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frogs_of_warI thought I'd do A History of a Story again after I wrote three versions of a story within a story that comes five or six days into the 1001 Nights type tale.
This is a story told to a group: the teller's crush, that man's small children (6, 4, & 2) and late wife's teenage siblings. The names in the first part were made up by the kids. Both men appeared in previous stories. I'm not sure if any of the little ones are awake for this part.
—
Iron looked up from his forge. Sword stood in the doorway, covered in dirt and blood. Iron dropped the horseshoe he's been working on into the water bucket. It hadn't turned out to be much of a horseshoe with how distracted he was.
Sword had gone off to fight alone.
But he was back.
Iron picked up the bucket. "It smells like rust, but at least it's warm."
"I'd bathe in the river if it would get the smell off. I don't want to go home like this. To the boy"
Wind was too young to understand blood and death, but Iron gestured Sword inside without a word.
Sword slid the door closed behind him and peeled off his clothes, dropping them in the hay. His body was very strong.
Most of the blood wasn't his, but he opened a wound while taking off his shirt. He used the shirt as a cloth to scrub his body. Iron couldn't take his eyes away. He'd felt like this on occasion. Almost always in Sword's presence.
Sword dumped his shirt in the straw. "Anything to eat?"
Iron gestured him upstairs. "There's stew on the fire."
Sword's backside was distracting. Iron managed to pull his attention away and clean up the mess. The smell of blood would bother the horses.
When he was done, Sword still hadn't come down. Iron went up.
Sword sat on Iron's bed, his legs spread wide and an empty bowl on his knee. He stood. "The stew is good."
He refilled the bowl and handed it to Iron. How was he supposed to eat with a naked man on his bed.
"You live alone?"
Of course he lived alone. Sword must know that.
"Have you considered sharing your home?"
The valley women thought he should be married and paraded women in front of him, but he could find none he was willing to live with.
"Because I'm looking for a home. One to share." Sword took the bowl from Iron and set it on the little table. He pulled Iron to the bed.
"But what of the boy's mother."
"We are friends raising an orphan."
That was very commendable. "Wind?"
"We will need a little bed for him for when he stays with us."
"Us?"
Sword pulled Iron to the bed and that night Sword slept with his head on Iron's shoulder. They've slept that way ever since.
#
I had some problems. First the story was too visual. A reader could tell who was talking, but could a listener? Also, if blood bugged the horses, Sword was showing disrespect for Iron's profession by washing up inside. And it just wasn't fairytale like enough.
—
Once there was a Blacksmith. He made plows and knives and mostly horseshoes. Occasionally he sharpened a sword.
One day a man new to the valley came to him with a sword wrapped with care in oilcloth. "Sharpen this to make sure I return."
An army was massing to th east. They would crush the tender crops as they'd done so many times before.
The Blacksmith agreed and set to work. The man watched him. When he was done, the man swung the blade and tested it's edge and declared it good. "If I return, oh Blacksmith, you must grant me a boon."
What could he give the man that another could not? "If it is within my power."
The man grinned and the Blacksmith realized his mistake. He'd just agreed to anything within his power. The boon was given.
And he couldn't bring himself to hope the man failed.
He spent the afternoon beating ore into iron. He didn't have the wits for anything that needed skill.
The sun set. He still banged away. Neighbors brought over food. He stopped making noise. Someone should be allowed to sleep.
He cleaned out his stalls and sorted iron, refilled the charcoal bin, and when he could no longer keep his eyes open, he went up to bed.
He woke to the sounds of late morning.
He ate the last of dinner and went down to start his day.
The man hadn't returned.
Over the next few days, the Blacksmith got even less sleep. He tried to appear normal, but the valley people frowned his way.
On the third day, just after noon, the town fell silent. The Blacksmith looked out his door.
A dirty figure limped into town.
The man had returned.
The man, warrior, was covered in mud, grass, and blood, but he would have never made if all the way back to town of all of it was his.
The trudged straight to the Blacksmith's forge. "I need a bath."
The town's people brought water to fill the tub the Blacksmith set out in the grass behind the forge. He added hot iron to warm the water. The warrior stripped and got in.
Most of the villagers went back to their work, but the Blacksmith couldn't take his eyes off the man. He was handsome even covered with filth.
A goodwife pressed a rag into the blacksmith's hand. "We will leave you to him."
The blacksmith was allowed to touch him? Expected to?
He walked up slowly and presented the rag. The warrior turned. "Scrub me."
So the Blacksmith did. Gently and carefully, but thoroughly. Some of these places he barely touched on himself.
The bath was completed all too soon. The warrior wrapped himself in a large towel and sat on a stool as a neighbor and her husband administered to his cuts and bruises. When she pronounced him fit as he could be until he had a proper meal and a good rest, the warrior stood up. "The Blacksmith will care for the rest of my needs."
Then he walked into the forge and upstairs to the Blacksmith's home as if he had every right.
Perhaps he did. The blacksmith had promised everything in his power.
Neighbors brought over enough food for seven normal people. The Blacksmith carried it upstairs. The warrior was sitting on his bed with the towel across his lap.
The Blacksmith set the food on the table. "What boon would you have of me?"
"First, eat with me."
Between the two they ate over half.
"Now, lay beside me."
"What of the woman and child you arrived with?"
"The child's father is dead. And the woman will never be more than a friend. Surely you have heard the rumors that we share neither bed nor room. I will live with you."
The blacksmith slept all afternoon for the first time in his life, the warrior's head on his shoulder.
But that wasn't the last time.
#
Still too visual. And distancing. "The Blacksmith" feels more intimate than "the man". And too long.
And finally, because this is a story within a story, this narrator, whose story the storytelling is relating, is in his late teens and trying to prove the point that same-sex relationships are normal and the city-boy he’s with can start touching him any time he wants. The Blacksmith can’t be scared of what would happen upstairs.
—
Far, far away in a gentle fertile valley lived a Blacksmith. He was a good man, strong and sturdy, a pillar in his community. He was also a man who loved men and that he realized the day a family arrived.
They were less a family than a man and woman with an infant, they still they were together, so the Blacksmith built an iron fence around his heart and locked the gate.
Only the gate refused to stay locked. The man seemed to have the key. And when the woman and baby moved to the house of widows, the gate began to open.
Spring came. Then summer and the good weather brought with it an army. Their people would die and their crops torn up again.
The man came to town, dressed for traveling. He unwrapped a beautiful sword that gleamed in the sunlight. "I will stop the army," he said. "If I return, I claim a boon."
"Yes, yes, anything," said the mayor.
"I will move in with the Blacksmith and there will be no more talk of wives for either of us."
The villagers agreed then turned to the Blacksmith.
"If you return," the Blacksmith agreed.
The Warrior grinned, gathered his supplies, and walked out of town.
That night the Blacksmith hardly ate or slept.
The next day the Warrior's belongings were delivered to the forge. How was one man, even a warrior, expected to win against fifty? The warrior might die out there.
That night followed like the last.
The following morning, the woman arrived with the baby. She handed him over and said, "You are now his second father. You should get to know him."
The baby was happy and curious and he kept the Blacksmith busy, but once he went home, the Blacksmith realized that by declaring for him, the Warrior had given his son a new father in case he died.
He better not die. The Blacksmith would lose too much.
The next day, just after midday, shouts rose. The Warrior had returned.
The village celebrated. The Warrior was washed and brushed and mended with plenty of honey soaked cloth and gauze.
Then he was presented to the Blacksmith with enough food to last three days, like any married couple.
They went upstairs and the Warrior introduced the Blacksmith to a world he hadn't known existed.
And they never slept apart again.
—
Much better. Although when I was putting this in place (surrounded by summaries), I realized I had this story told on the same story-day that the storyteller tells of the baby in the story growing up, so this is all mentioned in passing. Lots of work still to go.
This is a story told to a group: the teller's crush, that man's small children (6, 4, & 2) and late wife's teenage siblings. The names in the first part were made up by the kids. Both men appeared in previous stories. I'm not sure if any of the little ones are awake for this part.
—
Iron looked up from his forge. Sword stood in the doorway, covered in dirt and blood. Iron dropped the horseshoe he's been working on into the water bucket. It hadn't turned out to be much of a horseshoe with how distracted he was.
Sword had gone off to fight alone.
But he was back.
Iron picked up the bucket. "It smells like rust, but at least it's warm."
"I'd bathe in the river if it would get the smell off. I don't want to go home like this. To the boy"
Wind was too young to understand blood and death, but Iron gestured Sword inside without a word.
Sword slid the door closed behind him and peeled off his clothes, dropping them in the hay. His body was very strong.
Most of the blood wasn't his, but he opened a wound while taking off his shirt. He used the shirt as a cloth to scrub his body. Iron couldn't take his eyes away. He'd felt like this on occasion. Almost always in Sword's presence.
Sword dumped his shirt in the straw. "Anything to eat?"
Iron gestured him upstairs. "There's stew on the fire."
Sword's backside was distracting. Iron managed to pull his attention away and clean up the mess. The smell of blood would bother the horses.
When he was done, Sword still hadn't come down. Iron went up.
Sword sat on Iron's bed, his legs spread wide and an empty bowl on his knee. He stood. "The stew is good."
He refilled the bowl and handed it to Iron. How was he supposed to eat with a naked man on his bed.
"You live alone?"
Of course he lived alone. Sword must know that.
"Have you considered sharing your home?"
The valley women thought he should be married and paraded women in front of him, but he could find none he was willing to live with.
"Because I'm looking for a home. One to share." Sword took the bowl from Iron and set it on the little table. He pulled Iron to the bed.
"But what of the boy's mother."
"We are friends raising an orphan."
That was very commendable. "Wind?"
"We will need a little bed for him for when he stays with us."
"Us?"
Sword pulled Iron to the bed and that night Sword slept with his head on Iron's shoulder. They've slept that way ever since.
#
I had some problems. First the story was too visual. A reader could tell who was talking, but could a listener? Also, if blood bugged the horses, Sword was showing disrespect for Iron's profession by washing up inside. And it just wasn't fairytale like enough.
—
Once there was a Blacksmith. He made plows and knives and mostly horseshoes. Occasionally he sharpened a sword.
One day a man new to the valley came to him with a sword wrapped with care in oilcloth. "Sharpen this to make sure I return."
An army was massing to th east. They would crush the tender crops as they'd done so many times before.
The Blacksmith agreed and set to work. The man watched him. When he was done, the man swung the blade and tested it's edge and declared it good. "If I return, oh Blacksmith, you must grant me a boon."
What could he give the man that another could not? "If it is within my power."
The man grinned and the Blacksmith realized his mistake. He'd just agreed to anything within his power. The boon was given.
And he couldn't bring himself to hope the man failed.
He spent the afternoon beating ore into iron. He didn't have the wits for anything that needed skill.
The sun set. He still banged away. Neighbors brought over food. He stopped making noise. Someone should be allowed to sleep.
He cleaned out his stalls and sorted iron, refilled the charcoal bin, and when he could no longer keep his eyes open, he went up to bed.
He woke to the sounds of late morning.
He ate the last of dinner and went down to start his day.
The man hadn't returned.
Over the next few days, the Blacksmith got even less sleep. He tried to appear normal, but the valley people frowned his way.
On the third day, just after noon, the town fell silent. The Blacksmith looked out his door.
A dirty figure limped into town.
The man had returned.
The man, warrior, was covered in mud, grass, and blood, but he would have never made if all the way back to town of all of it was his.
The trudged straight to the Blacksmith's forge. "I need a bath."
The town's people brought water to fill the tub the Blacksmith set out in the grass behind the forge. He added hot iron to warm the water. The warrior stripped and got in.
Most of the villagers went back to their work, but the Blacksmith couldn't take his eyes off the man. He was handsome even covered with filth.
A goodwife pressed a rag into the blacksmith's hand. "We will leave you to him."
The blacksmith was allowed to touch him? Expected to?
He walked up slowly and presented the rag. The warrior turned. "Scrub me."
So the Blacksmith did. Gently and carefully, but thoroughly. Some of these places he barely touched on himself.
The bath was completed all too soon. The warrior wrapped himself in a large towel and sat on a stool as a neighbor and her husband administered to his cuts and bruises. When she pronounced him fit as he could be until he had a proper meal and a good rest, the warrior stood up. "The Blacksmith will care for the rest of my needs."
Then he walked into the forge and upstairs to the Blacksmith's home as if he had every right.
Perhaps he did. The blacksmith had promised everything in his power.
Neighbors brought over enough food for seven normal people. The Blacksmith carried it upstairs. The warrior was sitting on his bed with the towel across his lap.
The Blacksmith set the food on the table. "What boon would you have of me?"
"First, eat with me."
Between the two they ate over half.
"Now, lay beside me."
"What of the woman and child you arrived with?"
"The child's father is dead. And the woman will never be more than a friend. Surely you have heard the rumors that we share neither bed nor room. I will live with you."
The blacksmith slept all afternoon for the first time in his life, the warrior's head on his shoulder.
But that wasn't the last time.
#
Still too visual. And distancing. "The Blacksmith" feels more intimate than "the man". And too long.
And finally, because this is a story within a story, this narrator, whose story the storytelling is relating, is in his late teens and trying to prove the point that same-sex relationships are normal and the city-boy he’s with can start touching him any time he wants. The Blacksmith can’t be scared of what would happen upstairs.
—
Far, far away in a gentle fertile valley lived a Blacksmith. He was a good man, strong and sturdy, a pillar in his community. He was also a man who loved men and that he realized the day a family arrived.
They were less a family than a man and woman with an infant, they still they were together, so the Blacksmith built an iron fence around his heart and locked the gate.
Only the gate refused to stay locked. The man seemed to have the key. And when the woman and baby moved to the house of widows, the gate began to open.
Spring came. Then summer and the good weather brought with it an army. Their people would die and their crops torn up again.
The man came to town, dressed for traveling. He unwrapped a beautiful sword that gleamed in the sunlight. "I will stop the army," he said. "If I return, I claim a boon."
"Yes, yes, anything," said the mayor.
"I will move in with the Blacksmith and there will be no more talk of wives for either of us."
The villagers agreed then turned to the Blacksmith.
"If you return," the Blacksmith agreed.
The Warrior grinned, gathered his supplies, and walked out of town.
That night the Blacksmith hardly ate or slept.
The next day the Warrior's belongings were delivered to the forge. How was one man, even a warrior, expected to win against fifty? The warrior might die out there.
That night followed like the last.
The following morning, the woman arrived with the baby. She handed him over and said, "You are now his second father. You should get to know him."
The baby was happy and curious and he kept the Blacksmith busy, but once he went home, the Blacksmith realized that by declaring for him, the Warrior had given his son a new father in case he died.
He better not die. The Blacksmith would lose too much.
The next day, just after midday, shouts rose. The Warrior had returned.
The village celebrated. The Warrior was washed and brushed and mended with plenty of honey soaked cloth and gauze.
Then he was presented to the Blacksmith with enough food to last three days, like any married couple.
They went upstairs and the Warrior introduced the Blacksmith to a world he hadn't known existed.
And they never slept apart again.
—
Much better. Although when I was putting this in place (surrounded by summaries), I realized I had this story told on the same story-day that the storyteller tells of the baby in the story growing up, so this is all mentioned in passing. Lots of work still to go.
