25.5.2009


ACT 3






ACT 3

http://www.netsaga.is/media/files/InnerChild.mp3

    When John returned from the United States, he had a refreshing air about him. He was positive, progressive, and was especially good at finding the right word. Neither did it hurt any that John came from a family respected in the city's business community. His grandfather, Thorsteinn Steinsson, had returned to Iceland from Denmark where he had learned blacksmithing. Shortly after arriving home, he set up a blacksmith shop on the west side of town. It was a direct copy of the blacksmith shops that were operated in Copenhagen and all over Europe in the 19th Century. These were sunken blacksmith shops where wheels of all sizes and shapes, connected by belts vertically, horizontally and diagonally, turned above men's heads and emitted a typical works-whine, and hammers and sledgehammers boomed in smoke and fire-glow from morning till night.

    Shortly after the start of World War II, John's father, Stein, took over the operation of the shop, which by then had become the largest blacksmith shop in the country and had the dignified name of the Reykjavik Iron Smithy.

    As was to be expected, Stein, the Director, generously supported his son when he opened his engineering firm in the middle of Reykjavik. The father and son were close, and John was a frequent guest at the Smithy, following developments there.

    The Smithy had undergone a great transformation. The type of projects had changed, and technology and speed increasingly put their mark on operations. The forge where horseshoes, cycle blades, door hinges and hand tools had been made, was no longer the fairy tale world that men had known from olden times. It was now a computer-controlled machine shop from which smoke and fire had nearly disappeared. Although not entirely. Director Stein was actually a reliquary enthusiast and had established a museum for tools that were used earlier in the century. Behind the Iron Smithy's main building, a small forge was still operated in the old way.

    It was there around the old forge where John had spent hours playing as a child and as a youth. As an adult he still had a weak spot for some magical power that he sought in this ancient work shop. Some old guys were still there. One of them was Jailer Matt. He made horseshoes and other small things. You did not notice this man much. He seldom spoke and never addressed anyone first. But when John came to the shop, the old guy came alive, and his face glowed with goodness and inner joy. While Jailer Matt held the iron in the coals, whisked it onto the anvil and wielded his hammer, he talked to John like a son. Then he shoved the glowing iron into a pot of water, lifted it up to his face with the tongs and regarded the work with contentment. This was his call in life.

    Another old fellow was there, too. That was Bjössi-the-nail, as he was always called.

    When John was seven or eight, an incident occurred in the shop. As so often before, he had come for a visit. He had brought his cousin from the country with him, wanting to show him the shop's magic. Bjössi-the-nail, was working at the forge and had put some half-finished horseshoes down on the concrete floor while he was shaping some others. The boys stood for a long time, examining the horseshoes. When the guest, who was about the same age as John, mentioned how beautiful the horseshoes on the floor were, Bjössi-the-nail, looked up at the boy and said: "Don't you want to get a really good look at them?" He was a short man, actually hunched over, with a dark face and eyes set deep. He chuckled to himself and slid his eyes toward the lad when he bent down to pick up a burning-hot shoe.

    Then, Jailer Matt got into it. He had been working nearby, but was too late to prevent this unusual incident. When the boy ran crying to the door, Jailer Matt suddenly appeared, grabbed a glowing poker out of the slag and pressed it into Bjössi-the-nail's, cheek. There were certainly repercussions, but Bjössi-the-nail, kept his job. On the other hand, from then on he had an ugly scar on his right cheek that always reminded John of the incident. Otherwise, it was buried and forgotten.