The Hammer and His Wife

The hammer and the anvil lived together in a little forge. The blacksmith relied on the hammer’s power and respected the anvil for her unwavering attitude.

The hammer and the anvil had a good life. They made nails and buckets, shovels and saws, ploughs and sickles and pitchforks, and a handle for a well pump.

Often the hammer would speak with the anvil. He would wonder what the tools were being used for. The anvil, ever practical, would answer. They were making farm tools, so clearly, they were helping farmers.

The blacksmith too would speak with the hammer and the anvil. He would encourage the hammer when he couldn’t get the iron to cooperate and pat the anvil when she shaped a new curve into a rod.

The hammer and his wife, along with their blacksmith, were very happy. The things they made were practical and sturdy. Any tool they made they would recognize. When a silly farmer came in needing his pitchfork fixed, the hammer and the anvil would know just what to do.

Over time, the plain little walls of their forge got taller, thicker, and displayed more examples of their hard work. Different types of people came to the blacksmith to commission new items from the hammer and anvil.

The hammer marveled at the smaller things he now made. What use did farmers have for so many horseshoes and stirrups? The anvil would say he was being silly. There were more horses walking around, and many more wagons. They didn’t make things for just farmers anymore.

And so the hammer and the anvil made things for horses and their travelers. Bridles and bits joined pots and knives. Then came axels and rivets and doorknobs and locks and keys, then pulleys, anchors, and cannons.

Many more people came to the blacksmith and the poor man found himself quite overwhelmed. “I need some help around here,” he told the hammer and the anvil one night. “I’m not so young anymore. I ought to see about taking on an apprentice.”

The anvil was skeptical. A different hand to polish the ash from her sides? A different voice to listen to? Surely not. Surely this blacksmith would not leave her and her husband in the hands of another.

The hammer was delighted at the prospect. A stronger hand, a younger hand, would make the forge lively again.

But a young man will be clumsy, the anvil retorted. He will dent what is smooth and make impure iron. He will forget what is important and leave his tools unkempt. What if he forgets to speak while he works? She so enjoyed listening to the blacksmith’s voice and words of encouragement.

The hammer told the anvil to cheer up. She worried about what she knew little of. Did she forget how the blacksmith would break things? He was clumsy then and had no one to teach him. He would not forget to teach the apprentice about what was important. They would be cared for and the apprentice would have the chance to wield the greatest tools in the region.

Now the anvil was a proud little thing and succumbed to flattery easily. It didn’t take long for her to acquiesce to the apprentice. Sure, he was young, and his face didn’t even have a beard, but he had such fire in his eyes.

Yes, this apprentice would make a good blacksmith. In time, he did. With his new title the forge became a thing of greatness. Indeed, the blacksmith was taught well. He spoke with the hammer and the anvil as if they were close friends. “There’s a kingdom nearby interested in trade,” he told them. “We’re going to make some beautiful things for them.”

The hammer and the anvil were introduced to a new metal called steel. It was a glorious metal, shiny and sturdier than iron. The blacksmith loved it and loved the tools he used to shape it.

The hammer and the anvil learned to make new things. The anvil noted wryly that the smaller things they made seemed to be more valuable. The hammer agreed. The coins, hooks, jewelry, candlesticks, lanterns, and frames were all so shiny. Their iron and steel were used in equal measure with silver and gold and bronze. The people who visited the forge had colorful clothing and would have pouches of more shiny things to exchange for the blacksmith’s handiwork.

The blacksmith had a family, a pretty wife and a little boy. The blacksmith and his son would often work together, but it took some time before the boy was big enough to properly wield the hammer. The hammer was delighted by the boy, even when the little hand would sometimes drop him. The anvil was patient and withheld her chidings. She too was charmed by the boy since he would often trace his little fingers in the soot along her base and whisper stories to himself. The stories would be of a king and soldiers and battles, and the anvil loved hearing them.

There was a day of note when the boy, now a young man, began working in earnest in the forge. He specialized in making blades and armor. Links upon links of chain mail, coats of arms, knives both practical and decorative, swords for knights and displays, and detailed shields joined the stacks of his father’s statues and ornaments.

Far be it from the hammer and the anvil to have a favorite wielder, but they dearly loved the young man who was both son and apprentice to their blacksmith. The hammer would praise the young man’s skill. The anvil would call the young man a curiosity. She especially enjoyed how much he talked.

One day, as the blacksmith and his son were working, soldiers wearing armor and swords came into the forge. The hammer and the anvil recognized the armor and weapons as ones they had made.

The anvil’s pride rose as she saw how wonderfully her works were worn and wielded. How unfortunate that the men associated with them were making her blacksmith upset. She couldn’t understand what the soldiers were saying but heard her blacksmith loud and clear. “What do you mean vandalism? I was commissioned to make a statue, and I did.”

“Father?” the boy asked. He still held the hammer over an unfinished knife. “What are they saying?”

The hammer too was curious. Was someone upset with the work of him and his wife? He would be greatly offended if so.

“Stay where you are, boy,” said the blacksmith. “You may need to watch the shop for a little bit, okay? Keep the couple company.”

Then the soldiers put rope on the blacksmith’s hands and took him out of the forge. The blacksmith’s son ran after them, still holding the hammer. The anvil called after her husband but the two were unfortunately separated for some time until the son came back.

He laid the hammer atop the anvil then sat beside them. “He’s being tried.” The young man’s voice was low and angry. “They said he made the statue wrong and now they’re trying him for disrespecting the general’s memory!”

The anvil wondered how the statue was wrong. There was nothing wrong with what she helped create! Everything she made was perfect because it was made!

Over the next few days, it was just the blacksmith’s son in the forge. He kept out visitors and only made little knives to pass the time. His conversations with the hammer and anvil were short and anxious, though numerous. “I hope he’s alright,” he would say. “The king is merciful, I’ve heard. He’ll listen to reason. It was just a statue, after all.”

The hammer said not to worry. If the blacksmith was as good to people as he was to his tools, then he’d be back in no time.

The anvil was upset that someone was upset with her work. She and her husband worked very hard on that statue! Now someone was angry at the blacksmith for making something? Making something should not be a crime!

The hammer reminded the anvil to stay calm. The blacksmith would be back soon, and the son would be happy again.

Fortunately, what the hammer said came true! The blacksmith returned with a grin on his face. “The king agreed not to take down the statue,” he said to his son, “but I’m not allowed to make any more.”

Not allowed! The anvil was irate. Who did that king think he was, telling the blacksmith what he could make?

Again, the hammer said to look on the bright side. The blacksmith was back, and he could make any number of other things. The king hadn’t taken his hands, after all. And the son could still make anything he wanted!

But the anvil had made up her mind. She didn’t like the king.

Her preferences were disregarded under command of her blacksmith. It was barely a month after the statue incident that the blacksmith and his son were given orders from the king. They needed to make armor and weapons.

The hammer’s life became quite dull after that. When in the past he would make something new every day, now he could recognize at a moment what he was going to make.

It was all the same now. Chain mail. Plate armor. Arrow and spear heads. Sword after sword after sword after sword…

“It’s a war,” said the blacksmith’s son. “Someone’s been taking over other kingdoms. It’s not going well.”

War must be very boring, concluded the hammer. It only needs armor and weapons. Why couldn’t it use other things like rivets or lanterns? Maybe a horseshoe or two?

The anvil decided she didn’t like war either. It was like the king, telling her what to make and when.

One night, while the blacksmith and his son were asleep, the hammer and the anvil conversed in the dim embers of the furnace. Stacks of armor and weapons lay around the forge. Some of them were newly made. Most were broken. Haggard-looking men kept bringing more and more damaged items.

At first the hammer and the anvil were distressed at seeing their past work sullied, and eagerly patched armor and reforged sword blades. Now it had become monotonous. They fixed old work more often than they made new.

The anvil bemoaned her station now. The blacksmith couldn’t work as well anymore, so his son was doing almost everything. The anvil still enjoyed the son’s talking and her husband’s company, but she began to wish for something new.

The hammer agreed. He too was tired of shaping and reshaping endless plates of steel. He missed the sparking of iron and the delicate workings of gold.

From his vantage point hung on the wall, the hammer could see much more of the forge. He noticed that the light from the furnace grew a little brighter on the opposite wall.

The light turned to a glow, then the glow turned to a licking flame! The forge was on fire!

The blacksmith and his son came into the forge and tried to smother the flames, but they were leaping too high.

Soon the door was kicked off its hinges and men in strange armor came in. Their swords were not the handiwork of the hammer and the anvil. Some other blacksmith and his tools made those wicked blades.

The blacksmith took up a sword while his son picked up the hammer.

The men shouted.

“Leave this place! You’ll find nothing valuable here!” the blacksmith said in reply.

One of the men laughed and pointed at the son. The blacksmith looked afraid. “No! Spare him! I’m the blacksmith here!”

The man who laughed knocked the sword from the blacksmith’s hand and barked more orders. The intruders surged forward, swords and hands reaching for the son.

The son, hammer in hand, swung at one of the soldiers, denting the helmet and knocking it off the man’s head.

The hammer disliked denting the metal. Even if he didn’t make the helmet, he didn’t want to ruin it.

He wouldn’t get another chance, though. The soldiers knocked him from the son’s hand. They laid hands on the son and the hammer and the anvil. All three cried out as they were taken from their rightful place.

The hammer and the anvil ended up in a dark and cold place, surrounded by stone and damp air, the only light coming from their little furnace’s fire. The blacksmith’s son, now their only blacksmith, made a pair of manacles. He gave the manacles to the soldiers who took him. They laughed as they locked the manacles onto his wrists.

The three were left alone in that dark place. The blacksmith set his hands on the anvil and leaned against her. “We can get through this. We’ll be fine. We just have to make what they say and we’ll be fine.”

The hammer and the anvil weren’t entirely convinced, but they had faith in their blacksmith’s resolve.

Again the anvil’s ire was raised at the thought of making only what someone else told her to. First the king, then the war, now these soldiers and their dark armor that was made by a stranger’s hands.

The blacksmith made more manacles. He still hummed a little while he worked, but as the manacles became more numerous, he didn’t hum as much. When he started making chains, he barely spoke to the hammer and anvil anymore. When the items of torture fell one after the other from the anvil’s surface, the blacksmith no longer spoke at all.

The hammer and the anvil grew increasingly concerned. Their dear blacksmith looked sad now. His hair was long and his eyes no longer reflected the light of the furnace. The manacles left raw lines on his wrists that weren’t allowed the time to heal. The hammer’s ringing, once a sound of hard work and creativity, was now one of slavery and repetition. Sweat off the blacksmith’s brow fell in as great abundance as the tears from his eyes.

The blacksmith slept by the furnace, body propped up by the anvil and hand never leaving the hammer. The hammer didn’t mind so much. He didn’t like the things he made anymore, so the only thing he did enjoy was being in his blacksmith’s hand. The anvil was saddened by the state of her blacksmith but took some comfort in his closeness and reliance on her. She told him to take heart; his spirit might be worn down, but she and her husband would not break.

Then came a night when a stranger found his way into the cold little forge. He said nothing, but he left something on the floor. It was a ring, silver and thin, barely big enough to fit over the first knuckle of the blacksmith’s little finger.

Joy of joys, the blacksmith began speaking again! “This is a sign, my friends,” he said to the couple. “Not all is lost, but they need our help.”

The fire in the furnace and the blacksmith’s eyes grew hot and bright. The hammer and the anvil worked twice as hard but at half the volume. Whoever needed their help needed it quietly.

The hammer tapped out little disks of fake coins with hollow spots inside. The anvil held up stacks of recycled steel shavings that became more silver rings. The chains they made had weak points where a hard strike could easily break the impure iron. Manacle pins slipped and rattled now.

He is making things with flaws, the anvil mused. Yet they still look perfect.

The hammer wondered if they were indeed flaws, or simply a different yet no less beautiful design. After all, the blacksmith was making imperfections, not mistakes.

The blacksmith then made a little blade—the favorite creation of his—with which he cut his hair. The tangled locks fed the furnace, and the anvil was glad to see her blacksmith’s face unimpeded.

“Soon, my friends,” said the blacksmith. “Soon I won’t have to whisper for you.” His fingers spun the little ring on his finger. “You’ll recognize them, I’m sure. You’ll recognize the metal that you’ve shaped.”

The anvil asked what he meant, but the blacksmith gave no further explanation. “More secret coins, I think. The good people must know that their liberation is at hand.”

It was while making another set of breakable chains that soldiers arrived in the cold little forge. They wore armor that the hammer and his wife recognized immediately. These men were clad head to foot in their masterful creations. All of them wore little silver rings.

The blacksmith, the hammer, and the anvil were once again taken somewhere else. When the furnace was lit, it warmed the dusty air of a small but resolute forge.

How glad the hammer was to fix a suit of armor again! Even the anvil stood a little taller while she held up a broken sword blade.

The joy on their blacksmith’s face was insurmountable. He smiled and spoke aloud again as little daggers, fake coins, and mountains of thin silver rings poured from his forge. His eyes were as bright as the furnace and his sweat no longer mingled with tears.

People and soldiers came to the forge in equal number. Some asked for repair, others for something new. Many looked so deeply tired and were welcomed to sleep beside the warmth of the furnace.

Among these visitors was a handsome young man. He wore a circlet around his head made with the same silver as the blacksmith’s ring. He looked wary and miserable, and he spent most of his time sitting in the forge with a knight at his side.

Occasionally the blacksmith tried to coax the young man into helping with his craft, but it took a few tries for him to accept.

The hammer could sense the timidity in the young man’s grip. Even his swings were timid, and they did nothing to the iron sitting atop the anvil. The anvil wanted to laugh at the young man. He looked so afraid of them, as if they had teeth and might pounce!

The hammer was more forgiving of the young man. His hands were shaky, and his fingers were soft. Clearly, he’d never seen a day of rough work like blacksmithing in his life.

It didn’t take long before the young man’s caution turned to firm swings. The iron yielded to the hammer and anvil by decree of the young man. But then the hammer and the anvil noticed a bit of anger in the young man. The hammer struck harder, yet found his mark less and less, colliding harshly with the anvil.

They collided again and again until the young man couldn’t hold on to the hammer from the force of the swings, and the hammer went clattering across the floor off the forge.

The young man cried out and fell weeping to his knees. His knight rushed to comfort him, as did the blacksmith.

Suddenly the anvil found her hands full not with iron but a silver circlet. The hammer shivered as the young man picked him back up and lifted him over the anvil. He didn’t want to break such a seamless thing as that circlet!

The blacksmith intervened, taking back the hammer and emptying the anvil’s hands.

The young man was fighting against the hands of his knight.

The anvil sighed with pity. The young man was so upset. Was it the circlet’s fault? Surely it wasn’t her fault, was it?

Eventually the knight took the young man to the other side of the forge, taking the circlet with him.

The blacksmith set the hammer back with the anvil and spoke softly. “Don’t be upset with him. He is a prince yet barely a man.”

A prince? Such a title was new to the hammer and the anvil. The hammer wanted to chide the prince for such harsh treatment of him and his wife, and for daring to damage that seamless circlet. But his blacksmith had interceded, so he found himself able to forgive the young man.

The anvil found herself pitying the prince. Without the circlet and curled under the arm of his knight, the prince did look so young and fragile. She could forgive him for making a few dents in her.

The blacksmith didn’t ask the prince to use the hammer again. He focused on making his special little knives and fixing armor.

More people came and went from the forge. Some of them met the prince and received a thin silver ring from him. No matter the person, none entered without wearing something the hammer and the anvil had personally made. They were quite happy to keep it that way. Strange metal invited trouble.

The forge became a meeting place for many types of people. The blacksmith wasn’t often involved in these meetings, but he would often listen in, telling the hammer and the anvil what was discussed.

“The other kingdoms are rallying,” he would tell them. “So many people are wearing the prince’s ring.” Sometimes his messages were sad, sometimes happy, and sometimes he simply mentioned how cold it was outside.

One night the blacksmith extinguished the furnace until not even the ash smoldered. The anvil was alarmed. What was happening? The furnace had never gone out! The hammer shared his wife’s concern. He was tied to the blacksmith’s belt and so could see that the forge was empty of all its visitors, save for the prince. A cold and empty forge? Surely something was terribly wrong!

That night was long and silent. The blacksmith and the prince sat beside the empty furnace, cloaks pulled tight to keep out the cold.

The anvil noticed some light coming through the window. How odd. She knew that dawn was still many hours away. The prince noticed the light as well and pointed it out to the blacksmith, who peeked out the window.

“It’s the castle,” he said. “It’s burning.”

The prince made motion to stand, but then sat back down. His hands shook and he covered his head, fingers curling around the silver circlet.

The blacksmith sat with him.

When dawn truly broke, the blacksmith again looked out the window. He gasped. “Look! Your golden flag is atop the tower!”

This time the prince leaped to his feet and looked out. He too gasped and then cheered with joy.

The blacksmith set about reigniting the forge. The fires burned brightly as the prince’s knight returned. He looked tired but so very happy. Held in his hand was a wicked-looking crown that made the prince and the blacksmith scowl.

The blacksmith snatched the crown and set it atop the anvil. She disliked the feel of it, how it scratched her and felt so cold and heavy in her hands.

The hammer poised himself in the blacksmith’s hand, eager to break something so strange. It was rough and dented, uneven and so carelessly crafted with impure metals.

But the hammer never came down. Instead, he was given to the prince. The prince’s eyes ignited with the fire of the furnace. He swung once, and the crown shattered into ugly fragments.

The blacksmith tossed those pieces into the furnace, melting them down. His mind was focused, and the hammer and anvil were focused with him. They didn’t hear what the soldiers said or mind that the prince was staring at them. All they knew was the heat, the metal, and the glorious ringing of their joined effort.

The metal was purified into shiny steel. A handful of the prince’s silver rings became delicate ornaments.

By the time the hammer sat down to rest, his job complete, the wicked crown was unrecognizable. A seamless silver diadem sat in its place. The anvil held the diadem proudly, certain that this was the finest thing she’d ever crafted.

The hammer and his wife, along with the blacksmith, were first to witness the prince’s crowning. The diadem was made to fit atop the circlet and did so beautifully.

The prince wore his crown well. The hammer and anvil thought he looked good with their work atop his head.

After that, the blacksmith was left with the hammer and the anvil in that resolute little forge. “My friends,” he said, “we have much to make.”

The hammer and the anvil set to work making nails, buckets, shovels, and saws as they sang along with their blacksmith.