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The Journals of Raymond Brooks 39
me coarse, brown, and dirty. I smiled, ashamed of myself.
“Ingrid, this is my apprentice Adam, who seems to have gone

mute all of a sudden,” Ivar said, and my embarrassed smile
grew.
“It’s a p-pleasure to meet you, Mistress,” I said. She smiled
at my words in a way that revealed her open distaste of me.
“Adam, fill a couple of buckets at the well,” Ivar commanded.
I obediently complied with his order.
“A bit too raggedy to be a smith, don’t you think?” Ingrid told
Ivar, ignoring my presence as I walked away.
“Perhaps he is, but he does his work well,” Ivar said. As I

entered the smithy I paid heed to the first part of the sentence
describing me as being too scraggy. My fists clenched, and
my knuckles whitened as I walked to the table. In my mind I
had another enemy now, one that I could not pummel into
submission.
Losing my appetite, I tossed my meal aside. I picked up the
buckets and the yoke, and left the smithy, hearing their laughter

behind me. They were probably making fun of me, I thought.
I carried the buckets as if marching to war, trying to figure out
how I was going to tackle this new enemy. I barely registered
a lone figure — armored and covered in rags, studying me. I
figured he had the plague, or was disfigured somehow. My
mind drifted back to my own little world, unaware of the mortal
danger I faced.
Upon returning I heard them laughing still. I opened the door
and pretended the buckets were as light as air as I lifted them

again to enter the smithy. Unfortunately, I nearly dropped both
buckets and spilled the water. Ivar got up from his seat to help
me while Ingrid just laughed and gave me that expression again,
as if I were some sick puppy.