The Record of the Saints Caliber Read Free Page B

hadn’t seen bread in a month. It was a rusty old thing. A steak knife his father used to call it, not that it had ever cut meat let alone a steak. He ran it back to his mother.
    Gently she took it from his hand and pricked her bony index finger. A blot of blood formed at the tip and she placed the finger delicately in Ursula’s mouth. She began to suckle ravenously. Rook could do nothing but stare in dread. He had heard whispers once. About people eating people. His mother and father had told him that stuff only happened in the cities far away from here, further west where there was even less food. Was it coming to that now?
    “It’s time I show you something, Rook. Your father made me promise that I show you one day.” rasped his mother. Her breaths were very ragged now. She seemed to struggle as she raised her free hand and pointed to the far wall.
    Rook looked at her, confused. He slowly walked to the wall she was pointing at. It was a barren, white wall. Dirty and stained with water that had dripped down from the ceiling. Something that used to be called wallpaper still clung to certain areas, but was faded beyond recognition.
    “The baseboard there,” said his mother.
    Rook knelt down and pulled at the loose board on the wall. It came off easily and he set it aside.
    “The floorboards too,” said his mother.
    Rook lifted one of the boards and it peeled up. He lifted another and another. Beneath the floor was stuffed rotten rags and hay, and beneath that Rook discovered a small pit dug into the very earth. Within it was a rusty old anvil and a hammer, as well as some other rusty tools. There were some things wrapped in rags as well, and when Rook unwrapped them he saw that there were two small ingots of copper and another larger ingot of some type of steel. It all had a strange but pleasant odor, like oil and coal smoke and burnt metal. “Wh…what is this stuff?” asked Rook.
    “In his youth your father was a blacksmith. So was your grandfather and great-grandfather, and theirs before them.” said his mother. She paused and her breath was wet and heavy as she sucked it in. “That was before the King forbid people to make their own tools and weapons.”
    Rook reached in and picked up the hammer. It was an ancient looking thing, full of rust, and it weighed more than he could properly lift. His wrist gave out and it clanked hard upon the anvil. He got another whiff of that wonderful coal smoke and metal.
    “Your father wanted you to have all that one day.” said his mother, adjusting Ursula in her arms as the baby still suckled at her finger. “He wanted you to know what was in your blood, and hoped that one day you could use all that to make something of yourself. He always dreamed of a better day for you. He always dreamed of being able to teach you the family trade.”
    Rook tried lifting the hammer again. Despite its age and condition there was something about it that was not lost on him. It had once been a very fine hammer. All of these tools had once been very fine, very expensive. Perhaps the top of their line. They had been well used and in his mind Rook could almost hear the hammer upon the anvil; could almost smell the oil and coal from the smithy; could feel the heat from the forge. Upon that rusty anvil Rook was certain that weapons of the finest steel had been crafted by innumerable blows from the very hammer he now held. Again Rook’s wrist gave out and the heavy hammer clanked upon the anvil.
    “Keep that safe,” whispered his mother. Her chest heaved as she sucked in a wheezing breath. “I…I want you to sell it. Trade it for food and things you and your sister will need.”
    Rook looked down at the rusty stash of items. “Sell them?” He picked up another tool, some sort of clamp.
    He heard his mother swallow hard and inhale some ragged breaths. “Me and your father…we held on to them, hoping for something better. It was foolish of us.” She paused again for another deep, ragged