Rat Song

Chapter 22

"Yes, sir."

William tossed the lump of wet coal back into their fuel stores—the worst it could do was fill the forge with even more smoke—and heaved the bucket off the ground. As he dumped the soiled water out behind the forge, his arms trembled with relief. Father hadn't laid a hand on him. Hadn't said so much as an unkind word to him, in fact. For the first time in William didn't know how long, Father had treated him with the same kindness with which other fathers treated their sons.

Perhaps Father had punished him and William had retreated too far into himself to notice. That had happened to him before. One moment he'd be shoveling coal onto the fire or working the bellows, and the next he'd be laid out with his whole body throbbing as he struggled to drag himself off the ground.

But no, he wasn't sore this time. His back had eased to a dull ache, and his bruised arms barely protested as he refilled the bucket. Even after carrying the water all the way back from the well, his body troubled him little more than it normally did whenever he worked alongside his father.

William's luck continued throughout much of the day. Father barely spoke to him as he tended to the fire, instead focusing his attention on the wares their customers had ordered. Nails to mend Mr. Baker's roof. A hoe for Mr. Farnsworth to till his fields. A pocketknife for Mr. Norton to replace the one that had grown coppery with rust.

As the sun sank toward the horizon, Father lowered his hammer and mopped the sweat from his brow. "One last fence post, then we'll call it an evening. Mind holding the iron steady for me while I shape it?"

"Not at all, Father." He never asked William to do something, only ordered him. He rarely asked him to help with hands-on work either, so little was his faith in William's ability to hone his craft. Strange though the request was, William knew better than to question it. In fact, despite his better judgment, a warm rush of pride surged through his chest. Perhaps he wasn't a lousy blacksmith after all.

Using a pair of tongs, William held the length of iron in the fire until the metal glowed bright orange. Though the iron hissed with heat as William lowered it onto the anvil, Father did not flinch as he struck it with his hammer. With each blow, the metal bent to his will. William followed his commands just as well, adjusting the rod's place on the anvil until it took on the same twists and sharp points as the other fence posts they'd made that day.

At times like this, the forge was almost pleasant. Of course the coal made William's throat itch and the steady clang of his father's hammer rang in his ears, but there was a certain satisfaction in watching the product of his labor take shape before him. While his music faded into memory the instant he stopped playing his guitar, anything William crafted out of metal would last years, perhaps longer than he would himself. Though smithing would never make his soul sing in the way his guitar did, William could imagine himself finding satisfaction in his work. He shifted the metal into place for Father's final strike, his muscles braced against the vibrations that were sure to come.

CLANG!

The force of the blow sent tremors racing through William's whole body. Even after the deafening sound of the hammer hitting the anvil stopped ringing in his ears, his hands wouldn't stop shaking. Couldn't. Not when the hammer had come within less than an inch of crushing his fingers.

"That was a near miss." Father's voice was completely calm as he lifted the hammer once again. "Lucky I didn't hit your hands. Not even Dr. Hughes would be able to fix them, then."

William couldn't force any words past his lips, only a soft whine like a dog about to receive a kick from its master. He'd seen his fair share of horrible injuries. Everyone in Hamelin had, whether it was a skull caved in by a horse's quick kick or a cut finger that had gone green with rot. But this was the closest William had ever come to being so severely injured it would do far more than scar him.

"Many accidents happen in the forge," Father went on. "When I was a year or two older than you are now, my master slipped and accidentally branded himself with the horseshoe he'd been shaping. I've never heard another man scream like he did when that metal touched his arm, yet nobody thought much of it. Nothing but one of the hazards of the job."

Bile burned in the back of William's throat as he realized what Father was implying. Everyone expected blacksmiths to get hurt. If anything happened to him at the forge, no one would be surprised.

No one would suspect his injuries might be anything but accidental.

"Could happen at any time, boy." Father carefully examined the hammer in his grip. "Would be all too easy, don't you think?"

Father's eyes fell upon William, forcing him to speak. "Yes, sir."

"It would be a pity if such harm befell you," Father said. "Your mother would be devastated, and Emma, well, the poor girl has already been through far too much, hasn't she?"

William could only nod as his throat tightened.

"The forge isn't the only place accidents can happen, either. One slip would be more than enough for the Tantalus to drag you under." William jumped as Father delivered the finishing blow to the fence post before dropping it in the water bucket, cooling the metal with a hiss and a plume of steam. "Never know if it's truly an accident or if someone took the coward's way out."

William found nothing but cold, hard hatred in his father's eyes.

"Can I trust you to avoid such accidents in the future, boy?" Father asked. "Wouldn't want to trouble Dr. Hughes more than you already have would we?"

"I'll be careful, Father," William said hoarsely. "I promise."

Father smiled in the same way a wolf bared its teeth at a lamb. "Glad we've come to an understanding."