The Blacksmith and the Stars

In the Hebrides, the Storyteller settles in at dusk to tell the ancient tale of the Blacksmith and the Stars.

“Let me tell you an ancient tale.”

The Storyteller, with the sun sinking behind her strikes up the familiar toll. In front of her is the natural amphitheatre carved from the headlands by the relentless storms on this remote island in the Hebrides. Behind her cloaked and shadowed form purple filaments of dying light strain across the skies, seeking sanctuary in the death of the day.

“It’s a story of truth and deception.”

Her voice rings out, amplified by the chamber of the amphitheatre. Her eager listeners are mainly young visitors, but still some of the local children come, the wonder running pure within their unblemished minds.

“A tale of love and sadness.”

The final visitors arrive, wrapped against the winds, barely hiding their furtive, disbelieving eyes.

“Of duality and balance.”

The Storyteller pauses to smooth the contours of her long, dark gown, spreading her palms and slender fingers across the fine silk. She looks up, and sees, as always, beyond her immediate audience, and speaks to the souls that crowd at the back, the hidden spirits that have gathered here at this place, at this time for thousands of years, their numbers ever-growing.

“It is said, that after the beginning, at the time of endless light, the gods, the first immortal beings, would roam throughout the land, their gigantic forms creating havoc, stamping into the earth, creating valleys with their feet, winds with their wild cries.” A murmur of understanding wound through the audience, and as always, the Storyteller paused to allow it to settle.

“But soon they grew bored, and began to fight, tearing at the land to throw rocks and ridges at each other. And so, the mountains were created. For the first time shadows appeared, cast from the light of the endless sun, to the places below the mountains. Some of the gods would rest in the shade, falling asleep, their stomachs full of mead, their heads buzzing with dreams of fighting and laughter.

“One of the gods noticed that the Mountain by which he slumbered smelled and tasted different to the others. He plunged his hand through the earth and grasped at something hard.

“What is this?” He wrenched it from the ground and lifted it to the sky, watching the sun play across its surface, and it gave him such joy he wondered if there was more. Again, he thrust his hand into the ground and found a rich seam that ran up to and through the mountain. It was iron.

“A thought entered slowly into his mind, wading past the memories of lusty fights and wrestling with his fellow gods. It occurred to him that if such a thing could bring joy to his own head perhaps he could make something out of it which would give joy to all of the gods, to those around him, and the many more than he could see in the distance, running up to the sunlit horizon.

“I shall make a place on this mountain,” his voice boomed across the land. “And you shall see such wonders.” He dug a hole in the ground, pulling up great timbers of iron, then to haul them up the shadowy side of the mountain, to the top.

“First he built a huge flat surface from the iron: the anvil of the gods. Then from a tree trunk he fashioned a handle, making a hammerhead next from the iron. By now his face was blacked by the sweat of effort and the dirt from the iron, so others began to call him ‘Blacksmith’. And soon he tore the raw iron into small pieces and began to strike at them on the anvil, creating thousands of slivers of lights that disappeared in the fierce glare of the sun. he fashioned small flattened pieces which he then flung into the air, watching them catch at the sunlight, and, for a moment, spark joy in his heart.

“But he noticed the joy did not live long in his mind, that soon he had created thousands of flat pieces which his fellows picked up and began to use to swop for favours, or cattle. They called them coin. And soon the fighting between the gods became more deliberate, as they fought out of jealously, stole eachothers’ coin and coveted each other’s possessions. The Blacksmith was horrified because he did not make the iron pieces for such use, he had dreamed of greater things, that the joy he had felt should last forever.

So he decided to make a final attempt. ‘If the little pieces create a little joy, perhaps a bigger one, will bring much longer joy?” He returned to the pit below the mountain and dragged a vast horde of iron up to his forge and began working on a larger disk. “A bigger disk will bring bigger joy.” He grinned at his plan and hammered away in the heat and the light until his entire body had become black with sweat and iron dirt.

“Finished.” He bowed his head, exhausted. Time could not be measured in this first day, which had not yet ended because the light of the sun was everlasting, but the weariness of the Blacksmith’s body told of immense effort, such that an overwhelming tiredness came upon him.

“I shall cast it high and watch the joy it spreads.” He sighed, lifted the huge disk from the anvil and, with all his remaining effort, he hurled the disk into the skies just as he had with the coins. This drained him of his last energies, and he sank to his knees, watching the disk hurtle high, catching at the sun.

“Across the land the gods wondered at the moment, the joy catching them so hard they were surprised and delighted. But a curious event occurred. The disk kept spinning higher, and higher, and soon the light that danced across its surface was visible only around its edges, and the gods who had rejoiced began to discover fear. As the disk spun ever higher it began to obscure the sun and for the first time the world grew dark.

“What have you done blacksmith?” The gods shrieked and bawled.

“But wait, what’s that?” As their eyes adjusted, they saw vast plumes of light, a cloud of tiny lanterns in the shadows. The gods gasped in awe and saw these were the sparks from the anvil which were not visible during the bright sun of the long first day, but now as darkness spread across the land, the wonder of these little lights was revealed, and the wish of the Blacksmith had been fulfilled. These they called stars.

“Of course, the huge disk, which the gods called ‘Moon’ continued its path around the land, so that day returned, then followed by darkness, in a long procession of days and nights, a solemn ritual to celebrate the final breath of the Blacksmith who had died, the first of the gods to do so, in the moment when the stars had been revealed. So too Time had begun.

The amphitheatre was hushed in respect, silent now that the sun had drifted into quiet contemplation.

“So, we thank you for coming here, to listen to our story.” The storyteller chanted, almost whispering into the air as she raised her hands and clapped gently in a gesture to the back of the natural auditorium where a thousand tiny lights could be seen.

“Good night all, keep safe in the dark, for it holds our precious memories.”

The visitors held their breath in wonder as a silver tear fell from the Storyteller’s cheek. She dipped her head, her gown folding into itself to reveal a cut of light in the darkness, which, with a rush leapt upwards, like a spark from a forge.

[End]

Part of a new series of micro-fiction stories, released as These Fantastic Worlds SF & Fantasy Fiction Podcast on iTunes, Apple Podcasts, Google Play, Spotify, and Stitcher and more. Also on this blog, These Fantastic Worlds.

More Tales, More Audio

There are many other great stories in this series, including:

Some background on the science behind Hunter and Bain’s adventures: Concepts of Time

And a carousel of 10 audio stories from the podcast with information about submissions.

Here’s a related post, 5 Steps to the SF and Fantasy Podcasts.

Micro-fiction 052 – The Blacksmith and the Stars (Origins series)