Sixty-One Nails: Courts of the Feyre (34 page)

    "What happens if you just relax and let go?"

    "Nothing happens. I stay like I am. I've been doing this for so long I can do it in my sleep, literally. "
    "What do you want me to say?" I was bemused and rather at a loss for words.

    "I just wanted you to know. It seemed important to you and I felt I should explain."

    She walked along beside me again, but her hand didn't return to mine. I felt as if I should apologise again, but I wasn't sure what for. Because I had assumed that she looked like a retired lady and not a young woman or because she didn't know what she looked like any better than I did? It was hollow and I was sure if I said anything, it would sound it.

    We walked down a gentle hill with a big brick farmhouse on our left. The hedges had recently been flail-cut and torn pieces of sticks and leaves were strewn across the roadway. It reminded me of my life.

    As we walked down the hill things began to register with me. It was like a seeing a cloud that suddenly looks like a dragon or realising the vase you were looking at is really the silhouette of two faces.

    I stopped and she came to a halt with me.

    "Do you know where we are?" I asked her.

    "We can't be too far away now. We must have walked a couple of miles and it's only about five to the village." She extracted the map from her bag and started unfolding it.

    I walked past her a few paces, watching images come into line and visions fulfil themselves. "You don't need the map. It's here."

    "We can't be at the village yet, it's another mile or so at least."
    "Come and look."

    She refolded the map and came and stood beside me, looking down a short access track at a pair of ornate iron gates attached to brick pillars with a large old brick farmhouse set out in a courtyard beyond them. The farm looked neat and well cared for. "Are you sure? "
    "Look at the name."

    The sign was for Forge Farm with a neat anvil depicted in the centre of the cast-iron oval sign. "There could be more than one. There were no end of forges and foundries in this area a hundred years ago. "
    "Look at the roof."

    Along the line of the roof were three iron doves, black and outlined against the darkening skyline. One was pecking while the other two were artfully engaged in each other. At the other end of the apex an iron cat stalked along the cap-tiles, ready to pounce on them. It was the cat from my vision. As soon as I had seen it from the road I had been certain.

    "Sure?" I nodded.

    "We'd better go and introduce ourselves then.

    "Blackbird, before we do. I have another request, if you'll allow it?" I spoke gently, aware that the wrong word at this moment would lead to a rift between us, just when I thought we were getting closer.

    "What?" Her answer was curt, but not harsh.

    "Would you stay like you are now, just for a while, until I get used to it? I rather like you like that." She didn't say anything, but as we walked down the track towards the farm her hand curled into mine again. It was such a small thing, but it lifted my heart and I couldn't help the smile that came unbidden to my lips.

Eighteen

    The gates to the farm were a challenge. They were wide enough so you could drive a combine harvester through them easily. They were at least ten feet high at the outside, sloping down through an elegant curve to about seven feet in the middle. The foundations for the pillars must have been put in specially because they were cold forged iron and neither Blackbird nor I were going to touch them.

    There was no bell or knocker. We could see there were lights on in the house but we were a good distance away so it was doubtful anyone would hear us if we called out. In America there would have been an intercom so you could get the gates opened electrically. This was Shropshire.

    The problem was solved by a couple of dogs. They tore out of one of the barns as soon as we came close to the gates, baying and barking fit to wake anyone within a quarter mile. They were great big things with huge ugly heads, tusk-like lower teeth and coats the colour of burnt toffee, possibly some kind of mastiff. Their brakes weren't too good as they skidded and collided with the gates at the end of their run in a race to be first to bark at the visitors. The gates didn't even rattle. "Well, that should get us some attention," remarked Blackbird.

    The dogs barked on for a good couple of minutes but no one came. They growled and ran up and down the gates, intimating that, if they could only get out, we would be dog-meat.

    "OK, maybe not. Still, we don't have to put up with this racket." She turned to the dogs.

    I don't know what she did, because it only lasted a second and I had my eye on the dogs. I caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye as she shifted shape momentarily. The effect was instant and dramatic. Both dogs backed away from the gate, one turning and running back towards the farmhouse with its tail between its legs, the other backing off about ten yards, still barking, but with all the hackles raised down its back. Its back legs were down and braced. The bark had changed too, becoming darker, more urgent. "Brave dog," she remarked, nodding towards the one still barking.

    "Doesn't help us get past the gates, though does it? "
    "Hello?" A figure emerged from the house, the other dog close on her heels. She'd obviously been cooking because she was dusting flour from her fingers. "Hello!" I answered.

    She walked across the yard towards us, having trouble because the dog stayed close to her legs, putting itself between her and us.

    "Stupid animal." She pushed it away, but it was not budging from her. "Can I help you?"

    "We're looking for Mr Highsmith," I called to her.

    "Yes?" She looked at the dog, still growling and barking, well back from the gate. "Topaz! Heel!"

    The dog glanced at her and then continued its barking.
    "Topaz! Come here!"

    The dog backed slowly towards her, never taking its eyes from us, still growling deeply.

    "Is this the right place?" It was difficult to have a conversation through the gates and across the yard, but she showed no sign of wanting to open the gates with the dogs acting so strangely.

    "This is Highsmiths' farm, yes," she admitted, still watching the dog.

    "Could we speak to Mr Highsmith?" I asked, across the divide.

    "What about?" She made no move towards us.

    "We need to speak with him about an urgent matter, something we would like him to do."

    "And what sort of thing would that be?" Suspicion tinted her tone.

    "We need him to do some ironwork," Blackbird added. "I'm afraid you've wasted your time."

    "Have we come to the wrong place then?" I asked. "No, He's here. But he doesn't do commissions any more. He's getting on, you see. "
    "He'll do this one," Blackbird asserted.

    Another figure appeared from one of the sheds around the courtyard. This one had the universal blue coveralls farmers wear. His were dark with grease and he had the look of a man that had been in the middle of fixing something and had been interrupted. "What's the matter with the dogs, Meg?" He walked over to her, wiping his hands down his thighs. "They rucked up when these people came calling and then Tasha here came bursting into the kitchen and hid under the table, growling at the door, silly dog." Nevertheless she reached down and stroked the dog's ears, reassuring her.

    "Topaz, heel!" The larger dog turned and trotted back to his master, then stood by his legs, still rumbling at us. He walked forward. "Can I help you with something?"

    "We've come to see Mr Highsmith, about some ironwork," I repeated.

    "I don't do ironwork no more, and my Dad's getting too old to take on work. Maybe I can recommend someone to you?"

    "No, I'm afraid it's you we need to do it. It's specialist work."

    "As I say I don't do ironwork anymore. There's no money in it."

    "This isn't for money, although I dare say there'll be payment," said Blackbird. "This is about two knives, one blunt and one sharp."

    That clearly hit a chord, because his manner changed. "Meg, go and get Dad, will you? And take the dog with you. Lock her in the back kitchen. "
    "But Jeff–"

    "Just go and get him, would you, please?"

    She walked off, clearly not happy with the situation, but following his instructions. He walked a little closer, setting the dog barking again until he hushed it with a word.

    "What kind of work is it you're wanting?"

    "It's one of the knives. It's broken in two. Someone dropped it a while ago and no one's been able to fix it. "
    "Cold iron, is it?"

    "We're not sure. We don't get too close to it." That brought a grim smile to his lips.

    "You'd better come in, but I'll lock the dog up first."
    "Don't worry, he won't bite us. We'll be fine," Blackbird assured him.
    "I was thinking of the dog."

    He walked the dog back to the house, leaving us standing outside the gate. He was only inside for a minute or two and then he walked back out accompanied by another man. They were from the same mould, these two, the same shoulders, the same wide set walk so that they ambled rather than strode. Even though the older man was now thin-haired and grey, you could see the muscles that still burdened his frame.

    The younger man lowered his head and explained something to him quietly as they walked across the yard in the gathering dusk, becoming silent as they came within earshot. He came forward and walked to the gate, drawing back a long bolt so the gate could swing open wide enough to admit us.

    "You'd better come in." He was reluctant to admit us, but he did it anyway. We stepped through, wary of the iron on either side of us.

    "This is my dad, Ben Highsmith. I'm Jeff."

    "I am called Blackbird, and this is Rabbit." The animal names sounded strange in the context of an introduction, but the old man just nodded as if he expected something like that.

    They didn't offer to shake hands or make any other welcome, but led the way to the farmhouse. I followed after Blackbird until we reached the door of the kitchen. Blackbird halted at the door.

    "Come in. I'll put the kettle on and we can talk business." The old man's voice was like his son's but hoarser, lived in.

    "Sorry, would you mind?" She nodded towards the beam over the doorway.

    Hanging there was a huge iron horse shoe with its open end down, like a magnet. Even from behind Blackbird I could feel the waves coming off it. He picked it off the nail and took it inside. We followed to watch him carefully balance it on the beam over the door from the kitchen into the rest of the house.

    He turned to see us watching him. "No offence meant. "
    "None taken," Blackbird responded.

    He opened the door and yelled through the gap. "Meg, get James down here, will you?"

    "He's on PlayStation." The reply came from up the stairs beyond the door.
    "Tell him to come down."

    "He's on PlayStation." She repeated it as if that explained why he wasn't coming.

    "One minute," he remarked, and went through the door, closing it behind him.

    The kitchen was well fitted out with modern appliances and a big range cooker at one end, all lit by modern spotlights over the work surfaces. Jeff filled the kettle and set it on one of the rings to boil. He indicated the big kitchen table and we took a seat at one end. One of the dogs barked behind another door, presumably a utility room of some sort.

    There was something about the house that made me uncomfortable. The kitchen was modern and well equipped without being at odds with the age of the house. It all looked very cosy and tasteful, but I felt I couldn't rest there. There was something about it that jangled my nerves and set my teeth on edge. The door to the house re-opened and a sullen teenager in a black T-shirt illustrated with paintsplashed writing came through, followed by the old man.

    "This is my grandson, James. James, this is Blackbird and that's Rabbit."
    "Funny names," the boy remarked.

    "Mind your manners, especially with their kind."

    The lad muttered something under his breath and went to sit down at the other end of the table. "James here is a modern lad. He sees no use in spending time at the forge and learning how to make iron turn to his will. He likes computers, don't you, James?" This was clearly a long-standing dispute.

    "Dad, let the boy be," the father interrupted in a tired voice.

    "Show him." The old man's request was directed at Blackbird.

    "You want us to show him the knife?" Blackbird asked.

    "No. I want you to show him why the Highsmiths have been the High Smiths to the Seven Courts for nigh on a thousand years. Things have changed, I know, and the boy needs to go his own way." He nodded an acceptance to his own son. "But I want him to learn the ways of iron first and for him to know why he must learn them. I want him to have something to tell his grandchildren. Come to that…" He went back to the door. "Just wait a second, will you?"

    He opened the door and yelled through. "Meg? Lisa? Come into the kitchen. There's something you've got to see."

    "Dad, I don't want the girls involved," Jeff insisted. "Don't you? Lisa's spent more time in the forge with me than James ever did. You say I've got to let the boy have his way? Well that's fine, but someone's got to carry on the line."

    "The women have never been part of it, Dad. You know that."

    "Not true. They just haven't been part of it for a very long time, but you keep telling me times have changed and we have to adapt. Well, I'm adaptin'." He folded his arms across his broad chest.

    The woman from the yard appeared in the doorway. Behind her was a girl about the same age as my own daughter, with fair hair tinted honey-blonde in a way that made you think it was the outdoors that had bleached it, not chemicals. She had a rangy quality you see in long distance runners. Against her mother's plumpness she looked lean.