Cockatiels at Seven

One


“Meg, are you busy?” Dad asked.

I didn’t turn around. The iron rod heating in my forge was approaching white hot, which meant it was the perfect temperature for working. So instead of answering, I gripped the rod with my tongs, pulled it out, slapped it onto the anvil with a satisfying clang, and began hammering one end into a point. Okay, I confess, I showboated a bit, just to emphasize how very busy I was. I worked faster than I normally would, with just a little flourish as I turned the rod, left, right, left, right, over and over, shaping the point. Then I moved an inch and a half back and began shaping and narrowing another area.

When I’d done as much as I could without heating the metal again, I plunged the rod abruptly into the water bucket, sending up a cloud of faintly acrid steam. I closed my eyes as I breathed in the familiar, strangely soothing odor. Or maybe it wasn’t the odor I found soothing. When you’re feeling annoyed, whacking things with a two-pound hammer works infinitely better than counting to ten.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m busy.” I turned to see both Dad and Dr. Blake standing in the doorway of the barn where I’d set up my smithy. Technically, I was allowed to call Dr. Blake “Grandpa” now that the DNA tests had proved he was Dad’s long-lost father, but that would take some getting used to, so for the moment I went to great lengths not to call him anything at all.

I pulled the iron rod out of the bucket, held it up and sighted along the shaft. The end I’d been working on had now taken on a shape like a rough spear point. I smiled at the smooth, flat surfaces, with just enough faint dimpling to prove that they had been hammered on a forge rather than poured in some factory. Nice work, if I did say so myself. And a good start on having a productive Monday morning.

“That’s not finished, is it?” Dr. Blake asked.

My mellow mood evaporated.

“No, of course not,” I said.

“What is it?” he asked. “Some kind of primitive boar spear?”

“A towel rod. This is only step one of a five-or six-step process. When it’s finished, it will look like this.”

I strode over to the section of the barn where I stored completed work and picked up a towel rod made of a single iron bar hammered into a graceful curve with a curling leaf on each end.

“The part that looks like a spear point is what I’m going to turn into the leaf on this end,” I said.

“Oh, I understand,” Blake said, in a falsely hearty tone that suggested he didn’t understand at all.

“She sold a pair of those to the governor!” Dad said.

“Lieutenant governor, actually,” I said. “And it was his wife doing the shopping.”

“Nice,” Blake said. I suppressed a sigh. I could tell he was trying, but since my work had nothing to do with zoology or the preservation of endangered species, his own particular obsessions, he was having a hard time.

“Still,” Blake went on. “Think of all the time you could save if you could find a way to automate some of those steps. You could make ten times as many iron doodads in the same time. And more cheaply, I expect.”

“That’s not the point,” I said. “It’s handmade. It’s not like every cookie-cutter towel bar you can buy down at the hardware store. Every one is unique.”

“Unique, handmade—I suppose they’re nice, but look how labor-intensive this is.”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s labor-intensive. Like taking care of the animals down at your zoo. Think of all the time you could save if you just freeze-dried and stuffed them all. No need for feedings several times a day, cleaning the cages, hauling them to and from the vet—just dust them off every few weeks. You could probably take care of ten times as many animals with the same staff. And more cheaply.”

“That’s not the point,” Blake said.

“So you’re busy, then?” Dad asked—probably to change the subject and keep the peace. Blake was frowning at me. Did he disapprove of my sarcasm? Surely he didn’t think I was serious about taxidermying the zoo’s inhabitants?

“Very busy,” I said. “The cupboard is nearly bare.” I swept my arm in a dramatic half circle to indicate how very large the storage end of the barn was, and then fixed my gaze on the pitifully small pile of finished metalwork in one corner.

“Oh, dear,” Dad said, shaking his head in sympathy.

“And I’m scheduled to do that really big craft show over the Labor Day weekend,” I said. “Only three weeks away. What with all the distractions I’ve had this summer, I haven’t had nearly as much time to work as I thought I would.”