It Came from the North Read online

  Fourth cloud, puff. Alice knows she ought to go back inside and start packing. It’s difficult to choose what to take and what to leave, there’s so much old stuff connected with everything. The little drawing from the wall of Granddad’s old room Alice has already packed, however. Mum hasn’t even remembered it, and even now she’s just given a passing glance to it: yes, that’s the old smithy.

  A strange atmosphere of leaving seems to permeate everything. Next time, she’d only be a visitor. An image of a golden-furred man leaning his hand on the smithy door comes to mind. The fantastic creature, Reynard the Golden, who spoke about fire and its own people. What will the smithy think about her going, she the only grandchild of the master-smith? Will it miss her? Resolutely, Alice shakes her head and tries to banish the strange feelings. Then she catches sight of the new heap in the corner, three big sacks of coal.

  The sack feels a bit damp. Johnny and the quiet fellow must have brought them to test the bellows. Just like Johnny to leave the sacks underneath the leaky place. Alice grips the first sack to move it to a drier place, when she suddenly has an idea. Perhaps she owes it to the smithy to light a fire in the forge at least once, before she becomes a total stranger.

  The first sackful of coals blows out such a thick cloud from the forge that Alice has to flee outside, coughing. Her face, hands, and clothes have all gone grey; she looks like a real smith now. The face and hands she can get clean in the old rainwater barrel, but that does not help with the clothes.

  When the coal dust has settled, Alice adds the other sackful a little at a time. That’s enough, now, even these will take some time to burn. But that’s okay, for tonight. When she gets the fire going, she might grill some sausages here. The memory of the golden man and salami emerges. Here in the smithy it all seems so real.

  Johnny’s lighter is in her pocket, but Alice feels herself stupid, clicking it to the coals. Of course it won’t catch without any incendiary fluid. Now how did the old time smiths do it? Then she has an idea and pours half of the lighter’s fuel on the coals. Now the flame catches on, and a little smoke draws nicely out the flue. There’s a quiet rustle, hardly audible over the wind and the whine of mosquitoes. Alice sits on a block and watches the miserly fire. Something is still missing.

  Then she suddenly has to laugh aloud. Of course. Now she can throw her shirt off, too, she’s going to sweat even in nothing but bra and jeans. Soon every press of the bellows makes the new coals blaze, and the color of the embers turns deeper. Alice pumps and pumps and feels the forge coming alive. Fire is beautiful, even though she now understands you cannot take it into your hand. If only there was some real use for the fire. Alice feels the smithy smiling and weeping simultaneously. The last fire is burning in vain, without use.

  When she notices the dark man at the door, Alice cries of fright and the bellows stop. She’s half blind, after staring into the forge so long, but the man seems to be wearing dark clothes and a cloak. Both look a bit less worn than ten years ago. As the man starts to speak, the worried voice, used to command, takes Alice back to the past in a flash.

  “Is it a woman who is now smith here? Where’s your husband? Better cover yourself before he finds you here half-naked. Or maybe it’s best that you just keep on blowing the bellows. I have here a sick man, he needs warmth and shelter.”

  For a moment, the shape disappears and again, Alice hears the horses outside. Then he returns, easily carrying a person wrapped in cloth. Agenor, Alice remembers his name, when the strong man sets his burden down on a dry spot on the floor. The hem of cloak falls away and reveals the sharp-nosed face. Now, the being’s skin is not the gold of fire but the whiteness of sun seeping through clouds. The strength of Reynard the Golden is gone and the sparkling eyes are closed.

  Alice draws her shirt back on. Part of her is eight years old and back in a dream. Part hears the firm voice of the psychiatrist who tells her to let go. One disobedient part thinks that Agenor is an incredibly handsome man and doesn’t look a day older than last time.

  The last part makes Alice kneel on the floor, next to Reynard the Golden. She has not imagined the inhuman features. The ears, the nose, the thin hairs covering the skin, everything is just as before, only paler. Suddenly the eyes open and they fix on Alice’s eyes. For a second, they look just as penetrating as before, but then the eyes slip and the eyelids half close. But the words come, slow and soft.

  “Greetings, mistress, and excuse my friend’s behavior. Forgive us also how last time we scared your husband and little girl, though your husband did earn it. I would not have come to bother you, but I recognize this fire. I was surprised when it was kindled; perhaps we did after all hammer a proper smith of your husband? I do not understand, though, how it is that you have the spark, too. Or excuse me, these little villages, everybody is related to everybody. I’m babbling, guess I’m a bit unwell. I’ll close my eyes for a while again.”

  Agenor comes in again, carrying the saddle blankets and his own cloak. He wraps them around the obviously unconscious Reynard and turns to Alice again.

  “I heard some of that out there. This smithy is familiar to us, and the warmest place I could think of. Perhaps your husband has told you something? This is Reynard the Golden; he’s very ill and needs extra heat. I pray that he may stay here; I’ll be quicker alone to get help. Please try to get him something good to eat. We’ll repay your trouble, he’s an important man.”

  Alice is only able to nod. In a moment Agenor is gone and she hears a horse neighing. Another horse answers, and Alice goes to look out the door: Reynard’s horse is tied to the knob by the rainwater barrel.

  She goes back inside, and hesitatingly touches the man’s brow. It actually feels cool. If she didn’t remember the hand that felt hot even through a glove, she’d wonder why anything was wrong with him. Perhaps these people had something opposite to fever when they got ill? Alice realizes she just ought to go home and call the police. Or maybe an ambulance? Everything would come clear then. All her funny memories.

  As she’s thinking on what the men have said Alice realizes that for them the last meeting has been only a short time before: they believe Alice is her own mother. If she goes now, she cannot know whether there will be anybody left at the smithy when she returns. She remembers the war the men spoke about. Ten years ago that was the strangest matter of it all; an eight-year old understood nothing about wars, not even in her own real world. Is that still going on? Is Agenor’s king—she cannot remember his name—still in power?

  If the police or the doctors take Reynard the Golden, Alice shall never get to ask about the things she did not understand as a kid. And if Agenor had been able to walk to the house the last time, this time he’d come to look for Reynard. Alice remembers his anger, strength, and sword. She bolts the smithy door to keep the warmth inside and runs: if they are going to stay in the smithy the whole night, they’ll both need something to eat.

  This time she need not worry about Dad or even about Mum, who’ll not arrive before tomorrow evening. Let that be the time limit. Now Alice runs into the kitchen and packs all kinds of food into a plastic bag.

  She sees her blackened face in the hall mirror and swiftly washes it in the bathroom and brushes her hair. Then she takes off her dirty clothes and puts on shorts and a sleeveless shirt. It’ll be hot in the smithy. A sleeping bag and pad would be sensible, plus a torch. Carrying several plastic bags, Alice half runs back to the smithy. The door is still shut and hot air quivers up from the chimney. Alice is lifting the door open again when the voice calls from inside:

  “Please shut it. The cold is coming in. Where’s Agenor?”

  Reynard the Golden has wrapped all the coverings around himself, but he still seems to tremble. Alice closes the door and sits upon the stool. Reynard grunts and tries to sit up. After a few unsuccessful attempts he smiles, without joy.

  “Don’t seem to make it. Could you please ask Agenor to help, I’d rather sit up. I must have been confused when he carrie
d me here, but it seems you were dressed differently then. More or less . . . ”

  Alice feels herself blushing; she’s probably half naked according to the men’s culture, with her shorts and bare arms. Anger makes her answer sharp.

  “Your comrade has gone for help and told me to take care of you. I thought it’s going to be hot in here. How are you ailing? Should I make more heat? I’ve brought some food if you are hungry.”

  The pale man finally manages to lift himself up to a sitting position against the wall, but the exertion seems to have taken all his strength. For a long while he just sits quietly, eyes closed, breathing fast. The voice at last is only a whisper.

  “Excuse me again. Heat sounds good. Perhaps your husband has told you about the last time. Tell him it was worth it. We got more troops to the pass in time. The enemy’s main army was surrounded and beaten. But there’s enough cleaning up to do afterwards, wandering guerrillas and remnants of the army. I, and people like me, use fire. The other side uses something else. First, Agenor got reckless and then I was too gallant. I got struck full force. Now I’m feeling so cold . . . ”

  In the middle of the sentence, the man falls quiet and his head droops. Alice wonders what will happen if Reynard the Golden dies in her hands. She remembers the fairytales of Brothers Grimm. What would be the proper punishment for a mere smith’s wife—flogging, cutting off her hand, or even hanging? But whatever could she say to the police, then. I’m sorry, but Prince Valiant and a few other inhabitants of fairyland used to come here to take care of their horses and they might turn nasty?

  Reynard’s quiet body suddenly starts to shiver. Alice finds it hard to believe that the man could be cold, but his forehead does actually feel colder than before. Perhaps the thick woolen cape and the leather outfit aren’t letting the warmth seep through. A bit hesitantly, Alice kneels down and opens the cape buckle, and the thick garment falls down. The clothes underneath it are almost cold.

  Under the cape there is a long belted shirt reaching to the hips, a waistcoat and trousers. When she lifts the man, he feels as light as a schoolboy, though his arms are muscled and the body doesn’t seem wasted. The cords, buckles, and hooks are difficult to open in the uneven light from the forge. The most difficult ones Alice simply decides to cut with Reynard’s own knife.

  As Alice finally gets his trousers down a bit, it’s obvious that underpants are not used in Reynard’s world. He looks just like an ordinary man down there. Alice is embarrassed and a titter escapes her while she tugs him upwards by his armpits. Reynard mumbles something when Alice manages to get him on the clumsily constructed chair, covered with the cape and on level with the forge. After that she drapes his shirt over his pelvis; that will look a bit more decent when Agenor comes back.

  Then Alice starts blowing up the fire. The bellows move effortlessly, and she remembers the quiet Mike with gratitude. The coals glow ever redder, the thin hair covering Reynard’s body shines in the eerie light, and sweat begins to flow into her eyes.

  It’s hard to guess time. Alice takes little breaks to gulp a mouthful from the bottle of mineral water. Then she gets the idea to count the blows. Thirty, forty, fifty, like resuscitation. Sixty, seventy, the lungs of the smithy blow and its forge pulses like a heart, a red systolic flash, a cooler diastolic one, a flare of heat again from the systolic, eighty, ninety.

  Hundred and twelve, and Reynard gives a deep sigh. Alice notices the strong movement of the chest when the jewel on his neck flashes. He opens his eyes, but Alice dares not stop yet. Hundred and fifteen, hundred and sixteen. Soon she’ll have to add more coal, luckily there’s still a sack left. Finally, the golden eyes notice Alice. Hundred and twenty-one, hundred and twenty-two. Reynard’s mouth opens, voicelessly. Then the limp hand lifts up to his lips and tilts an invisible drink. Hundred and twenty-seven; Alice stops the blowing. Heat makes her sweat run.

  There’s fruit juice and a bottle of red wine in the bag and Alice lifts them for him to see, and decides to open both. She has even brought two mugs. Reynard smells at each, grasps the wine, and tosses it all down. The hand gives the cup back and Alice refills it. He drinks that, too. His voice is still hushed, but there’s more song in it than before.

  “Warmth, at last. Your wine warms the inside, too. I have not dared to drink water for two days, for that cools me, too. But it feels better now. You are a clever wife. Last time I visited, your daughter brought us provisions. May I take advantage of your hospitality again? Fire needs fuel, and my own body is quite exhausted.”

  Alice keeps lifting the provisions from the basket. The bread is fresh, the cheese quite squashy from the heat, so that it’s easy to dip pieces of bread in it. Reynard’s hands work fast, and Alice realizes she’s looking at a famished man. She picks up the cookies and raisins, and Reynard’s teeth crush them with surprised pleasure. Finally, he’s only popping a few raisins at a time into his mouth and concentrates on Alice, anew.

  “Well, I owe you, once again. When we were here last, I didn’t have time to talk with your daughter, but now we seem to have time. I do not want to go to sleep, waking up might prove too difficult. So please ask what you wish, and I’ll answer if I can.”

  “What happened to that war of yours?” Alice asks, to say something.

  “We won, if there are any winners after such a long war. At least we weren’t destroyed. Porchys, the cousin of my short-tempered companion, may keep his throne and his head, many innocent and even some guilty persons may keep their lives. My own homeland remains wonderful. That is perhaps the best result one can reach with a war. That everything goes on as before and people have the right to be happy or unhappy according to their merits. But where are your husband and your little daughter? I liked her a lot; she had a bright spark and a brave soul.”

  Alice decides it’ll do no harm to tell the truth. The evening has darkened and the only light comes from the forge; what happened ten years ago seems more real than the days in between. It’s time to stop being a scared little girl.

  “You are mistaken, Reynard. I am that girl. When I met you, I was eight years old. No one else believed me. My father died five years ago. No one believed him, either. My boyfriend and his friends have been fixing this smithy to keep it standing. But it’s only a memory, now. There’s no smith here any longer. I’m leaving, too. I just happened to be here and fire the forge up, out of curiosity. I’m sorry.”

  There’s a long, strange silence. To do something, Alice rips open the last sack of coal. An old shovel lies in the corner and she uses that to add coal to the fire, but the sack stains her arms black. A new heat wave fills the air. Reynard’s voice comes out stronger than before.

  “I’d like to make sure of your story. Please let me look into your eyes.”

  Hesitantly, Alice approaches him. The narrow fingers press lightly around her chin and Alice is startled, but the hands don’t let go. The fingertips are hot, again. The golden eyes fasten on her eyes. Sparks dance in the strange irises.

  “You are indeed the same girl. Strange. I’ve thought the portals wouldn’t work if time pushes the worlds too much apart. Perhaps it’s just the smithy that has kept the worlds connected so far. During the time of the master-smith, we often came here. After the first visit, I knew this fire, and when you lighted it, it drew me into its shelter. But the fire seems to know you, too. Have you ever done any smith’s work?”

  “No. But I burned myself, the last time. I was a silly child and imagined that I could touch a beautiful burning coal.”

  Alice lifts her hand closer. It’s as if the strange warmth of Reynard’s fingers makes the scars redder.

  “The fire has recognized you. You are not a proper smith, but enough so you still belong to the smithy. I do not know what is going to happen when you leave. This may be the last time when anybody finds this place.”

  A smile lightens up Reynard’s face, and his tone becomes mischievous.

  “But it was just my luck that even this much still existed. Poor Ag
enor, he’ll have to find his horseshoe nails elsewhere, instead. Unless you have children? A few bouncing boys to be trained as the next smith?”

  Alice shakes her head fiercely and Reynard seems to be embarrassed. It’s as if the color of his face changes according to his emotions; the gold is shadowed.

  “I’m sorry; it’s not my business to pry. I’m just a blabbermouth and dead tired, and afraid of falling asleep because of it. I have no children, either.”

  Reynard stares into the forge. His skin seems to grow darker and the whole man grows somehow thinner.

  “When my light is out, it will mean darkness for my family. Some people may be happy for that. I’ve never been in the homeland long enough. When I’m away, I long to be there. When I go there, the others feel like strangers. They live in fire and beauty, and have become blind to it. So I leave again and soon sit in the cold worlds and stare at embers to see a tiny flash of the beauty of my home. Could I have a little more wine, please?”

  Alice hands the mug to the waiting hand. The touch of his fingers feels cooler again, though the smithy is warm like a sauna.

  “Are you cold? I still have almost a sackful of coals left. I’m just afraid they won’t be enough until Agenor returns. Should you take my sleeping bag?”

  Reynard the Golden glances down at himself; obviously he’s just now noticing that he’s got nothing on. A little smile flickers by the corners of his mouth.

  “I apologize for my improper attire. In the warmth of the forge and in my sleepiness I’ve felt as if I were at home, and we don’t want too much between ourselves and the world, there. If you can still stand it, I’d rather not cover myself. You have done all you can. The fire warms my body, the wine my mind, and your presence warms my heart. The wavering flame either dies or revives; but I’d rather not be alone now. Please tell me about yourself and your world, to keep me awake.”

  Alice pours herself some mineral water and sits down by Reynard. He tells her to start with the day they met last time. Alice tells about the strange day and the time that followed. About the father who was charged with abusing his daughter. About the varying groups of people who kept asking her, directly or obliquely, what had actually happened to her. Sometimes Reynard interrupts to ask a question, and Alice tries to explain what a psychiatrist is, or a school nurse. Other memories are just separate moments of childhood and teen years; going to the library, meeting Johnny. Then school ends, and it’s time for her to grow up. She intends to leave all the old stuff behind her. Home, the narrow neighborhood, Johnny, even the smithy. Though she’ll miss the smithy most of all. The story ends in silence, which Reynard finally breaks.