The Wooden Fist of Tor

Three weary adventurers came upon a clearing in the forest, a flat, sunny piece of land just up the bank from the river they were following, and agreed it was an ideal location to rest for the night. The sun was well past its zenith, so they presently set about clearing the loose brush and collecting rocks for the fire. While rolling out her bedroll, one of the travelers noticed a small patch of loose earth. Something buried. She peeked over her shoulder at the others. They were companions of convenience, having met along the river path and agreed to travel together for safety, and shared no deeper allegiance. She did not trust them, but she knew she could not reasonably hope to secretly dig a hole in the middle of their camp. So she gathered them and they dug together.

Presently they unearthed a dense knob of wood which, when they scraped the dirt away, they discovered was intricately carved into the shape of a human fist. The wood was finely grained and dark, almost purple. Each traveler assessed the others’ reactions; if their companions did not appreciate the enormity of this find, they might be able to take it more easily themselves. But no, they all knew it instantly.

They held the lost wooden fist of the famed pirate Tor.

After passing it around, each to rub the impossibly smooth surface, marred only by a few deep cracks, and admire aloud the artistry of the delicate fingernails, they fell to silence. Which of them would claim this valuable prize? One of them had discovered the site, but all of them labored to unearth it. Physically, they were evenly matched, and anyway a favorable sentiment had developed over the course of their combined travels, and none of them were inclined to end it in blood. They could sell it together and split the profits, but this solution would require joint travel to a large settlement, finding a buyer, and negotiating and agreeing upon a price, all of which demanded a quality of trust and a quantity of time that would strain their transient relationships. Finally, one of them proposed a mutually acceptable solution: they would each tell a story of how Tor lost his hand, and the best would win the treasure.

Thus agreed, they finished setting up camp, started a fire, and gathered around it to eat and tell their tales. They threw dice to determine order. The first to speak was a massive woman with two lines of rings and jeweled studs piercing her bald scalp. She squinted into the flames, holding the fist in both hands, then flicked her eyes up and spoke in a deep monotone.

“Tor was not always a pirate. He spent his early years far from the treacherous shores of Galor that he would later haunt. But one thing that never changed was his fervid temper. From his youth he showed pugilistic tendencies. A fellow student sniggling at the way Tor wrote his letters would instantly find the scrawny human scrambling spider-like across desks in their direction. A merchant shorting him on his measure of oats would have his barrels overturned, his windows smashed, and his nose bloodied. An inattentive rigger, who through his actions endangered the ship and crew, would hear his boatswain Tor charging from across the deck to deliver a blow.

“Ironically, along with his temper, Tor was gifted with a small frame, slender limbs, and no ability to fight. Although he initiated many scraps, they were typically ended by others. Despite this, he never learned, never changed, and never gave up. Tor even won some battles by default when his opponent wearied of beating him and wandered away.

“One stormy day found him serving as boatswain aboard the Rosy Acres. The wind had risen early in the evening. The master turned the ship, attempting to skirt the worst of it, but it was too late and they knew they would have to push through. Tor ordered the sails struck and the cargo secured. They even moved some of the cannon from the higher decks to lower the ship’s center of gravity. But despite their precautions, the ship took on water and began to list.

“Tor was in the hold, stuffing holes with oakum, when the Rosy finally capsized. The master and most of the crew were lost in an instant; anyone outside was flung into the ocean, and the souls in the hold were crushed by cargo, drowned, or both. Tor was wedged between cargo and keel; in better times this was the lowest part of the ship, but now it was the highest. As the Rosy sank, Tor watched the sea churning, boiling up from beneath him. But he did not give up. Tossing the caulking mallet aside, he started punching the hull with all his might. Again. Again! His skin split. When the bubble of air was no bigger than his head, still he punched. His bones cracked. And then the air was gone, his lantern extinguished. Holding his breath in the black, still he punched. And finally the timbers cracked, then splintered, then exploded apart. Tor’s limp body ejected from the ruptured hull. He survived, but in the process pulverized every bone in his hand, turned it to a bloody gelatin.

“How he endured for days on a plank, then washed up on a secluded island where the natives employed arcane magicks to heal him, and where a legendary artisan crafted this very wooden fist for him to wear as a celebration of his perseverance, is another story. Some people say the Rosy broke apart naturally upon her final plunge, that it wasn’t the fist of Tor at all. But those people don’t believe in the magic of the human spirit.”

They all stared into the fire, and the woman solemnly passed the fist to her left. The man accepted it gently. He had rarely spoken during their journey, and the others wondered whether he would now. A missing earlobe and multiple tattoos, covered except when bathing, marked him as a former slave. The grisly scar bisecting his throat accounted for the haunted, high-pitched whistling of his halting voice.

“I heard a different story. It happened when he was much younger. A child really. His parents were scoundrels. Reprobates of the worst kind. If they accosted you in an alley…they’d argue over…who got to kick you in the face. Well Tor was a skinny kid. That much is true. As a baby they used him as bait…to lure kindly passersby. But when he got older they found…he didn’t really have the instincts for thievery. Too loud. Too angry. Too unsubtle. He was a burden. So they agreed to dispose of him…for a profit. And unfortunately for Tor…his parents each sold him independently…to two different pirates. By the time the pirates discovered this…Tor’s parents had absconded with the money. To solve the ownership dispute…the pirates agreed to let the ocean fates decide. Just before their ships left port…side by side…they would tie ropes to the boy's wrists…and lash the other ends to the rails…of their respective sailing vessels. Whoever got the larger portion…won the boy. If he survived. This solution amused them.”

“I ruttin’ hate pirates.

“Well Tor…being held in the boatswain’s quarters…got wind of their plan. He figured he was just as likely…to tear down the middle…as anything else. He wanted to live…to get revenge on his parents. So he did the only thing…he had the power to do. The next morning…when the pirates dragged him out to be tied…they found him in a stupor. The boy’s left wrist was shattered…dangling by scarlet skin and cord. Through the night…Tor had used the boatswain’s serving mallet…to obliterate his own wrist. He knew it would tear quickly and easily…so he could survive the pirates’ contest. Well the pirates were disappointed…he’d ruined their game. There was no point in doing it…since the outcome was guaranteed. But they were also impressed with the boy. One agreed to pay the other…the amount he had paid…and he took Tor on as a cabin boy. His ship’s surgeon carefully snipped off the ruined hand and bound it. His ship’s carpenter…a failed artist in his former life…who for years had hauled around…a block of dense, beautiful hardwood…waiting for inspiration to strike…saw Tor’s new hand inside it.

“How he worked his way up…through the ship’s ranks…eventually challenged his mentor…sailed back to Galorport to exact revenge on his parents…is another story. Some say it was actually…a childhood rigging accident…that caused Tor’s disfigurement. But those people don’t believe…that someone facing an impossible situation…can take their life…literally…into their own hand.”

The third companion, the one who discovered the location of the buried fist, barked out a laugh. The fire popped. She took the fist and examined it, running her fingernails up and down the fresh cracks, eventually folding it into her chest. Then, idly blowing a clump of thick black hair out of her eyes, she began.

“I could tell you of this man, this Tor. His ship, the Dory Love, menaced the same seas as my family's ship after it was taken by Burlap Bill and rechristened Death's Mistress. Brownstem, the pirate deckhand in charge of us kids, told tales of him when he was in his cups, or when he was beating me down. So: a lot. Tor was a rival, of course, but I think Brownstem held him in some esteem in no small part because of Tor’s viciousness. He'd growl, 'You a lucky runt. If Tor smash you, you stay down.'

“Brownstem told variations on your stories, yes, but bloodier, and many more. But one day, after a particularly ferocious engagement with a stubborn merchant ship where we lost several shipmates and ended up burning the defiant vessel and its wailing crew into the sea, he got particularly drunk, and told us this tale.

"Some say before he was a pirate, Tor was a shipbuilder by trade. Largely unsuccessful, partially because of his reputation as a bar brawler. One day, being young, rash, and over-confident—and desperate—he vastly underbid on a contract from a powerful regional merchant for the 'fastest ship yet built'. After winning the bid the reality set in that he had neither the supplies, the design, nor the craftspeople to forge such a glorious vessel. He knew if he failed to produce it he would lose his reputation and his business...and perhaps more.

“That night, while seeking the solution at the bottom of a pint glass, Tor overheard a conversation about a rumored grove of trees that were lighter and denser than any others on the continent. Desperate, he interrupted the speakers and paid a ridiculous sum for a map to the secret grove. The next morning he set out. Over the several days' journey, he doubted more than once that this grove even existed, and started to prepare himself for the inevitability that he had been duped. His anger sprouted and grew. He clenched his fists and began to plot the revenge he would exact upon returning to town.

“He woke on the third day completely lost. His fury boiled over, and he punched at the trees impotently.

“But then, on the fourth day, pushing through the underbrush he emerged into a brightly lit patch of forest. The trunks of the trees here were of a dark, opalescent purple. So very tall, and unbelievably straight. These would indeed produce superior lumber, and even lacking a new design would fit his needs.

“Laughing, he unstrapped his axe and braced to strike one down. But just as the oiled blade kissed the unblemished bark, it stopped. A forest spirit appeared from behind the tree. Tor hastily dropped the axe and balled up his fists, but the spirit reached out and placed its hand gently over the frightened man's fist. Instantly, a cool calmness spread through his body. ‘So this is what it is to feel safe and at ease,’ he thought.

“'Violence is not necessary,' the spirit said. 'I have not had a visitor for many a season. I see you have need of my trees. I will make you a bargain. Stay with me for one turning of the moon. For each day you stay, you may harvest one of my trees.'

“Tor felt confused, but he was desperate and saw no alternative. And there was something compelling about that calmness. He agreed.

“That night he stayed with the forest spirit. He dreamed of cool streams and soft, fragrant earth. The next day he selected one of the tallest of the dark purple goliaths and felled it. Again, that night, he stayed with the forest spirit. He dreamed of leaves fluttering from a dense green canopy, then bobbing and swirling in concert with a river's current. He woke and felled another of the majestic trees.

“They settled into a comfortable rhythm. The evenings became a time of fellowship. Tor regaled the spirit with stories of carousing, dueling, adventuring, and revenge. The spirit shared tales of the gods, great millennia-spanning histories of the world, and wrenchingly tragic romances.

“Tor noticed that the forest spirit always absented itself when Tor hacked at one of its trees. After a few days, he realized that the spirit seemed...less than. It became obvious that the trees themselves were associated with the spirit's strength. Tor idly wondered if the spirit would soon be weakened enough that he could overpower it and abscond with all the trees he had cut thus far, which already exceeded his need. He was surprised to find that he had little desire to take such action.

“Several weeks passed in this way. One evening, when their voices faded into the darkness, the spirit said, 'We both know I no longer have the strength to stop you if you decide to leave before the moon's turning. I ask that you choose to stay three more days. If you do, you will leave with a wonderful gift.'

“Tor silently agreed. That night he dreamed of thunderous rainstorms, great, raging forest fires, and of clouds of pinecones raining down.

“When three days had passed, Tor found that although he urgently needed to get back to his life and fulfill his contract with the merchant, he was sad to leave his calm forest life. He stood at the edge of the grove, which was now even brighter due to the thinning of the trees. The forest spirit approached. It looked terribly weak.

“Tor said, 'I'll be back soon with men to collect the downed trees.' It nodded. Tor could not bring himself to ask if the spirit would greet him when he returned; he knew it would not.

“'Tor', it said. ‘Hold out your hand.’

“He did. This time with an open hand rather than a fist. The spirit placed something smooth on his palm. It was a large, dark purple seed. Tor sought answers in the spirit's eyes, but it merely gazed back at him. Then it folded Tor’s fingers down over the seed.

"’Fists can also be used to protect.’

“The spirit turned Tor's fist over and let one hand linger on top, gently blanketing it, like the first day they met. The familiar cool calmness washed over him. His eyes fluttered shut.

“‘Remember me,’ said the forest spirit.

“The weight lifted from his hand, but the calmness remained. He opened his eyes; the spirit was gone.

“Then he looked at his hand. Where before was flesh and hair and nail was a perfectly shaped fist of deep purple wood, polished to a rich, satiny sheen. Tor gasped. His hand was gone. But the calmness remained.

“How he found his way back to town and built the ship, then discovered he could not give her up, and organized an implausible scheme to steal the Dory Love for himself, is another story. Some say Tor was actually just lost, drunk, in the woods, and cut off his own hand while felling trees. But those people don’t believe in nature’s healing power, in the courage of accepting help to reinvent oneself. In rebirth.”

None of them put more wood on the dying fire, they just watched as it faded to an orange glow. Eventually, each turned away and settled in for the night, wrapped in warm blankets. No words were said about the contest. They all knew the winner.

In the morning, they quietly packed up and continued their journey together. They left no trace of their brief visit, having scattered the evidence of their fire and redistributed the loose brush they had removed. It was an unremarkable clearing. But if someone knew where to look they just might have seen a freshly packed and watered patch of soil, drenched in a morning sunbeam.