joke. "Just bring something that won't start another argument between you two," she pleaded. "A couple of solids; a couple stripes; then add what you want. It's your suitcase."
Patrick sighed and went off to pack his suitcase. Even the sword in his grasp cheered him little now, and trying to enjoy it felt more like trying to enjoy the last day of summer vacation, knowing he had school the next day.
About halfway to his room, though, a happy thought hit him. He walked a little faster to his room and pulled the rolling case he'd picked out for his main luggage out of his closet. If it just fit…
It did. Laid diagonally across the stuff he'd already packed, the sword fit perfectly inside, sheathe and all. He stashed it, then for good measure laid a few sets of pajamas over the top of it.
'Perfect,' he thought with satisfaction. All he had to do was check this bag, and his dad would have no idea the sword was there until they got to wherever they were going. Obviously he'd have no more use for it in Tokyo than at home, but it would be fun to see the look on his father's face. It might even make the stupid trip worthwhile, or at least livable.