Joe vs. Himself
Clang.
Clang.
The sound of metal pounding metal echoes through the woods as each strike seems to be fueled by more than just utility. There is a need that resonates with each downward blow of hammer on steel.
Clang.
Clang.
The familiar, rhythmic sound coupled with the reverberating feel of each hammer strike, soothing the Beast of the giant who is working it as it molds the malleable metal.
Clang.
Clang.
The action, now so routine, gives the giant time to bring a small sense of peace to an otherwise tumultuous mind. Sparks fly and tiny, red hot wedges of metal singe themselves into a bare and unflinching chest. Fire to anvil; hammer to steel; then repeat. The process has become so second nature it requires barely a thought. It allows reflection, though not all of it good.
Clang.
Clang.
The sound seems distant now as the eyes of the giant glaze over, his mind hurtling through the events and actions of the past.
“Sometimes you can be such a stupid boy.”
The words of his sire lance through his thoughts, stinging his pride and rousing his Beast. Only the repetitive working of the metal keeps it in check.
“Dhare is only one ting dhat really upsets dhe Gods… and dhats havin’ dhe blood of family on your hands, and boy, you’ve got dhat blood of family on your hands.”
Clang.
Clang.
There is a subtle change in the reverberations. It no longer sounds as a near desperate need, but now it is laced with anger, frustration. Shorter, quicker, fierce blows striking sparks into the air.
“I’ve only been around half that long and I’ve got more sense than that.”
Clang.
“You killed an old, decrepit lady because you gave your WORD!?!?!”
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
The scene in his mind shifts, once again, as it does nearly every night, to the battlefield. Once again he’s standing on the hill leading down to a small, dilapidated cottage, dogs lounging, seemingly peaceful, with an old lady sitting on the porch, a bottle of beer next to her basket of knitting, a long drawn out creak with each slow rock of her chair.
Once again he feels the ground beneath his feet tremble with each step as his course becomes clear.
Mist clings tightly to the bodies behind him as he takes a final glance back at those he swore to protect, those he swore to help.
Once again he registers the unearthly dogs as they latch on to his massive forearms mid swing.
Once again he hears nothing as he sees the look of confusion, dismay, then anger, then defeat in the old lady’s eyes as his claws rend through her.
Once again those eyes look up at him, questioning as the final blow is hovering over her.
Clang.
Clang.
The world goes on as it always does around the giant working the forge, while his mind is miles away, absent in the moment for all its presence in the past.
“Joe, what’re you doin’ boy?”
His thoughts pause in their replay. Clutching the old lady in his massive hand he turns his head and sees her, standing next to him, seeming so small and frail.
“I’m just doin’ what needed to be done, Granny.” The reply is not as confident as it once sounded to him.
“You think what yer doin’ is RIGHT?” Suddenly Granny seems bigger, more intimidating and Joe becomes that nervous little boy he used to be when he knew he had done something wrong and had to face punishment from her.
“Look around you, son. There ain’t not a one here that’s worth a spit. You givin’ yer word to the likes of them… boy I thought I raised you with more sense than that.”
Clang.
Clang.
The sound no longer resonates with need but is becoming pure anger. It is no longer soothing, but enraging to the Beast within the chest of the hammering giant.
The grayish scene before the giant shifts, the decrepit old lady still clutched in his massive hand, the life ending claw poised to strike, Granny standing next to him, looking up at him, disapproving. He turns his head and notices there’s no one around. No dogs, no kin, no battle and no war. There’s just him and the old lady.
“Look hard Joe, cuz this is how they’re gonna remember you. Not that you rallied folk. Not that you did what you thought was right. Not that you rid the world of somethin’ a bit more evil than you.”
She pauses as his head slowly turns scanning the empty field to look down on the old, beaten, bloodied and decrepit body, frail and fragile in his hand, that final claw ready to fall.
“No Joe, all they’re gonna remember is that you killed an old lady. You killed Family, Joe. You killed FAMILY. I don’t know if I can ever forgive that, boy.”
Somewhere off in the distance, he becomes aware of a ringing, a furious and relentless pounding of metal on metal.
Granny steps back, the floorboards of the porch creaking, a stark contrast to the memory of the silent slaying of Old Alice.
He becomes aware of the movement of his enormous clawed hand, coming down to land the killing blow with nauseating slowness. He glances back to his Granny as she turns her back on him and vanishes.
CRACK.
The resilience of the giant’s emotional armor is breached by a large crevice, as if a spike was driven through a metal breastplate. It pierces him to his very soul reverberating there with disappointment and loneliness, and for the first time in as long as he can remember, Joe feels pain.
The sudden and overwhelming silence snaps his attention to the present, hammer still and motionless in his hand, the very hand that ended the unlife of Old Alice. Tears of blood streak through the soot to fall unhindered from his face, their spattering now the only sound on the cracked and broken anvil.