ForgeFyre

[Jubal]

The world as the child sees it is different. She sees clearly. Her eyes are young and crisp and see... everything.

How is a birch different from an oak? From a pine? She looks, she feels the bark, sniffs the resin. She counts the twigs on the branches, and remembers. When she goes into the village or wanders around the house it is always the same, always remembering, always looking.

She knows the difference between hands that have worked with a plough and with a needle and with a pen; she can tell from feel what brass and bronze and steel are, the difference of their colour. She knows from memory the inscriptions on every column in the temple, and can draw any of the villagers' faces near-perfectly, as she saw them yesterday, as she saw them last week, as she saw them when she was a year younger and even wider of eye and fresher of face.

Occasionally she is surprised to find that not everyone can do this.

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[Jubal]

She sits back and remembers a surprise.


It had been the spring before, and she'd clambered over a tree and wandered into the village. A travelling salesman, beady-eyed and wearing clothes more than smart enough to show his own success, was buying valuables from the villagers.

"Ah yes, a cup. Hmm, let me see, metal, yes..."

"It's been in the family a while. But it's been a hard winter." The old lady who had just handed the cup over smiled grimly. "And we need the food."
"Hm, yes. Pewter, of course, so not much value in it, but I suppose I can give you a little for it."

"Excuse me." (The old squire had always taught politeness in conversation, and this, at least, had rubbed off)

"Ex- oh, it's you, little ma'am." The old lady moved aside and the little girl pushed in to stare at the cup more closely.

"Excuse me, but that cup's not pewter. It's silver; pewter doesn't tarnish. You can see it if you look at the silver cup in the temple and the pewter spoons we have at the house."

She had, of course, no idea that the tradesman may have known well the difference between the two. He paused, as if mentally assessing the options available, and gritted his teeth a little. He made a move as if to shoo her away, then noticed the finer cut of her clothing and paused momentarily.

"Who is this girl?"

The old lady looked up at him. "She's the little ma'am from the big house on the hill."

The trader closed his eyes. The last thing he needed was trouble with some local seignior or his squire at this moment in time.

"Ah... of course. My mistake, my eyes must be going. It is indeed silver! I'm sure I shall have to pay you a pretty penny for this one..."


She did not see him scowling at her as she walked away.

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[Jubal]

She runs down the hill and back to the house, pulling her boots off.

Searching, searching – and then she finds a scrap of paper, finds pens, and begins to draw out a map. What is like what? Where are the patterns?

Her mind flickers, synapses flicking on and off, switches and pathways humming as she works. Soon she reaches the extent of her scrap of paper, frowns, and scribbles out her work. The bewildered squire (and when is he not bewildered by the little girl he is supposed to be looking after?) is quickly relieved of yet more paper as she draws out thoughts, spiralling onwards.

Trees - trees are a group. But what do they split into? What the wood is used for? Their types of leaves? Their heights?

She ponders for a moment, then rolls up the paper, sits down and laughs at a small songbird frantically trying to peck away at the snow. She is still a child for now, after all.

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