The Smith

Cloaked in animal skins and darkness, a deformed and piteous creature hobbled around with a sword like a walking stick. Holding tightly to the grip in both hands, she seemed completely unable to stand on her own. The beast was certainly not the result of evolution, nor the product of a healthy mind. Her very existence looked difficult and pained—a blatant affront to the efficiency of nature, and a cruel denial of the easy existence of Man.

This beast, neither animal nor human, but an abhorrent mix of the two, was covered in fur and as scruffy as a street cat. She had a mouth as wide and eyes as bulbous as a frog’s, and the barely-upright posture of a shriveled old woman. A tail of matted fur dragged behind her, as heavy and limp as a decapitated snake. 

She had never been given a name, but in whispered conversations, she was commonly referred to as the Smith. Rumor had it that the Smith had been created by a long-respected scientist. Sponsored by the monarchy itself, this scientific sought to create the perfect soldier, an army of which could conquer kingdoms thrice their size. 

He utilized three creatures most abundant to the kingdom: frogs from the marshes for a soldier who could swim undetected through rivers and moats; cats from the alleyways for a soldier who could run, climb, and sneak through the streets like a shadow; and women of the night whom no one would miss, for rudimentary intelligence and opposable thumbs were a necessity, of course. 

But rather than a supersoldier, the result of these experiments was the Smith. And depending on which rumor one believed, the scientist had been hanged for creating this abomination, or had been wise enough to flee upon the sight of her. 

Some, perhaps, would take pity at the sight of this creature, who had never asked to be made in this form. Others would wonder if her appearance offered insight to her character. If so, perhaps the king and queen of the kingdom were right. Perhaps she deserved to be locked away, as she had been for years without any due cause but her physical grotesqueness. Whether she deserved to be there or not, the Smith was trapped in this dungeon for as long as a creature such as her would happen to live. At least she had chores to occupy her mind, whatever a mind she possessed.

The extent of this creature’s lucidity was unclear, for as she went about her business, she growled at nothing in particular, and these low intonations could have been words had they a little more shape and intention behind them. While muttering these half-phrases, she yanked open the drawer of a solid oak desk. Its surface, plated with steel, was battle-scarred with the cuts of hundreds of blades. This desk took up half of the room—a rather cramped arrangement. But, as the people of the kingdom would agree, the Smith, an abomination, was honored to share any space with the world of humanity. She was not fortunate enough to share the light of the sun.

Roughly grasping a match from the drawer, the Smith struck it against the rough wood of the desk. It sparked to life with a flickering flame, and with this flame, she lit each candle that lined her desk’s perimeter. They seemed to give a solemn vigil there, their light sedated and serious. In an implacable way, they almost made the dungeon seem darker than before. But they allowed the Smith to proceed with her work. 

She turned toward the wall, where she’d stashed her latest delivery. The package’s wrapping of animal skins was secured with a singular knot. She undid the knot with an effortless tug, prompting six weapons to clatter to the floor at her feet. The Smith did not retreat at the package’s contents, nor flinch at the terrible racket they made. She merely picked up a sword and examined its surface. 

Her tendinous hand felt its claw along the blade. The candlelight caught in the reflection of the steel, and as the Smith examined it, she inadvertently tilted the blade. Like a sunbeam through a microscope, the concentrated light burned directly into the horizontal slit of a froggish pupil. 

With a terrible screech, the Smith dropped the sword and covered her eyes, stumbling backwards into her desk. Her spine collided harshly with the edge, and she crumpled to the floor while clutching her face and writhing in pain. A sharp bang on the wall caused the weapons that hung there to rock. 

“Quiet, you! Haven’t you learned patience by now? We only feed you once a day.”

Another guard said something unintelligible, and they erupted into laughter.

“Okay, now,” said the first guard after a moment to catch his breath. “Here’s your food, you hideous wench.” With a screech of complaint, a narrow compartment slid open, letting a thin strip of light across the floor. The Smith huddled back. She regarded the light with the weary mistrust of a street cat when offered a hand. “Have those weapons repaired by the end of the week,” said the guard, “or this meal will be one of your last.”

A slab of raw meat, too wide for the slot, was shoved inside the dungeon. Blood dribbled down the wall, tracing years of rusty stains. The crudely-chopped steak hit the floor with a smack, and the compartment slid shut with a screech of finality. The Smith, no longer impeded by the light, dove forward to claim her meal. She shoved the steak into her mouth, which seemed far too wide to properly eat with. But after all of these years, the Smith had developed a method. 

Tossing the steak back and forth in her mouth, from one side of her molars to the other, repeatedly, she almost appeared to be playing with it—if not for the look of desperation in her eyes. Practice, rather than natural attunement, allowed her to finally swallow. For a moment, it appeared to catch in her throat, but a low croak settled it into her stomach. Then her tongue, like a giant, purplish slug, licked up the blood from the wall. Despite her ill-made proportions, she was not a creature of waste.

Her meal finished, the Smith searched along the floor for her walker. Her eyes had yet to readjust to the darkness. Her fingers touched a blade and instinctively flew back—the weaponsmith’s desk was not the only thing scarred from years of her work. Reaching again, the Smith guided a shaky yet careful claw along the sword, leading her hand to the cloth-wrapped grip. She pulled it to her chest, digging the tip of the blade into the floorboards. With this delicate purchase, she pushed herself back to her feet. And then she got to work. 

She plucked a candle at random from the desk, breaking it off from where its waxy drippings had melted to the surface. Stabbing her walker into the floor, the Smith limped to the fireplace at the left hand of the dungeon. Constructed of bricks and attached to a chimney, it was the Smith’s sole source of fresh air, though it was usually choked with smoke. Its greater purpose was to serve as her forge. 

The Smith guided the candle to the charcoal in this firepit. It ignited, flickering small at first, then erupting into a hearty flame. The Smith hissed softly and backed away from it, raising one arm to shield herself from the sudden onslaught of light. She knocked into the desk, released a frustrated grunt, then stuck the candle back into its place in the melted wax. Next, she picked up the weapons from her latest delivery. 

She laid them out side by side on the desk—three swords, two axes, and a dagger—then examined them closely for imperfections. One observing this scene may have thought it ironic for this ugly beast to scrutinize anything for its deformities. But as her protruding eyes grew focused with thought, and her clawed hand grazed softly along a sword’s fuller, it began to appear that her beastliness did not fully extend past the skin. 

Once the sword had been fully examined, its every flaw identified, she dragged it from the desk with her only free hand, leaving another cut among the hundreds of others. The Smith’s scrawny arm could not hold the sword aloft. Instead, it dragged along the floor as she limped back to the fire. 

The Smith heaved the blade into the glowing red charcoils, keeping her hand on the grip. Once the blade had turned yellow, she dragged it out of the fire, not seeming to care about the chunks of hot charcoal that spilled across the floor. The Smith transferred the blade to an anvil, which had been chained to the floor. With a hammer, she beat out the imperfections. The blade, curved from use, became straight again. The dull edge became sharper than ever. She smoothed out the stamp that marked it as a product of the kingdom’s guild, then replaced it with a fresh imprint. By the time the sword cooled and was hung on the wall, it looked like a brand new weapon. 

The Smith repeated this process with the rest of the battle-worn weapons. When she was done some hours later, she rested. She curled up on a bed of piled-up animal skins. Taking one deep breath in her wide, extensive mouth, the Smith released a great exhale like a breeze through the room, blowing out all of the candles. It left her in total darkness. Beyond the Smith’s four walls, it could have been morning, or afternoon, or evening, depending on the sun’s position in the sky. But one’s day cannot be measured by a light one never sees, and so the Smith’s days were measured by candlelight. 

When she finished her work and her eyes had no more usefulness, the candles went out, and the Smith’s day was done. When she received her next delivery, she would light the candles again, and her day would start anew. 

In a world without light, there is no such thing as time. But at some point through the nothingness, the door to the dungeon abruptly swung open. Light from the outside filled the dungeon like an eager intruder, claiming everything it could in the short span it was there. The Smith closed her eye membranes tight, shielding her face with a low, tired growl. Unseen hands threw a package inside filled with weapons. It was tall and heavy, like a body wrapped for burial. It landed on the floor with an impotent thud, and the Smith’s new day had begun. 

“Alright, old girl,” called a guard. “We have a gift for all your hard work. A nice, tasty treat.”

The extent of the Smith’s grasp on language was unclear. But she seemed to identity a few important words. She lurched forward on her hands and knees, forsaking her walker as she crawled toward the slot where her meals were pushed through. The slot slid open, assailing her eyes with a strip of bright light. She recoiled from the light, screeching as though acid had been thrown upon her face. She hit her head on the desk, then she laid there for a minute, groaning in pain. 

By the time she came to, the slot had slid shut with the friendly bid to enjoy her meal. But the light in her eyes had blinded her for the time being. Until she could readjust, she relied on touch to discover what treat had been left for her.

Feeling her hands along the floor, the Smith found nothing but splintery wood and the deep-carved notches from her walker. Perhaps the guards were only teasing when they said they had a treat for her. But the Smith, despite her lot in life, seemed to possess some belief in the honesty of men. She found her walker and pushed herself to her feet, and grabbing her matchsticks from the drawer, lit every candle on her desk. She broke off one of these candles and knelt on the floor with it. Still, she saw nothing. But she heard a strange noise. A low humming, like the sound of sizzling wood. But the fire in the forge had long since died, and the noise came from the opposite side of the room.

The Smith turned toward the pile of animal skins where she slept each night. And perched atop the pile, barely illuminated by her candle, crouched a puff of scraggly fur not unlike the Smith’s own pelt. Had it not been for the eyes glaring back at her, it may have looked like one of the hairballs she kept in the toiletry buckets. 

The Smith’s expression did not change as she gazed upon the kitten, though this revealed nothing, for her face was constantly fixed in one expression. Her frog eyes could not widen or narrow. Her great, wide mouth could not smile or frown. Other than her plain hideousness, this was the Smith’s most condemning trait. She appeared to feel nothing at all, and so people were afraid of her, for they did not know what she was capable of. The kitten did not seem very fond of her, either, as the Smith crept closer and closer.

With a hearty spit, like water poured over embers, the kitten lashed out and then arched as big as it could against the wall—about half as tall as a dagger when balanced on its pommel. The Smith paused but did not retreat, merely staring at the kitten with that unchanging face. Then she crept closer and closer, and the kitten growled again, but the sound was uncertain and pleading this time as it shrunk beneath her hand. It lashed out once more before being plucked just as easily as a matchstick. It resorted to pathetically mewling as the Smith held it close to her face. 

She placed the candle back onto her desk, and crouched there in the darkness, the Smith raised her hand to the helpless kitten’s head. She gave it a single, rough pet. Then another, and another, until even the kitten seemed too surprised to know what to do with itself. Then another creature yowled at the other side of the room, and the kitten resumed its crying in force. 

Moments later, the mother cat crawled into the dungeon through the chimney, and she hopped to the floor all covered in ash. A true testament to motherly love, she did not cower at the sight of the Smith, but marched right up to her demanding for her baby. The Smith, understanding this universal language, placed the kitten on the floor. One may have fancied the cat to flee right away with her baby, but instead she seemed calm, as if possessing some secret sense that did not perceive the Smith as the monster that she was. 

The mother cat crouched in front of her kitten, furiously grooming it, without any mind to her presence. Then, when mysterious calculations had deemed her kitten properly clean, the cat eyed the Smith with as curious a judgement. She slunk forward and sniffed the Smith’s hand. Then, with a friendly headbutt, she turned and grabbed her kitten and escaped out the chimney. The Smith crouched there for a long, long time, when she was finally prompted to work by a loud, angry knock. 

“Why don’t we see any chimney smoke, mum?” snapped a guard. Not long after, the chimney started smoking. And it did not stop for days. 

At the end of the week was delivery day, when the weapons that had been given the Smith were reclaimed in a single raid, to be delivered to the soldiers. Wielding weapons that had likely been repaired by her dozens of times, soldiers lined up at the door to the dungeon. At the count of three—one, two, three—they twisted the lock and threw open the door, storming inside with terrible shouts to “Stay back! Stay back!” But the Smith, who typically hid beneath the animal skins on this day, did not respond to them at all. 

The soldiers did not stay long. The whole dungeon was choked with smoke from a fire that was constantly fed, and had only now started to dwindle. They were forced to dislodge from the room until the smoke had cleared out. When it did, they found to their horror that every weapon they had given the Smith for repairs had been disassembled, melted, and recast. Covering the desk were dozens of crudely-made sculptures, each one with two pointy ears and a tail. They vaguely resembled a cat. 

Clutched in the Smith’s cold hands was one of these figures. Her expression never changed, even when the light from outside fell upon her. She seemed somehow at peace, as if she was wrapped in that rare sort of light that did not burn or blind.