The Blacksmith's Son

It arrived upon his doorstep three days ago; he had opened it not long after its arrival, which, to his surprise, revealed a lump of red, pulsating thing. Taken aback, he shut it close and hid it away under the kitchen sink. His decision to keep it—he does not know why; he only thought it a special thing. Now it is three days later, and he has it on his father’s workbench, ready to get to work. He opens the box to reveal the same sludge of red goo, but, paying closer attention, he notices a note sticking out; it reads:

“At last, a new soul trudges forth in vacant entities, only now echoing sweet epochs, vibrant, everlasting notes.”

None of this made any sense to him, but alas, he sets it aside and starts working on the red thing. Its texture is much like jelly, and its color reminiscent of flesh, only it is pale, and purple-y, and pulsating. He manages to contain it in a piece of cheesecloth and stitch it up into something that resembles a pink lump of fresh cheese or bubblegum. He presses it onto his nose and takes in the scent of lavender, and plum, and freshly picked apricots. It smells nothing of how it looks, to say the least.

The morning after, he was awoken by the reverberating pulse of the red thing. It was most unnatural, almost otherworldly, though it soothed him throughout the night—hearing its omnipresent rhythm in his dreams. He got ready for the day ahead and stepped outside, the thing still lying on his bedside table, momentarily catching glare as the door opened, then closed. Outside, on his bike, he rides into town, past the church and the butcher’s shop, and into the market. There, he pulled out his sketchbook and began capturing what his eyes saw through thin lines and light strokes of his pencil. Just then, an old lady comes over and asks what it is that he was drawing and if he could draw anything, even herself.

That night, he got back to work, this time cleaning up its stitches, cutting off excess threads, and covering it in more layers of cloth. He intricately wrapped it and tucked it perfectly so as to create the shape of a heart—a tiny heart. He likes listening to its beating at night by the bedside lamp, showered in dim yellow light. He sleeps soundly, accompanied by its soothing rhythm, reminding him of memories long past. Of his mother’s sewing machine or his father’s faint footsteps at night. Now it is just him, alone, and his little half of a heart.

The next day he spends talking to the neighbor girl, who seems very interested in his day-to-day mundane life—he does not know why. They talked of the butcher’s red-stained hands, and the church bells, and the flower poppies that grow in the backyard of the used-to-be lady across the street. In his mind, however, only the sight of her boots and whether they belonged to the rancher he once knew. Nonetheless, it looks good on her, he thought.

At dusk, he sits by the cemetery to watch the sunset. Pulling out his sketchbook, he draws the scenery so vividly and beautifully that it is almost palpable. Then, he looked for hyacinths to pluck out and bring home, some to leave by his parents’ graves. On the way home, he stops by the neighbor girl's house to give her one, thinking it couldn’t hurt. She accepts the flower delightedly and gives him a kiss on the cheek. And just like that, the next morning, she was gone.

It had done it again, he thought. Another thing he began holding dear has once again been taken away from him. Only this time, it seems its rules have changed; they have been disappearing at a faster rate. He feels a wedge on his chest, as if, once removed, it would burst in a spring of blood. So he went to work. Sitting on his stool by the workbench, he opened his chest, carving out with a spoon what was left of his heart—not much. Like jelly, it is mushy and almost porridge-like. Then, he unfolds its layers of cloth, cuts away at the stitches, and scoops his heart into the other, one by one, spoonfuls each. By now, he has stained all of his shirt, table, and surrounding floor with his own blood, but not to worry of this—he must now find its sender and return it.

It’s midnight and he’s only found the message within the note now—it was the first letter of each word: ALAN ST FIVE-ONE-SEVEN. Why? He does not know. But now he must leave home with his heart and find them. The night is cold and wintery, and without a heart beating inside him, he could hardly move—alas, he trudges forth until finally, he found the house. The door creaks as it opens, an old lady behind answering.

“What are you doing, son?”

“...I’m giving this back. You sent it, yes?”

The lady looked confused, and only then did he realize it was the same lady whose portrait he drew a few days ago.

“Come in,” she said. They both sat down on a chair next to each other, a low coffee table between them.

“Why have you sent this?”

“Because you’re son to the blacksmith, a man I knew and held dearly.”

“I don’t—I can’t—I don’t do what he does.”

“My daughter, she knew you.”

“Who was she?”

“She disappeared, much like everyone else.”

He didn’t say a word.

“Things tend to disappear in this village, don’t they?”

“Yes. I suppose they do.”

They talked for hours, about those dear to them who had gone. Her, her daughter and husband, him, his parents, the girl next door, even the botanist across the street, and the rancher who visits his village every week. Eventually, they had to talk about the sole reason which transpired their meetup: the heart.

“That was mine, you know? Half of it. I assume the other half was yours.”

“Do you want it back?”

“Oh, no. No, it was a gift from my daughter to you. She admired you—from afar. When she was gone, after my husband, my heart was half its size already, full of holes. If anyone needed it, I thought it’d be you—someone who was still young. I hadn’t thought so little was left of yours that together, we’d make a perfect-sized heart,” she laughs.

“Yeah.”

And together, side by side, they watched the sun rise, deciding neither of them were to possess the heart, and it, lying on the table between them, sounded its beautiful rhythm, louder and more lovely than it has ever had. It was the realest thing in the entire world; its echoes, everlasting.