The Forging Read online

  Charlene looked into my eyes from across the table. She reached out and took my hand. She rubbed the back of my hand as she does. In a soft voice which conveys a deeper meaning than only her words said, “Heavens, no, Nathan. After waking up from the coma, I have been doing some thinking. Sometimes I don’t think I show you enough how much I do love you. This is only a token. A demonstration of while I keep the house and raise our daughter, you are loved, wanted, and needed. You are not only a bank account. You have value to us, more than your earning capacity. Some women forget to let their husbands know this truth. I will never be one of those women. So, I’ve decided one night a week we will have something you love even if it’s unhealthy.”

  Swallowing the feelings which are welling up my throat, I asked myself what did I ever do to deserve this? If only I could grab up my wife and well, I didn’t want to clean up the floor after I swept all the plates off the table not to mention, I had no desire to explain to Moiraine what we were doing. Pausing for a moment, I said, “I don’t know what to say.”

  With a puckish grin, Charlene said, “That’s a first.”

  “Daddy, you are supposed to say, ‘I love you.’ Silly Daddy, I’m only five years old, and I knew what to say.”

  I turned to look at my daughter and say, “Moiraine, you are right.” Then back to my wife and said, “I do and have always loved you ever since the first moment we touched.”

  John’s timing is perfect as he waited a beat then said, “Would you like me to take Mo to the movies for a long alone time like we talked about?”

  Without breaking her gaze into my eyes, Char said, “Now, whose mind is on the bedroom?”

  “Daddy, I don’t understand. Why are we talking about bedrooms when there is ice cream waiting?”

  “I’m glad you don’t understand, Honey.”

  “Daddy, you’re funny,” we all went back to eating our extra special meal.

  After the meal, true to his word, John took Moiraine by the hand, and they went out for ice cream. Char and I washed and put away the dishes. Char took off her apron and said, “Let’s go for a walk.” Agreeing with my wife, we were off to Balboa Park.

  We parked in the lot near my favorite place. We strolled hand in hand to that little clearing the one with all those lovely trees. We stood there in the center of the grass and looked up at the stars. It is a real shame the city lights wash out most of the stars. With my memory, I can playback the stars fading over the years. It makes me sad. Maybe I should start a movement to clear the sky of lights one night a year. For one hour all the lights would be turned off. It would allow people to look up and see the glory of the cosmos once again. Astronomers would back the idea in a huge way. They would love seeing the night sky through their optical telescopes unspoiled by light pollution. Char leaned into me. It felt so heartwarming to have her close to me. “Do you remember the first time we looked at the stars together?”

  “Don’t be silly, of course, I do. You finally took my hand. I’ve always wondered why didn’t you try to kiss me up there on the Ferris wheel? I never could figure it out.”

  “Fear stayed my lips.”

  “Why were you scared? You must have sensed I wanted you to,” Char said as she turned from the stars and looked at me.

  “In my teenage years, I was…,” I paused and thought better about revealing that stupid painful part of my past. “… The gist of it is I didn’t want to screw up what chance I had of being a part of your life.”

  She put her arms around me, and I put mine around her. She said, “Gently, it still hurts.” After a wonderful minute together, “Odd, I was afraid of the same thing as we started dating. I hope someday you can tell me whatever it is that made you pause and change your train of thought. You don’t have to hide anything from me. I’m your wife, and you can tell me anything. Besides I have already seen you at your worst.” I know she means it, but she has no idea. What I did in those years can never be forgiven.

  We stood there under the stars for a while more. We talked. We talked of hopes and dreams, fantasies and reality, and our child and her future. It is getting late, so we headed back to the car and home. As we headed back, Char said the idea of some ice cream was appealing. I steered us to a little shop we discovered by accident years ago. I looked forward to the most amazing handmade ice cream. We walked up as the owner is turning his sign to the closed position. We tapped on the door and pleaded our desire. He shook his head no and pointed to his wrist. There is no watch there, but his meaning is clear.

  Signing okay, I was resolved to an evening free of ice cream. I started to pull Char to come along. She turned back to the door and knocked again. The owner came back and started to say no more firmly when Charlene interrupted him and said, “I love your ice cream, and I dearly need it.” The gentleman shook his head yes and unlocked the door. We filed in like kids at an ice cream parlor. Wow, something changed his mind. Maybe Char flashed him.

  Usually, we would split a scoop of whatever flavor, chocolate, strikes her fancy. This time we each had a cone of our own. She must be splurging. She got, let me see, chocolate and mine was vanilla bean. I paid for our cones and thanked the owner for reopening the store.

  Since we are finished with our indulgences, home is waiting. It is later than we thought. The house is dark as we entered. All we could hear is Blossom’s thumping and John’s gentle snoring. He is laid out in the recliner. It feels like we are trying to sneak back into her father’s house after being out too late. Char placed her hand on her father and quietly woke him. John stood and headed for the front door. On the way, he told us Moiraine is in her bed, and all is well. We thanked him for the time he gave us together, and he was out the door.

  We quietly got ready for bed. The light is out, and we are all snug as the proverbial bug in his rug. My brain is at the point of crossing the line from wakefulness to slumber when I heard a cry from Moiraine’s room.

  “Damn!” Mo is having another night terror. Charlene was about to wake Mo when I stopped her. “Let’s see what happens.”

  “Nathan, no. She is scared to death.” Char tried to pull away from me, but I held her in place.

  Moiraine’s screams are tormenting to my heart. Char slapped at my hand to free herself. Emphatically I said, “She can do this. She is stronger than you think. Let her try!”

  Mo began yelling in her sleep, “Mommy, wake up Mommy. Mommy, stay with us. I love you.” My heart fell she is already past the point where Char was shot. Char began to put some muscle in her attempts to free herself.

  “Stay here. Let me try something.” Char had streams of tears running out her face. Her free hand was clutching her chest. First, she shook her head no. “She has to face her fears.” Char grudgingly agreed, so I let her go. If I were a betting man, I would have laid odds she was going to put a move on me to get by. To her credit, she is staying put for the time being. In Mo’s room, I knelt down by her bed. I whispered in her ear, “Moiraine, you are asleep. Remember, this is a dream. Your dream. You can fight him. Go back in your dream to before the mean man hurt your mom.” Her expression changed. She quieted down. I turned to Char. “That helped.”

  Mo is mumbling incoherently, then burst out in a laugh “… funny part.” We watched her for about twenty more minutes before heading back to our bed.

  We laid there lost in our thoughts. There is little hope this will be the last time Mo screams in the night, but sometimes you have to hold on to hope. Sleep finally came to me but offered little rest.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  In the morning, Moiraine looked tired, and she was not quite herself. Gone is her playfulness. She is as dark as when her mother lay dying. Making jokes and jests didn’t change her mood. She would have none of it. I hoped by the time I returned from my labors this day she would be better.

  The limo would soon be here, so I went outside to wait for it. It turned the corner and pulled up. The driver raced to open the door before I reached the car. With so little joy this morn
ing, I am in no mood to race. I didn’t even try.

  Pushing through the door to the warehouse, I saw all looked as it had when I left yesterday. Except for the hearth. A gentle fire was going and placed close to the hearth was a block of metal. My master approached me. He is dressed differently than before. Gone were the typical work clothes he wore last time we met. He, along with everyone else, is wearing a white smock with matching pants. On his head is a cap which tied in the back. It covered all his hair. One of the other men there brought me a set of the clothes. Everyone is looking at me and waiting. I squeaked, “Oh,” took the clothes, and changed into them in the bathroom. Dressed as everyone else, I stood before the frail man and said, “We pray.”

  With a slight smile, he said, “Hai. You seem to be getting it.” We walked to the shrine and began. My mind is troubled, and I didn’t get the same feeling of calm and peace. When we finished, Mr. Nobuharu called out in Japanese to someone, and he brought a broom. He bowed slightly to his assistant and took the broom. The assistant bowed back deeper to the master. It is all very formal. It must be a tradition. My mind started to play some music, but I squelched it quickly. Mr. Nobuharu handed me the broom and said, “Sweep.” Everyone else had acquired brooms too.

  We formed a line at one end of the warehouse. We all started our work. Not to be silenced, my mind started playing Roger Miller’s song “King of the Road.” “… Ah, but, two hours of pushin’ broom buys…” I let this song play out; it is an amusing distraction to the mindless labor.

  There is no rush. We painstakingly moved across the floor, finally getting all the dust and debris into a pile. The pile was swept into the waiting dustpan held by Asahara. It took several trips to the waste can before we were done. Another assistant had a moist cloth ready to pick up the bits the broom and dustpan failed to capture. The way he diligently went about the task, I wondered if he had taken cleaning lessons from my wife.

  The master motioned to his assistants, and like a ballet, they moved with order and grace. Around the hearth, which lay flush with the floor, one apprentice retrieved two boxes and placed them close by. He sat behind the boxes on his knees with his head slightly bowed. A second helper began gently pumping a bellows to stoke the fire. It is an unusual bellow instead of an up and down motion it had an in and out action. The helper sat on his knees, so he has a full range of motion. Still another helper, also on his knees, is feeding the fire and brushing bits and pieces of fuel and hot coals back into the fire with a straw hand broom. It isn’t a proper hand broom; it is more a round mass of straw tied together in a bunch. The fourth and final assistant carried a bundle of heavy cloth. He sat down like all the rest of the assistants did on his knees. He sat before the block of metal with the bundle of cloth in front of him.

  The master, Mr. Nobuharu, with a little extra effort, sat down on the floor near the metal block. Mr. Nobuharu motioned to the assistant sitting with the bundle. This helper untied the cord wrapped around the bundle. He unrolled the cloth. He flipped the flaps over as if he was tearing apart a fabric burrito. There is Japanese writing stitched to the interior of the bundle. The filling for this textile delight is tools. There is a pair of tongs flanked on both sides by two one-handed hammers. These hammers did not look like any hammers I’ve seen before. The handles are off-center perhaps by two thirds back.

  Mr. Nobuharu nodded to the helper who brought the tools. The assistant bowed, and the frail old man picked up each tool in turn and examined each one. His examination was not hurried. He gave each tool his full attention. He placed the tools down on the block. I understand. The metal block would be the anvil. Using a western anvil would be cumbersome on the floor where the work is to be done. This Japanese anvil is both practical and elegantly perfect for its function. “Nathan-san, come sit here and learn.”

  I tried to sit down on the floor next to my master, but my legs did not move the way I told them to. Slowly I lowered myself down there, but my knees are screaming at me. Unlike my wife, I have never been bendy. I am hovering more than sitting. Everyone is watching me as I contorted. In frustration, I pounded my legs with my fists and said, “Bend, damn you.” Laughter erupted from all present. “What do you call this sitting on your knees?”

  Mr. Nobuharu answered, “It is called Seiza.”

  Asahara followed up with, “It is for formal or traditional occasions.”

  “No offense, but I call it painful.”

  “Nathan-san, you may sit as you wish if this is too uncomfortable.” The frail master said.

  “No. I wish to do this the correct way even if it involves a small amount of agony.”

  “Yes, Nathan-san, it can be a hard thing when you are not used to it.” Mr. Nobuharu said in a gentle way similar to the way how he talked to Moiraine about making the cranes.

  I tried to relax. My knees are nagging at me, so I put the pain in a small recess in my mind. It always dulls the pain. For me, dealing with pain, especially migraines, for so long the agony and I seem like old friends playing a game of chess. Sometimes the pain would win the contest, and sometimes I would win. This battle is one where I would prevail.

  “Very well.” Mr. Nobuharu turned to the two boxes. The man sitting there opened them up. One box contained broken pieces of the dark tamahagane. The other box held the large piece of shiny tamahagane along with other smaller pieces of bright tamahagane. The master picked up a piece of the brighter metal. The way he held the metal conveyed both respect, and I would say, love. He said to me, “This steel is strong; it forms the edge of the katana. It is strong like a mighty tree stiff and unbending. The tree is so strong it will not bend to wind, only break to it.” He returned the shiny piece and picked up a dark bit of metal from the other box. He held the metal with no less reverence than the other. “This steel will form the spine of the blade. It is like the grass. Before the wind, the grass bends and sways, but never breaks. The grass has no strength and bows even before the slightest of breeze. We will take these two halves and marry them into one strong sword, but wise enough to yield.” Mr. Nobuharu paused, and I began to think.

  All this is fascinating. Think, you take raw materials sand, wood, fire, and turn them with sweat and craftsmanship into something more than the sum of its parts. It is a true act of creation, like when John made furniture. My hands have been a part of this creation. I hope my help doesn’t dick everything up.

  Mr. Nobuharu continued as he held the dark piece of tamahagane and picked up a shiny piece. “I have worked this craft for over eighty years. Not in all that time from my start as an apprentice at my grandfather’s side until now, I have seen no better tamahagane. This metal, this tamahagane, is a gift. This promises to be a blessed undertaking.” At this point, Mr. Nobuharu began to pray. I could see a sublime glow about this man. It must have been a trick of the light though.

  Mr. Nobuharu took the tongs from atop the anvil, picked up a piece of dark tamahagane, and placed it in the fire of the forge. At this, the apprentice managing the bellows began to increase his pace. The fire intensified. Every few minutes, the master pulled the metal from the forge and examined it. Once he was satisfied as to the color of it, he placed it on the anvil. Asahara handed me one of the hammers. It felt strange and off-balance. Asahara demonstrated how to use the odd hammer as he began pounding the tamahagane. As when we broke up the large ingot, we slid into a rhythm. Slag flung from the work in a display of tiny fireworks with every stroke. After a few strikes of the hammers, the master would turn the metal. Sometimes instead of turning the metal, he would return it to the fire for a time. Once the piece was flat, he set it aside and picked up another piece of tamahagane, and we would begin again.

  All day this went on with only breaks for lunch and water. Every piece of metal had been seen to except the one large piece of shiny tamahagane. Mr. Nobuharu talked with Asahara for a moment, then Asahara stood. He retrieved a portable writing desk and gave it to his uncle. The master took out a large sheet of rice paper, dipped a writing brush in
to an inkwell, and began writing.

  I asked Asahara, “What is he writing?”

  His answer was simple and to the point, “A prayer.”

  “Ah,” I bowed my head and silenced my voice and my thoughts. The sounds of the fire in the forge are clear. The noise of the bellows is a steady beat. The movements of all there came to my ears. There is the sound of the assistant placing new wood in the forge. There is the sound of a bird’s song from outside. I heard the gentle shifting everyone made as they sat there, waiting for the next step. Even the sound of the brush on the paper filled my ears. I had again attained the peace about me of only being. I felt as if a great burden had been shifted off my shoulders. It is not gone; it no longer weighs me down.

  Mr. Nobuharu stopped writing his prayer and put away the ink and brush. He handed the writing-table back to Asahara, who returned it to its place. The frail master wrapped the large piece of tamahagane with the prayer he wrote. He left the package on the anvil and said, “The day is over, and I am fatigued. Let us rest, then return in the morning.”

  Everyone stood and started to mill around in gentle conversations except me. I couldn’t stand. My legs are asleep, and no longer obey my commands. “A little help please.” I held out my arms and Asahara, and another assistant lifted me to my feet and held me up while the feeling came back to my legs. I said, “Domo arigato,” to my rescuers.

  Asahara grinned, “Oh. Very good! When did you learn that Japanese?”

  “Watching the television mini-series Shogun and I also listen to Styx.” Music began playing in my head. Damn it. I need to watch what I think. “You’re wondering who I am Machine or mannequin.” Well, I guess it’s better than Turning Japanese by The Vapors. “I think I’m turning Japanese I think I’m…” Give it a rest brain.