“That’s fine,” Borad replied. “Come inside. I'll show you the forge, although as I recall, I think you've seen it before, Ing. I know Selenia has.”
As they walked into the house, Ing whispered into Shamil’s ear, “I thought we were going to be standing outside your house until the Sun started setting.”
Shamil didn’t respond, but judging by his expression the feeling was mutual.
Borad led his son and Ing through the home and to the area where he did his forging. Shamil’s mother Scarlet was probably somewhere else like in the kitchen preparing food. The forging area was a relatively small room, with not much space to move about. A stifling sensation overcame Ing, causing a certain strain to his breathing.
I wonder if it’s because of the dust that’s in the room, thought Ing. Or if it has something to do with the process of so many things being forged. Either way it doesn’t really matter. I could ask, but I don’t want to sound silly.
“Forging a weapon is a rather delicate process,” the blacksmith said. “It requires work, time, and dedication. But that doesn’t mean that you can’t learn tricks to make it easier. Just watch me closely and follow my lead.”
“Will do,” said Shamil.
“Let’s get to work. Your mother will have dinner ready for us by the time we’re done.”
The two boys worked laboriously as the Sun started to set in the sky above. Shamil was successful at the craft for Borad had taught him in the ways before, but Ing didn’t get the hang of it until the end. He ended up making a small metal cup which he kept as a gift for his hard work.
“How do you do this so well?” asked Ing.
“It’s easy,” responded Shamil, which frustrated Ing. He says that about everything. He looked at the metal cup and started feeling like all the work he had done wasn’t worth the result. Regardless, it was kind of rewarding to have something that he built himself.
When the work in the forge was done, Ing set the metal cup aside and joined Shamil in the kitchen where Scarlet Tabberly had just finished making dinner for the two of them. She wasn't as slender as Selenia, but she wasn't as big as her husband either; Ing knew from pictures and what Shamil had told him that his mother used to be smaller in her day.
Scarlet had bright red, curly hair and freckles to match that covered most of her body. She was a comely woman in her own way, although Ing wouldn't quite think of her as such since she was over twice the boy's age. The thing Ing had always found amusing about the relationship between her and her son was that he almost felt like they were more like brother and sister than mother and son. There was a certain way that he would joke around with his mother and pull tricks on her when she was none the wiser.
“I hope you're hungry, Ing,” Scarlet said to him with a smile as they sat down at the table and she prepared to deal out the food to the two boys. “I know your mother says you eat like a bird.”
Why do they always say that of me? I eat plenty. Just because I'm a little smaller than Shamil doesn't mean anything, we weigh similarly enough. It's not my fault I'm skinnier than most boys of my age. Or maybe most boys, period. Shamil has always been the stronger one of the two of us, but that doesn't mean anything. Maybe I have more wits about me?
Ing laughed. “No, don't worry, I'm plenty hungry. I will gladly eat what you have to serve. But I'm not sure about tiny over here,” he said jokingly, patting his friend on the back.
The next day, Ing and Shamil visited Arlene’s pony again.
“She looks thirsty,” Ing observed.
“We should get some milk for her at Helga’s shop,” said Shamil.
“And what would we pay her with?” asked Ing.
“We’ll figure out when we get there.”
“If you say so…”
Helga Grint was a cheery old woman who owned a little shop in one of the corners of Ganwin. She sold various wares there, from milk, to fishing rods, to bows and arrows. She was always happy to see Ing and his friends stop by. The woman was a portly lady with a plump belly and hair that was beginning to show white where once it was blonde. Helga had a kind smile that Ing liked and dark grey eyes sat beneath her brow. Her skin was light, but darker than the milk she supplied in her shop, to be sure.
“Hello boys,” she said with a smile on her face. “What brings you here today?”
“We’ve come to buy some milk,” Shamil reported.
“I’ll tell you what. You bring me some honey, and I’ll gladly give you some milk. How does that sound?”
“Alright, Helga we’ll be back.”
“Let’s look around town for a beehive,” said Shamil.
“I think I saw one the other day over by the fountain.”
They traversed the streets with determination as they made their way towards the fountain and sure enough the beehive was there. There was but one problem.
“How are we going to get it out?” asked Ing.
“You’ll have to reach in there and get it.”
Against his better judgment, Ing reached inside and scooped some honey into a jar. Luckily for him, there was only one bee inside. It left him with a nasty sting though.
Back at the shop, Helga said, “So I see you’ve brought me the honey. That’s great. Here’s the milk that I promised you.”
They thanked her and headed back to see the pony.
“I still can’t think of a name for her,” said Arlene upon their
