The Forge Fire Went Out

Winter in Wushan Town always came swiftly and savagely. One day, a trace of green still lingered beneath the grass roots; the next, opening the door revealed a world buried in white snow, with cold winds that cut like knives and stung people's faces.

This winter was especially cold.

Loa was ten.

On his birthday, Old Jack cooked him a bowl of noodles with an egg nestled inside. The old man's own bowl had no egg, only noodles in thin, watery broth. When Loa tried to give him half the egg, the old man glared. "That's for the birthday boy! What are you sharing it for? Eat up and grow taller."

Linley was seven and a half now, shooting up so quickly that he nearly reached Loa's shoulder. He still came before dawn every day, and they trained together. Training in winter was harder: their hands and feet froze stiff, and once they warmed up, they were drenched in sweat. A gust of wind would chill them to the bone. But neither of them had stopped.

Old Jack's health had taken a marked turn for the worse after winter began.

His coughing grew more severe. Sometimes he coughed in the middle of the night, and listening made Loa's heart ache. During the day, he had to stop after a few swings of his hammer and spend a long time catching his breath, his forehead covered in clammy sweat. Loa told him to rest, but the old man refused, saying he couldn't abandon the craft that put food on the table. Yet Loa could see clearly how badly his hammer hand shook.

Strangely, though, over the past ten days or so, the old man had seemed more spirited.

He coughed less, a little color returned to his face, and he could even light the fire and cook for himself in the morning. One afternoon, he even took out the iron sword Loa had forged himself and spent a long time carefully sharpening it on the whetstone, polishing the blade until it gleamed in the forge light.

"A sword needs regular honing to keep its edge," the old man murmured, stroking the smooth blade as though speaking to himself. "People need honing too, to keep their hearts clear."

Loa had been busy quenching a farming tool and answered absently. Thinking back now, there had been something different in the old man's eyes then. They hadn't held their usual cloudiness, but a clarity so bright it seemed he could see right through a person.

That night, Old Jack went to bed early. Before turning in, he called Loa to his bedside.

The old man leaned against the head of the bed, covered by the old quilt that had been patched again and again. The oil lamp's dim yellow glow fell over his deeply lined face.

"There's a little wooden box beneath the cabinet." His voice was calm and slightly hoarse, but his words were clear. "There's a little something inside that I saved. Not much. For emergencies."

Loa nodded. "Grandpa Jack, why are you telling me this? Get some sleep."

The old man didn't answer. He simply looked at him for a long time. His gaze moved from Loa's forehead to his eyes, then to his shoulders and arms, before finally returning to his face. That gaze was deep, so very deep, as though he wanted to carve Loa's image into his heart.

"You've grown up," the old man suddenly said. The corners of his mouth tugged upward, as though he wanted to smile but couldn't quite manage it. "You really have. You can hunt, forge iron, and take care of yourself. Good. That's good."

He reached out with his hand, covered in calluses and burn scars, and gave the back of Loa's hand a trembling pat. His palm was very cold.

"Go to sleep." The old man withdrew his hand, lay down, and closed his eyes. "You'll need to get up early tomorrow."

Loa tucked the quilt around him, blew out the oil lamp, gently closed the door, and returned to his own little room. Lying in bed, he listened to the breathing next door gradually settle into an even rhythm, and an inexplicable unease stirred in his heart. There was no reason for it. It simply hung there, unable to settle.

Later, he fell asleep. He slept deeply, without a single dream.

The next morning, Loa woke on his own.

Dawn was only just breaking. The snow had stopped, leaving a deathly still expanse of white outside. He dressed as usual and opened his door, intending to stretch his limbs in the yard.

The yard was silent. The door to Old Jack's room was still closed.

Loa thought nothing of it. The old man was getting on in years, and it was normal for him to sleep longer in winter. Loa practiced basic sword forms in the yard, then went through a boxing routine, warming himself a little.

The sun rose, spilling golden-red light across the snow, dazzlingly bright. The kitchen remained cold and silent.

That unease rose in Loa's heart again. He went to Old Jack's door and tilted his head to listen. There wasn't a sound inside. The silence was frightening.

"Grandpa Jack?" he called softly.

There was no answer.

"Grandpa Jack, time to get up," he called again, a little louder.

Still nothing stirred.

Loa pressed his hand against the door. It hadn't been shut tight and opened with a push.

The room was dark, its window closed, with only a little light coming through the doorway. Old Jack lay beneath his quilt, looking as though he was still asleep.

"Grandpa Jack?" Loa went to the bedside and called again.

The old man didn't move.

Loa reached out and gently pushed his shoulder. It was icy to the touch, and stiff.

He froze, his hand suspended in the air.

Then, trembling, he held a finger beneath the old man's nose. There was no breath. He felt the old man's wrist. The skin was cold, and there was no pulse at all.

It was as though the world had suddenly fallen silent.

Loa stood motionless, his eyes fixed on the face on the bed, so familiar yet so strange. The old man's expression was peaceful, as though he were asleep. There was even the faintest curve of contentment at the corners of his mouth. But his face was ashen, without a trace of life.

A long time seemed to pass, or perhaps only an instant.

Slowly, very slowly, Loa bent down and pulled the quilt higher, covering the old man's cold shoulders. His movements were gentle, as though he feared waking him.

Then he straightened, left the room, and gently closed the door.

The sunlight in the yard was piercing. The white snow dazzled his eyes.

Loa stood in the middle of the yard for a while, then lifted his head to look at the deep blue sky. It was high and distant, without a single cloud. A few black birds flew past, cawing in harsh, grating voices.

He turned and went into the kitchen. He lit a fire and heated some water. Carrying the hot water in a wooden basin and taking a clean cloth, he returned to Old Jack's room.

The water was hot, sending up white steam. Loa wrung out the cloth and began wiping the old man's face, from his forehead to his cheeks and chin. He moved slowly and carefully, just as the old man had washed his face when he was little.

The old man's skin was loose, his wrinkles deep. Loa's fingers brushed those wrinkles, and he remembered how they gathered when the old man smiled, like the growth rings of an ancient tree.

After his face, he wiped his hands. The old man's hands were rough, with thick knuckles, heavy calluses covering his palms and the webs between his thumbs and forefingers, and old burn scars. These hands had swung a hammer for a lifetime and raised him.

Loa held that icy hand for a long time. Then he laid it down and covered it with the quilt.

He left the room, stood in the yard, and took a deep breath. Cold air flooded his lungs, stinging painfully.

It was time to tell the people who needed to know.

Old Jack had said while he was alive that he had no real relatives and few friends. If he passed away one day, Loa should tell Mund at the eastern end of town, Old Brown the cobbler at the southern end, and Grandpa Hiri. A simple burial would do. No fuss; it cost money.

Loa went to Mund's house first. The old hunter was sorting traps in his yard. Seeing Loa, he straightened. "Little Loa, you're early..."

Before he finished, he caught sight of Loa's face. The boy had little expression, but his eyes were red, his gaze vacant and unfocused.

The trap in Mund's hand clattered onto the snow.

"Jack...?"

Loa nodded, his voice dry. "I found him this morning. He passed in his sleep. It was peaceful."

Mund opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but in the end he only sighed heavily and gave Loa's shoulder a firm pat. "Child, you... ah. Wait here. I'll change and come over."

Grandpa Hiri's reaction was calmer. Sitting in his study, he listened to Loa and remained silent for a long time. The light from the window fell on his graying hair.

"Jack... he was a stubborn one too," Grandpa Hiri said slowly, his voice aged. "A lifetime of hardship, a lifetime of toil. Having you beside him at the end, he could leave in peace."

He rose, retrieved a small cloth pouch from beneath the bookshelf, and pressed it into Loa's hand. "Take it. Jack didn't like a fuss, but he should have the dignity he's due."

Loa gripped the pouch, feeling the hard edges of coins inside. He didn't refuse, only nodded.

Old Brown was bent over attaching a shoe sole. At the news, the awl in his hand nearly pierced his finger. He sat stunned for a while, wiped his eyes, and said quietly, "The fire in the smithy... now it's truly gone out."

The three helped Loa arrange the funeral. Mund found a sunny slope outside town, Old Brown ordered a coffin from the carpenter, and Grandpa Hiri handled the accounts and miscellaneous tasks. Loa barely spoke, simply following in silence and doing whatever he was asked.

The coffin was ordinary pine, but its boards were thick and its construction sturdy. Loa dressed Old Jack in his best clothes-which were actually half-worn, though washed clean and neatly patched. The old man lay in the coffin with a peaceful face, as though merely asleep.

On the day of the burial, the sky was overcast, but no snow fell. Besides Mund, Old Brown, and Grandpa Hiri, a few townspeople whom Old Jack had helped came as well. There weren't many people, and they were quiet.

Loa walked at the front, carrying Old Jack's memorial tablet. He had carved it himself from hardwood cut on the hill behind town. The lettering was crooked, but every stroke was deeply carved.

"Memorial tablet of my grandfather, Old Jack."

There was no surname. Old Jack had never said what his surname was, and Loa didn't know his own either. So be it. Grandfather and grandson-that was enough.

Mund and Loa had dug the grave together. The frozen earth was so hard that a swing of the pick left only a white mark. They took turns digging, raising blood blisters on their hands, neither saying a word.

The coffin was lowered into the grave, and yellow earth fell over it one shovelful at a time, gradually burying the dark brown wood. In the end, a small mound rose above it.

Grandpa Hiri said a few simple words, little more than wishing the departed peace. Then everyone stood in silence for a while before leaving one after another.

Before leaving, Mund patted Loa's shoulder again. "Child, from now on... if you're ever in trouble, come to me."

Loa nodded.

Everyone had gone. Only Loa remained before the grave, along with a newly erected rough wooden marker bearing the name he had carved.

He stood before the grave for a long time. Wind swept over the wilderness, lifting loose snow from the ground and flinging it against his face, sharp as needles. But he felt neither cold nor pain.

His heart was empty, like this winter wilderness, with nothing in it at all.

Only when darkness was approaching did he turn and head back. His steps were slow, each sinking into the snow.

He returned to the smithy and pushed open the yard gate.

The yard was empty. The forge was cold, the bellows lay still, and a thin layer of snow covered the anvil. At this hour, there should have been the clang of hammering iron, the red glow of the forge, and the old man's voice coughing as he called him to eat.

Now there was nothing.

Even the air inside the room seemed frozen, carrying a cold sense of utter extinction.

Loa went to the low stool where Old Jack had often sat and slowly sat down. The stool was cold.

He sat for a long time, until night had swallowed the window completely.

Then he rose and lit the oil lamp. Its dim yellow light barely illuminated the little room.

His gaze fell on the old cabinet in the corner. He remembered what the old man had said before his death.

He went over, crouched, and moved the cabinet aside with difficulty. Thick dust had collected beneath it. He reached in and felt around until his fingertips touched something hard.

It was a very small wooden box, without a lock, its surface worn smooth from handling. He opened it.

There wasn't much inside. A small roll of copper and silver coins tied with hemp cord-when he counted them, there was roughly enough for several months' food. A very old but well-maintained little carving knife, its blade still sharp. And a coarse handkerchief, washed pale and folded into a neat square.

Loa picked up the roll of money, then put it down. He picked up the carving knife and tested its edge with a fingertip. Finally, he picked up the handkerchief.

It was very old, its worn corners fraying, but clean, with a faint scent of soap pods. He unfolded it. Something was wrapped inside.

It was a small piece of charcoal. Drawing charcoal, worn down to a short stub.

Looking at that stub, Loa suddenly remembered something from long ago. He had still been little then, perhaps six or seven. Once, he had seen a painting of wooded mountains in Grandpa Hiri's study and liked it very much. When he came home, he took charcoal from the fire and scribbled on the wall. Old Jack saw him but didn't scold him. Instead, he found a few evenly shaped pieces of charcoal and sharpened them for him.

"If you like drawing, draw," the old man had said. "Draw it in your heart, and your hand will follow."

Later, those pieces of charcoal ran out, and he drew less, spending more of his time training. He hadn't imagined the old man had kept this little stub.

Loa clasped the tiny piece of charcoal, tightening his fingers. It pressed into his palm, hurting a little.

He turned and searched the room for paper. There was no decent paper. In the end, he found only a few leftover scraps of roughly tanned leather in Old Jack's box of odds and ends. They were still fairly tough, and their backs were reasonably smooth.

He spread the leather on the table and pressed it flat, then moved the oil lamp closer.

Then he picked up the charcoal stub.

As its tip touched the leather, his hand trembled a little. He steadied himself and closed his eyes.

Old Jack's image emerged in his mind. Not the cold figure lying on the bed at the end, but earlier, more vivid images: crouching before the forge to add coal, firelight reddening his sweat-streaked face; sitting in the doorway smoking his pipe, eyes narrowed at the sunset; deliberately pushing over the bowl with more meat when serving him food; and that time he brought back the Rockskin Boar, when the old man stroked its hide with a complicated look of worry, pride, and relief...

Those scenes were all utterly clear, one after another.

Loa opened his eyes, and the charcoal in his hand moved.

He began with the eyes. When the old man smiled, deep crow's-feet gathered at their corners, but his gaze was always warm, like a winter fire. The charcoal shaded lightly, outlining those slightly curved eye corners and the fine lines beneath his eyes.

Then came the nose, a little flat, with marks from years of smoke and fire on either side of its wings. The mouth, its lips not thick, its corners habitually pressed slightly downward, giving him a stern look. But Loa knew that when those corners lifted, no one looked gentler.

The outline of his face, the somewhat high cheekbones, cheeks gaunt from years of toil, rough skin covered with spots and tiny scars left by the sun and flying sparks.

The charcoal traveled over the leather with a soft scratching sound. Loa was wholly absorbed, as though the entire world held only the charcoal in his hand, the leather before him, and the living image in his heart. He drew slowly, each stroke seemingly gathered with care from the depths of memory, then solemnly set in place.

He drew the old man's slightly stooped back, the shoulders and arms made especially broad and solid by years of forging, and his thick-knuckled hands covered in calluses and scars-those hands that had swung a hammer so powerfully and tucked his quilt around him so gently.

Finally, beside the old man, he outlined a small, indistinct figure. It was himself as a child, looking up at his grandfather.

The drawing was finished.

Loa set down the charcoal, his fingers black with dust. He stepped back and looked at the portrait on the leather.

Rough leather, rough charcoal, and a portrait with a rugged truthfulness of its own. It wasn't perfect; in places, the proportions weren't even quite accurate. But those eyes, that expression, that gentleness and resilience steeped in wrinkles and toil came vividly alive on the "page."

Looking at the drawing, Loa felt as though he could see the old man sitting across from him again, smiling faintly at him.

Without warning, tears welled up and blurred his sight. He made no sound, but his shoulders began to tremble uncontrollably. Scalding liquid slid down his cheeks and dripped onto the black charcoal lines, spreading into a small dark patch.

He stayed that way and cried for a long time. Not loud wailing, but stifled sobs and shudders squeezed from deep within his chest. All his bewilderment, emptiness, cold, and bone-deep loneliness seemed to find an outlet in those tears.

When his tears ran dry, some of the sharp pain in his heart seemed to have flowed away with them, leaving a heavy, dull grief that no longer felt quite so suffocating.

He felt utterly exhausted, not bodily tired but drained in spirit. Yet deep within that exhaustion, something seemed different.

His mind was unusually clear, with a cold, penetrating clarity. That complete absorption while drawing, that state in which his mind and memories had blended entirely, seemed to have carried his spirit through an arduous journey and drawn it together. He could feel that his perception seemed a little sharper, and his control over his own emotions and body seemed a little clearer too.

He wiped away his tears and looked at the drawing again. The old man in it seemed to be saying something without a sound.

Life was so fragile. One winter, one bout of illness brought on by the cold, ailments accumulated over decades of toil-these could take away a living person. Even though he had been so strong, had tried so hard to keep living, to watch him grow up.

This world had wondrous battle-qi, powerful magic, Saint experts capable of moving mountains and overturning seas, and the immortal gods of legend. Yet Old Jack, a kind, hardworking, ordinary old man, had ultimately been unable to withstand the wear of time and the limits of flesh, becoming a handful of yellow earth.

"It wasn't easy getting to this world..." Loa murmured. His voice sounded especially clear in the empty room, and especially cold. "I won't let it be like this again."

He didn't want to be like Old Jack, toiling all his life only to fall silently on a cold bed in the end. He didn't want his fate to be so easily snatched away by an illness, an accident, or merely merciless time.

He wanted to grow stronger. Strong enough to withstand heat and cold, strong enough to be free of every illness, strong enough to resist the passage of time, strong enough... to control his own life and death.

An ambition for immortality quietly kindled like a cold spark in his empty, chilled heart, so recently touched by death's parting. Not for power, not for glory, but only for the most primal, most fundamental desire-to live, to live long and freely, to see the sights from greater heights, to experience longer ages, and to escape the despairing end destined for mortals.

He carefully rolled up the charcoal drawing, wrapped it in the coarse handkerchief, and tucked it inside his clothes, against his heart.

Then he blew out the oil lamp.

The room sank into darkness. Only the faint light reflected from the snow outside traced the blurred outlines of the furniture.

The fire in the smithy had gone out.

But another fire began to burn in the cold, resolute heart of a ten-year-old boy.