Page 27 of The Blacksmith’s Wish

At once the dog ceased his noise, though he remained watchful, tail twitching as if still undecided. Fergus gave him a fond tap on the head before turning back to Gowan with bright eyes full of welcome.

“Just in time, lad,” he boomed, striding forward. “I was thinking this very day that I’d soon need to make the journey to the village, and here ye are as if summoned by my own thoughts.” He threw his arms wide toward the cottage as though presenting a grand estate rather than a modest home in the woods. “Come, come. The mutt will nae bite while I’m standing here to protect ye.”

“I am glad ye have them,” Gowan said, glancing at the dogs as he untied the new dinner pot from Rook’s saddle. “There’s no one close by if ye should need help.”

Fergus’ expression softened as he looked toward the pair. “Aye, they’re good for barking at shadows and chasing foxes from the hens, but more than that, they keep an old man from talking only to himself.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice as if confiding a secret. “Though I do that as well, mind ye.”

A snort of laughter escaped Gowan before he could stop it, and Fergus’ grin broadened triumphantly, pleased with himself for having coaxed the sound from him.

The old man ushered him inside with the sort of eager insistence that made refusal impossible. The cottage, as always, was a haven of warmth and order. The stone floor had been swept clean, and every surface was neat without feeling bare. Bundles of drying herbs hung from the rafters, filling the air with the comforting scents of rosemary, thyme, and lavender. A small copper pot and a pair of cups hung from hooks near the hearth, and the table beneath the small front window had been scrubbed so well it shone pale gold in the slanting light. A kettle simmered over the fire, sending up the faint scent of mint, while a loaf of brown bread rested beneath a cloth on the counter. Everything in the cottage spoke of care; of a man who had lost much, perhaps, but still took pride in the quiet life he had built for himself.

“Sit,” Fergus ordered cheerfully, already reaching for a bottle and two cups. “I’ve whisky fit to make ye forget all yer troubles…or at least make them seem amusing.”

Gowan did as bid, more than willing to linger in the calm of the little cottage. Fergus poured generously, then settled opposite him and immediately began asking after the fête, the villagers, the stalls, and whether old Mrs. Fraser had once again argued over the price of a loaf as though bread should be given away out of Christian duty.

Before long Gowan found himself telling the old man more than he had intended, about the music drifting across the square, the crowds gathered around the food stalls, the ribbons fluttering in the breeze, and, to Fergus’ particular delight, the fact that he had danced.

“Ye?” the old man crowed, slapping the table so hard the cups rattled. “By all the saints, I would have paid good coin to witness that. Did the earth shake beneath yer feet? Did the lass survive?”

Gowan only grunted and took another swallow of whisky, but the old man laughed so hard tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.

Afterward, Fergus followed him outside while he saw to the mare, talking all the while as Gowan worked. He held tools when asked, offered unnecessary advice on horseshoes, and declared several times that if Gowan did not wish to return to blacksmithing, he could surely make a respectable living trimming horses’ hooves. By the time the mare was settled and the old pot replaced with the new one, the sun had begun to sink lower, gilding the clearing in honey-colored light.

They took their cups outside and settled in two weathered chairs near the doorway, the dogs stretched at their feet and the evening birds beginning their songs in the trees. It was peaceful there, the kind of peace Gowan rarely found anywhere else. No village noise, no curious stares, no expectations. Only the smell of grass and woodsmoke, the cluck of hens settling for the night, and Fergus humming tunelessly under his breath between sips of whisky.

It was perhaps the whisky, or perhaps the strange stillness of the woods around them, but at length Gowan found himself speaking of what had happened on the ride there.

“Something odd happened earlier,” he said, staring out toward the darkening tree line. “On the path.”

Fergus turned his head at once, all lazy good humor giving way to interest. “Aye? What sort of odd?”

Gowan hesitated, feeling foolish even as the memory sent another chill through him. “There was a wind. Bitter cold, though the day was warm. Then… I saw… a standing stone where there had been none before.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “It glowed, as if light were trapped inside it.”

Fergus went very still.

Gowan gave a short, uneasy laugh. “It was naught but a trick of tired eyes. I slept poorly and had too much on my mind.”

“Did ye now?” Fergus murmured, though his expression had brightened with unmistakable excitement. He turned fully in his chair and peered at Gowan as though seeing him anew. “Smitty, my lad… ye’ve been chosen.”

Gowan frowned. “Chosen? For what?”

The old man looked scandalized that he even had to ask. “For a wish, ye daft man. What ye saw…” he lowered his voice, though there was no one to overhear, “was the Miracle Stone.”

The words made Gowan’s stomach tighten. He took a long swallow of whisky, hoping to wash away the absurdity of the idea. “It was a vision, nothing more. A tired mind making ghosts of shadows.”

Fergus waved that aside. “Did ye make a wish?”

Gowan didn’t answer at once. Of course he knew the tales. Every child in Tokavaig had heard them whispered on moonless nights; that a standing stone appeared only to one chosen soul, and only once, offering a single wish if asked before dawn. It was the sort of story people clung to when they wished to believe the world still held mysteries kinder than grief.

“It vanished as quickly as it appeared,” he said at last, setting his cup down and rising to his feet. “And I’ve no wish to make of it. I should be getting back before I lose the light.”

Fergus’ face fell, though only for a moment. “Aye, aye, I suppose ye must.” Then, as though refusing to end on disappointment, he jabbed a finger toward him and declared, “But ye’ll come back in a sennight and tell me if it appears again. And I’ll have a fresh bottle waiting so ye may compare it to this one and admit mine is better.”

That earned the ghost of a smile from Gowan. “I’ll return,” he promised. “Though whether I praise yer whisky remains to be seen.”

Fergus cackled at that, waving him off with the pleased expression of a man who had already decided he’d won the argument.

“Very well then, young lad. Off with ye. But if a glowing stone asks what ye desire most, try not to stand there gawking like a fish out of water and miss yer chance.”