“Well, what’s done is done,” said the cunning man as he stepped to the fireboard. “Means we need go a way I’d not hev gone fer choice.”
He took the horseshoe nail from where he had lodged it, beside the last in line of his five china cups. He wouldn’t have asked the boy to bring the nail if he hadn’t expected—or at least feared—such a pass. If Baron Neill chose to raise the stakes, then that’s what the stakes would be.
Old Nathan set the nail back, for the nonce. There was a proper bed of coals banked against the wall of the fireplace now during the day. The cunning man chose two splits of hickory and set them sharp-edge down on the ashes and bark-sides close together. When the clinging wood fibers ignited, the flames and the blazing gases they drove out would be channeled up between the flats to lick the air above the log in blue lambency. For present purposes, that would be sufficient.
“Well, come on, thin, boy,” the cunning man said to his visitor. “We’ll git a rock fer en anvil from the crik and some other truck, and thin we’ll forge ye a pinter t’ pint out yer horse. Wheriver she be.”
* * *
Old Nathan had chosen for the anvil an egg of sandstone almost the size of a man’s chest. It was an easy location to lift, standing clear of the streambed on a pedestal of limestone blocks from which all the sand and lesser gravel had been sluiced away since the water was speeded by constriction.
For all that the rock’s placement was a good one, Old Nathan had thought that its weight might be too much for Bowsmith to carry up to the cabin. The boy had not hesitated, however, to wade into the stream running to mid-thigh and raise the egg with the strength of his arms and shoulders alone.
Bowsmith walked back out of the stream, feeling cautiously for his footing but with no other sign of the considerable weight he balanced over his head. He paused a moment on the low bank, where mud squelched from between his bare toes. Then he resumed his steady stride, pacing up the path.
Old Nathan had watched to make sure the boy could handle the task set him. As a result, he had to rush to complete his own part of the business in time to reach the cabin when Bowsmith did.
A flattened pebble, fist-sized and handfilling, would do nicely for the hammer. It was a smaller bit of the same dense sandstone that the cunning man had chosen for the anvil. He tossed it down beside a clump of alders and paused with his eyes closed. His fingers crooked, groping for the knife he kept in a place he could “see” only within his skull.
It was there where it should be, a jackknife with two blades of steel good enough to accept a razor edge—which was how Old Nathan kept the shorter one. His fingers closed on the yellow bone handle and drew the knife out into the world that he and others watched with their eyes.
The cunning man had never been sure where it was that he put his knife. Nor, for that matter, would he have bet more than he could afford to lose that the little tool would be there the next time he sought it. Thus far, it always had been. That was all he knew.
He opened the longer blade, the one sharpened to a 30Sdg angle, and held the edge against a smooth-barked alder stem that was of about the same diameter as his thumb. Old Nathan’s free hand gripped the alder above the intended cut, and a single firm stroke of the knife severed the stem at a slant across the tough fibers.
Whistling himself—”The Twa Corbies,” in contrast to Bowsmith’s rendition of “Bonny Barbry Allen” on the path ahead—Old Nathan strode back to the cabin. The split hickory should be burning to just the right extent by now.
“And I’ll set down on his white neck bone,” the cunning man sang aloud as he trimmed the alder’s branches away, “T’ pluck his eyes out one and one.”