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1.
The northern forest strides to the edge of the sea-cliff. At dusk birds tell the story in darkening boughs: The fortunate son has ridden for days to find the rock where his father left a sword. It flashes in sunset--the boy knows in his veins and sinews the hilt will fit perfectly his hands. Red waves recall the blaze of that great forge where old gods are smelted down and new ones raised. The boy steps to the edge of the cliff and easily draws the blade.
2.
A father can pass the sword willingly to his son, bless the sunset waters with the glow of his leaving. Or he can wield the sword until the end, slash the sky in fury, scorch in afternoon, rage his family to a desert. My father did neither. I became an ordinary criminal and stole the sword. In my new life as a thief, I rode the first horse I could find--a crippled one--to encounter a dragon who told me how, for money, he had killed his brother.
© 1997 by Thomas R. Smith
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