Storytellers by Bjørn Larssen

Author:Bjørn Larssen [Larssen, Bjørn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9789082998511
Publisher: josephtailor

Thursday, March 18, 1920

“Right,” Gunnar said to Ragnar. “We’re going to work.” He let the excited dog inside the forge, then shut the door and looked around, uncertain. “Elf. You here?” No response. Either Grendel had decided to hide from him or he was off doing whatever it was that elves did when they were not pestering honest people.

The blacksmith needed a distraction. Once the fire was burning, he got to work on the artist’s bookshelf. It was possibly the most difficult job he’d ever done, and the least rewarding. The wooden planks she wanted were not straight, nor were they planed. He had to check his drawings every five minutes, measure everything before making the bends, check them against the numbered planks, then curse a lot. In his opinion, the “artist” was simply being “modern” and “a creative soul” for no reason other than to appear more important than she was. Nobody needed a bookshelf like this, Gunnar muttered furiously, using a ball-peen hammer to spread the metal until it was no longer too short. Bookshelves were to put books on, not to take up half of the room, he muttered, carefully fixing the bend before it had a chance to cool down. He should be charging her twice as much… and with this thought, his focus disappeared, the hammer stopping mid-air.

You’re rich. But was he?

The elf might have stolen the money. Or turned it into straw. Now nervous, the blacksmith carelessly threw the bent metal away, then lifted the anvil with a groan that turned into a surprised scream as his back exploded in pain. He still didn’t drop the anvil, placing it on the ground, remembering – too late – what Doctor Brynjólf had said about his posture. He’d take care of it later. He picked up the lid, threw it aside, and grabbed the black satchel. The money was exactly as Gunnar had left it, and he sighed in relief. He crumpled some notes without bothering to count them, then put them in the back pocket of his trousers and returned the satchel to its place, then sat on the anvil, breathing heavily.

His lower back was now radiating deceptively pleasant heat, as if a hot-water bottle had been placed there. The blacksmith scowled, knowing the heat would soon disappear, only to be replaced with blunt pain. There would be no more work done for a while. Yet the anvil had to return to its place no matter what. Perhaps if he had a stiff drink it would hurt less… ah, he remembered, he had to stop, so he’d be safe from the authorities. Although, of course, he’d be emigrating soon, so perhaps… but no, it made no sense to make another batch, as he wouldn’t be able to take it along.

Keeping proper posture this time, Gunnar lifted the anvil again, grinding his teeth, and the pain squeezed tears out of his eyes. Then he switched the blower off. From experience, he’d need at least a few days off forging, perhaps even a week.

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