Old attitudes never completely die. If the thought of a woman mating with a scrawny, yellow goblin is repulsive to you, ask yourself, “Why?”
***
Our story begins on the Isle of Uisgebeatha, an ancient rock anchored in one of the world’s forgotten places. The sea has chiseled the rock’s edges into sheer cliffs. The wind that constantly rakes the island has left it almost treeless. A small wood survives in a valley on the isle’s east side. It takes two days to walk the island’s length, but few find a reason to make the journey. Most goblins inhabiting the rock are content to toil their small plots or fish along the rugged coast. Patches of thorny gorse find places to thrive amid the heather-covered slopes. Almost any time of the year, one can see patches of gorse in yellow bloom. The Spore have a saying, “when the gorse is in blossom, kissing is in season.” In other words—about any time. Goblins have lived on the island for as long as anyone can remember, but the standing stones and stone circles that dotted the tops of promontories speak of an earlier age now forgotten.
We commence our tale on the night a cross-breed, named Trak, is required to demonstrate his metal casting skill to the elders of the craft guilds. For fifteen years Trak has toiled for Baelock Swordbeater, the metal smith who serves the island’s goblin duke. For fifteen years the apprentice has built forges and constructed bellows. He has hammered bronze swords and decorated their surfaces with abstract geometric designs and legendary creatures. In truth, he has avoided cleaning ashes out of fire pits and repairing pots, but in most respects he has been a model apprentice.
To pass from apprentice to master smith, Trak must demonstrate his ability to cast bronze. On this night the cross-breed’s skill will be tested. It is his rite of passage. Although years have gone into preparing for this one event, everything could be lost. If he fails badly, he will not be given a second chance. Trak knows he must not fail. Becoming a Master Smith is his only chance to escape a stifling existence.
Baelock is not permitted to help, not even to offer advice. It unnerves Trak to feel Baelock stare at him as he painstakingly prepares the kiln, crushes the ore, and grinds the charcoal. He senses the pride Baelock feels in the care he takes in each step of the process. Baelock watches as he carves six wax dirks emblazoned with symbols of power. He hears Baelock sigh audibly when the elegant wax creations are encased in clay and vaporized to produce molds for the casting. When Trak has stacked charcoal around the ceramic crucible containing the precise mixture of tin and copper ores, he is ready—eager for the testing to begin.
As the leaders of the various guilds gather, Baelock Swordbeater welcomes his peers nervously. He is sure Trak will do well, but something might always go wrong, and there is the nagging fear in the back of his mind that his apprentice will try one of his ‘stunts’ to impress the elders and have it backfire.
About twenty guild members are present. As expected, the potters from the local village are the first to arrive. The two little goblin sisters, Nam and Drag Claydigger, live for social occasions and take a special interest in Baelock. In their wicker basket, they bring enough neeps and kohlrabi to last the night. Trak wonders how the toothless glassblower will chew the hard tubers. Fortunately, the glassblower arrives with an ample supply of soft bread. The cooper who makes the barrels for the castle arrives with a cask of fresh ale. Baelock is surprised when Wreen Wormclaw, the metal smith from the other side of the island and his chief rival, shows up and contributes a basket of apples.
The guild members are there to relax and eat. They will enjoy flustering the examinee with their questions. In the end, they will judge the results of the examination. Whatever the outcome, it will reflect on Baelock’s reputation as a smith and teacher. Metal regard themselves as the elite of the crafting professions. Baelock knows his fellow smiths will suffer embarrassment if the evening doesn’t go well.
***
As is customary, the testing is staged at night when the luminescent glow of hot metal is most magical to behold. When the judges are seated on benches in front of the clay forge, a smith from another village calls for Trak to step forward and begin. The large cross-breed walks in from the shadows; on his bare pectoral a fresh tattoo is visible. It is his personal mark, placed on his chest in black ink. It consists of a zigzag entwining a vertically positioned sword.
Trak circles the forge In the darkness he removes a burning fagot from the coals of a small fire. Facing the six cardinal directions, he draws in the air symbols of power to mark the boundaries for the night’s ceremony. He addresses the spirits of his ancestors and asks them to witness his rite of passage. The cross-breed isn’t sure who his ancestors are, but he is certain they will find him. They are his spirits after all. The potter sisters shift warily. Spirits of dead Spore are one thing, but they are uncomfortable with having the spirits of dead men in their company. Hopefully, the pig faced spirits will decline to attend or, if they do, will be well behaved. Trak pushes the fagot into the forge and watches the oil soaked-charcoal burst into flame. That went well, he thinks.
He steadily pumps the bellows a score of scores to bring the kiln to its maximum temperature. Only the whoosh of the bellows and the cracking of the coals break the silence. Actually, if he listens carefully, Trak hears the potters gnawing on tubers. He looks up and sees they are using hand signs to gossip with the barrel maker. At least they aren’t talking about me. He tells himself, “This evening is important only to me and perhaps Baelock; for the others this is just a party. Better they should ignore my performance than search for my mistakes.” As a cross-breed, he is wary of bigots that hate him solely because of his mixed parentage.
An owl flies by and screeches. The potters feel certain it is one of the cross-breed’s human ancestors arriving late. After an additional hour of pumping, during which time the heads of some of the guild members nod sleepily, he declares the transformation complete. Nothing remains but to pour the molten metal into the molds and wait. The red glow of the open kiln sends his shadow stretching across the rocky, heather-covered landscape as he pours the luminescent, molten earth into the waiting molds.
Nothing in his life embodies the mystery and beauty of the unknown as does the flow of the hot, glowing, orange metal. It is the earth’s ethereal form. The transformation of rock into metal is the most magical event in his otherwise drab life. He has not yet realized that his thirst for magic will become the driving force of his existence.
***
This casting is the most important of Trak’s life. It is his casting from start to finish. If successful, he passes the first part of the two-part examination. As the molds cool, the second stage of the examination begins. He stands motionless in front of the forge silhouetted by its glow. The judges are ready to ask their questions. They will not go easy on a candidate who is an outsider and a cross-breed. Baelock shifts uneasily, but he can see that Trak stands confidently with his sinewy arms crossed in front of his sweating torso.
Standing bare-chested, his blonde hair blowing in the breeze and wearing only a leather apron, leggings and heavy boots, he is a simile for the smiths of legend. By goblin standards the cross-breed is huge and powerfully built, although his facial features are more pig faced than goblin. The cross-breed’s countenance and youthful vigor gall Wreen Wormclaw, the metal smith from across the island, who sits impatiently waiting.
Wreen jumps at the chance to ask the first question; he intends to take his revenge on Baelock by humbling his young upstart. “Your bellows be most clever; it appears they have seen a lot of good service. Be it one of Baelock’s inventions?”
Trak catches the implication immediately. If he has used a bellows made by another smith, he fails his examination on a technicality. Fortunately, he can answer that it was a bellows of his own design that he made some months ago. Wreen sits fidgeting on the bench while the potters ask Trak in a friendly, complimentary manner how he creates the fanciful designs he engraves on his work. When the potters finish gushing over Trak’s artistic gifts
, Wreen tries again. A weak smile cracks on Wreen’s face as he asks, “Please explain the magic you use to transform dead rock into living metal.”
Baelock wants to yell “foul!” He understands that Wreen expected to be named the duke’s smith when the former smith died in the last war, and how the opportunity was lost when Baelock showed up out of nowhere and stole the position. Still, that is no reason why Wreen should ask his apprentice a question no one can answer.
Trak’s heart speeds up a notch. He remembers what the ancient goblin in the forest taught him about the mysteries and extemporizes, “In all things, both animate and inanimate, there is a spirit. The rock’s spirit sleeps until it is awakened by fire. It is the task of the smith to guide the quickened rock to its destiny.” Trak has no idea if he is correct; neither does Wreen. Baelock likes the answer; his apprentice has learned a thing or two from the old Spore who lives in the forest.
Wreen Wormclaw is not about to back off. The cross-breed is too clever; he needs to be taught a lesson. He poses a puzzle that makes no sense, believing it would fluster anyone. “If gold be the metal of the sun and silver be the metal of the moon, what be the metal of the earth?”
Trak stands silent for a moment. Wreen thinks I’ve got ‘im good. He looks forward to witnessing Baelock’s embarrassment when his apprentice decompensates. Trak is angry. “Gobshite!” Trak says to himself. “Why is this second-rate smith, whom I don’t even know, going after me?” He casts a glance at Baelock who only shrugs his shoulders as if to say, “Ye be on your own.”
Trak calms himself as the old Spore had taught him. He replies, “The answer, Master Wormclaw, is quicksilver.” He remembers Baelock has instructed him not to pull any stunts, but he isn’t going to be bullied by Wreen.
“When the world was young, Mikol Blackface, the Earth’s first smith was challenged by the smiths of the sun and the moon to a contest to see whose metal was the greatest. The other smiths thought that Mikol would be easily defeated since everyone knows the earth has no precious metal of its own, but only the metals that fall from the celestial spheres above. The moon’s smith brought forth an intricately carved silver ring that shown like moonlight on a still lake. The sun’s smith displayed a polished ring that radiated like daffodils in the morning sun. Surely, there was no metal in the earth that could match the beauty of silver and gold. But Mikol was clever. He gathered cinnabar from the earth and placed it on a bed of hot coals. The heat transformed the red earth into quicksilver, a metal that was as brilliant as gold and as luminescent as silver and what’s more flowed like water even when cool.”
Wormclaw’s response is contemptuous. “That be a pretty story, boy, but ye haven’t convinced anyone that quicksilver be superior to silver and gold!”
The cross-breed disappears into Baelock’s hut. Wormclaw gleefully expects Trak has given up and won’t return. The other guild members shift in their seats uncomfortably. Baelock suspects that Wreen will oppose Trak’s advancement no matter what he does. Trak can’t transition to a master smith unless every smith present agrees.
Trak emerges carrying a crucible filled with a bright red powder. Wreen recognizes cinnabar, the ore from which quicksilver is made. “Master Smith,” Trak asks, “May I borrow that magnificent gold ring you are wearing?” Wreen reluctantly removes his ring and hands it to Trak. The owl screeches twice more, and everyone senses that something important is about to happen.
Trak sets the crucible on top of the kiln. The guild members gather around to watch the flame turn the cinnabar into brilliant quicksilver. When the metal is fully formed, Trak says, “Master Smith, you asked me why quicksilver is superior to gold and silver, and I will show you.” He drops the gold ring into the quicksilver.
Wreen Wormclaw panics. He knows that quicksilver will dissolve gold and silver. He grabs the tongs out of Trak’s hands and retrieves his ring. The ring is hot and burns his hands as he fumbles it about until he is satisfied that it is not seriously damaged. When he sees the broad grins on the faces of his peers, he becomes angry, stomps out of the ceremony, and heads home. The suppressed chuckles of the guild members acknowledge that the cross-breed has gotten the better of Wormclaw.
The questioning lasts until dawn. Trak doesn’t disappoint. There is no hint of uncertainty in his voice as he lends every word impact. As dawn arrives, it is time to open the molds and judge the results. Not every casting is a success; even experienced smiths suffer inexplicable failures. Trak holds his breath and smashes open the molds to reveal his castings. The guild leader examines the six dirks, hoping to find flaws. When he doesn’t, he is faced with a conundrum. He has no reason to fail the cross-breed, but he can’t bestow the Master Smith title on Trak unless Wormclaw agrees.
Trak waits, wanting to hear the guild leader speak the words traditionally uttered when an apprentice passes his examination. But instead of saying “Well done, Master Smith,” the guild leader apologetically announces that the results are inconclusive. He is required by custom to confer with Wormclaw before announcing his decision.
The ordeal ends on a sour note. There is no clapping and clacking of teeth. The judges offer no words of congratulation. They just leave. Baelock looks at the untouched cask of celebratory wine. He is too frustrated by the evening’s outcome to enjoy even a flagon. He feels bitterness toward Wormclaw and the provincial peasants that inhabit the island. He isn’t angry with Trak, exactly; the boy did his part. He offers Trak an apologetic shrug of his shoulders and moves his muscular frame slowly toward a pile of straw in the back of his hut. He needs sleep. He has done his best to ready the boy for the examination but worries that somehow Trak’s failure is his fault. He sees no way Trak can advance to Master Smith if Wreen adamantly blocks it. He will speak to Wreen; perhaps he can be persuaded.
Chapter 2
Isle of Uisgebeatha: The Alchemist
As Baelock sleeps, Trak’s day is just beginning. The boy has already turned his disappointment into anger. Trak knows nothing of how Baelock stole Wreen’s chance to be the duke’s smith. From his perspective Wreen is just another half-breed hating bigot. Trak’s frustration boils inside him as he makes his way to Krage’s broch to ignite the fire that heats the lower chamber. About five years ago, Krage Oregile, the duke’s alchemist, approached Baelock and arranged for Trak to work for him. The job is easy, and the arrangement generates the small amount of currency the master smith requires to buy raw materials for his trade.
After splashing his body with cold water and putting on a fresh shirt, Trak bolts out of the hut and strides up the hill toward the castle. He is already late. The rocky path takes him by scores of thatched huts that form the core of the village. The wattle and daub huts are the homes and workshops of the servants and craftsmen that serve the castle.
Spore marry for life, but often, married couples do not live together. They tend to live in occupational units. Metal smiths live with other smiths, potters with potters and barrel makers with barrel makers. Children are placed in units at an early age, according to the career chosen for them. It is not always a career followed by one of the parents. Everything depends on what the community needs.
Trak waves at a young potter who stands at the door of his hut. Trak works with the potter when he needs a crucible or ceramic tip for his bellows. The potter doesn’t wave back. He has already heard of my failure, Trak thinks. He passes by other villagers beginning their daily routines and is similarly ignored.
The local population tolerates the cross-breed outsider, but they never admit him to their close-knit circles. He has no real place in the community. Trak is frustrated that there is no place he fits in. Trak thinks himself as one of the chickens and pigs the villagers keep penned next to their huts—useful but not something to get attached to. Master Smith or Apprentice, nothing will ever change for me as long as I stay in this village, Trak laments.
Trak does not know where he came from or who his parents are. Typically, Spore have two names. The first is a given name and
the second a family name that refers to a special accomplishment of a famous ancestor. Sometimes a goblin whose actions are particularly meritorious is awarded a new last name by his liege lord. Trak has no family name. He is just Trak, a name given him by Baelock. If he wants a last name, he will have to earn it.
Years ago the smith told him the last war claimed his parents. Trak and other orphans were brought to the island to be adopted by its inhabitants. He is expected to serve the duke for as long as he lives. The arrangement is not all bad. He has a warm place to sleep and food to eat. Baelock has, in fact, shown him much kindness and treats him more like a promising apprentice than a servant.
Trak’s thoughts keep returning to his basic dilemma—he doesn’t belong on the island but doesn’t have anywhere to go. If he stays, he can only be Baelock’s assistant. He wants to run his own smithy, but where can he go to build a new life? Is there any place that a cross-breed can fit in? Would the duke even permit him to leave?
He approaches two small, nearly naked goblets who sword play with sticks. When they see Trak, they incorporate him into their game. “Here comes the troll!” shouts one boy. They point their swords at Trak and jook about him, staging a mock attack. They don’t get too close, because the troll is large and scary. The children nickname Trak the “Troll,” not just because he is big and hairy, but also because of the way he walks. Trak has a human’s striding, flat-footed gait that goblins find troll-like. Goblins are much nimbler than men. They virtually spring on their bowed legs as they bound from place to place.
Trak is in no mood to play games. On most days Trak’s loneliness doesn’t matter, but today he is angry and wallowing in self-pity. He makes a feigned lunge at his two attackers and roars in his most troll-like voice. They run off squealing in their high-pitched lisping voices when Trak makes an eerie whistle that mimics the wind blowing through the trees on a stormy night. The cross-breed makes sounds that fascinate and frighten goblin children. The young goblets like to tease Trak, but older children keep their distance. They find the cross-breed too different to befriend and too big to intimidate.