I had still, even in this dark time, some brief moments of pleasure, though one in particular came from the most improbable source. Improbable it was, as I shall soon explain, as it came both from under my very nose and from halfway around the world.
For all my self-loathing as coarse and common, I toiled to become strong and skillful in combat with some delirious impression that such should prove my salvation and win the favor of Estella. I did not know how I would achieve this feat, only that I must achieve it. Accordingly, I still sparred with Biddy, from time to time, as well as practiced alone in Joe’s forge.
Once I mastered the rudimentary mechanics of Stamwick’s Forms of Combat, Biddy suggested that I graduate to more advanced exercises, which involved the use of real weaponry. I had long neglected to take this step, as every time that I held a spike-sword by the hilt, I was reminded of the barbarism of the Brutal Hunters in marshes those years ago, not to mention the sad events of Joe’s tale. As painful as it was to forge such instruments, wielding one even in mock-combat seemed all the more reprehensible.
It was entirely by accident - a serendipitous one to be sure - that I came upon that improbable object which proved the turning point of my education. I was laboring in the forge with Joe, when a wayward candle saw fit to roll under the heavy metal press. As a lit candle presented an unacceptable danger if left to its own, someone needed to fetch the errant waxen cylinder. And, since I happened to be the only someone whose arms were thin enough to reach under the press, the task fell to me.
I prostrated myself upon the floor of the forge - had Estella somehow seen me at this moment, I should have died on the very spot – and peered underneath the press. I could just barely see the candle and the fading orange glow of the cooling wick. Seeing no danger to myself or my arm, I groped blindly for the candle, only to have my fingers catch upon an unexpected texture. It felt of leather, but there was something turgid within it. I produced the candle first, for Joe’s peace of mind, and then mysterious item, for my own.
After securing and re-igniting the candle, I carefully placed the leather package on a work-bench. I glanced over my shoulder to Joe for the gentle encouragement he usually gave when I embarked on a new project, but found him dumb-struck as by some bewitching force. I unraveled the leather sheet and found that my tongue had forgotten how to operate as well.
It was a sword, to be sure, but unlike any I had ever seen in Joe’s forge or elsewhere. It was close to a meter in length, including the hilt. The blade was housed inside a black lacquered scabbard, which was carved out of a sturdy wood I did not recognize. I gripped the firm, yet slightly padded hilt to find that it could accommodate both of my hands, and yet the sword, when lifted, was light enough to be wielded in one. As I curled the fingers of my left hand round the scabbard, I looked back again to Joe for any sign of encouragement or remonstration. Seeing none in either direction, I pulled the sword from its resting place with a great “shink” that rang through the entire forge.
We stood there, Joe and I, I know not for how long, gazing at the gently curved blade. The silence was broken, quite unexpectedly, by Joe, who uttered a word with which I was unfamiliar: “Cat-Anna.”
