Poem: "The Ironmonger"
Based on an audience poll, here is the free epic for the January 4, 2022 Poetry Fishbowl making its $200 goal. This poem is spillover from the April 2, 2019 Poetry Fishbowl. It was inspired by prompts from ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
corvi and mama_kestrel. It also fills the "drop out" square in my 4-1-19 card for the School Days Bingo fest. This poem belongs to the series Gloryroad Crossing.
"The Ironmonger"
Garn was happily retired in
the town of Gloryroad Crossing.
When the old swordmaster had begun
to slow a little, and had enough put by
to buy a shop, he thought about
where adventures often started
and set up as an ironmonger.
He bought and sold weapons,
tools, and raw materials --
most of them ordinary,
a few enchanted, and
occasionally cursed.
He didn't neglect
his neighbors, either.
Garn endeared himself to
Brilla the baker by making her
a bread knife from part of an old saw,
to the cut the tough viking bread
full of nuts, seeds, and dried fruit.
For Dron the barkeeper, Garn
saved the metal flasks that could be
filled with booze and sold at an upcharge.
Hob the Beggar brought scrap metal
and other useful tidbits. In exchange,
Garn traded him pieces of a mess kit:
a small cookpot, a cup and a bowl-plate,
knife-fork-and-spoon strung on a ring.
It would have been fine were it
not for the novice swordsmen --
boys, really. Some of them
could barely sprout a beard.
They came, one by one,
following the fading trail
of his reputation as
a great swordmaster.
Every single one of them
seemed to think he could teach,
for no earthly reason that Garn
could ever figure out.
The problem was
that he couldn't.
Oh, sure, he knew
how to use a sword,
and he could still do it
damn well, even if he
wasn't quite as lightning
as he used to be.
He just didn't know
how to explain it.
His knowledge was
intuitive, even instinctive.
He didn't think about what
he did; he just did it.
How could he ever
teach someone?
But the novices kept
coming, and some of them
pestered him until he took
their money and pretended
to teach them swordfighting.
It became a running gag
in Gloryroad Crossing.
As soon as Dron spotted Garn
in the salle with a new "student,"
he sent Hob the Beggar around
to set up a betting pool on
how long it would take for
this one to drop out.
For his trouble, Hob
got a cut of the pot, and
everyone was happy --
except for the students,
of course, but they had
only themselves to blame.
Garn had never claimed
to be any kind of a teacher.
He always told them so
before he took their money,
and it still took them anywhere
from two hours to two months
to figure it out for themselves.
Then one day, a newly minted
apprentice bard came into town.
Her name was Tramma, and she
played a drum because she couldn't
play a harp or a gittern or any of
the other usual instruments.
"I like to feel it in my hands,"
she said, waggling her fingers.
Wasn't that interesting.
Garn had always felt
the same about swords;
he loved feeling the clash
of steel echoing up his arms,
something that most people hated.
He liked to think that was part
of what made him so good.
Tramma brought him
battered old instruments
to see if he could repair them,
dented drums and scratched flutes,
and once a platter-sized cymbal with
a slash almost all the way through it
that he cut down to make zills.
She liked to hang out with
the rowdy sort, and the loot they
brought back was often damaged,
but they brought back a lot of it.
Tramma and her adventure buddies
would hang out in town between trips,
getting drunk and starting brawls for
the fun of it, but they also made
diligent efforts to work out and
practice their fighting skills.
They weren't very good at it --
they were still novices -- but
they made up in enthusiasm
what they lacked in finesse.
The boys favored axes
and warhammers, but
Tramma swung a sword.
Garn couldn't help but notice
that they watched him when
he worked out, and they
watched Dron too.
One day, Tramma
strolled over to him
after practice and said,
"Mind if I work alongside?"
Garn gave her a dubious look.
"You want me to teach you,
after you won the pot last week?"
"No, no," she laughed. "I just
thought I could pay you a copper
or two to borrow your salle
and watch you close up."
Garn shrugged. "Sure, kid."
So they agreed on a copper
a day for use of his salle, and
Tramma began working out there
whenever she was in town.
She wasn't great at swordwork,
but she had a lot of raw power,
and she was absolutely fearless.
Garn found himself admiring her,
despite his better judgment.
Then one day, when he saw
Tramma muffing her footwork
in a way that could get her killed,
he walked over there and kicked
her feet into the proper position.
Instead of complaining, Tramma
just grinned at him and went on with
her workout, now in better form.
The next time her party returned
from an adventure, she brought him
most of a chainmail suit, a flute that was
never again going to be anything better
than kiddie whistles ... and a silver piece.
"What the hell is this for?" Garn said,
picking up the silver piece in surprise.
"That fancy footwork kept me from
falling on my ass," Tramma said.
"Figured I owed you some thanks,
and we both know words are just air."
That was another funny thing
about Tramma the bard -- she
couldn't sing worth a damn.
You didn't want to be standing
across from her when she started
beating that battle drum, though;
it would make your heart jump
and thrash in your chest.
So it went with them.
Tramma would pay Garn
to let her practice in his salle,
and once in a while he'd correct
some mistake she was making.
Then she'd come back from
her adventures and tell him
all about the wild shit she'd done
while she piled his counter with
increasingly valuable treasure.
One day, they came in hauling
a twelve-foot-long dragon carcass
in a cart, all of them crowded
between the handles to pull it.
Tramma broke off at Garn's
and dumped the little steel claws
on his countertop, along with
a pile of scavenged weapons.
"This is enchanted," Garn said,
turning the tiny dagger so that
the sun caught in its carved hilt.
"That little pigsticker?" she said,
staring. "What the hell for?"
"You cut someone with it, and
they keep bleeding until they get
magical healing -- or they bleed out,"
Garn said, polishing it with a cloth.
"You want to reconsider selling it?"
"Damn," said Tramma, then shook
her head. "Naw, it's too small for me.
Some bard or thief will love it, though."
"Ayup," Garn said, then named a price
that made her jaw drop. "Come on, kid,
let's go to the bar. I'll buy you a drink
to celebrate your first real treasure."
"Gee, thanks!" Tramma said.
Then she hugged him. "I swear,
Garn, you're the best teacher I ever had."
Garn was so flabbergasted he couldn't speak.
So he just returned her crushing sideways hug,
and led the way over to Dron's tavern.
* * *
Notes:
monger
noun
mon•ger | \ ˈməŋ-gər , ˈmäŋ- \
Definition of monger
(Entry 1 of 2)
1: BROKER, DEALER — usually used in combination
alemonger
2: a person who attempts to stir up or spread something that is usually petty or discreditable — usually used in combination
warmonger
Peddlers (especially fish merchants) have been called mongers for more than 1000 years. The term traces to a Latin noun meaning "trader." Initially, it was an honorable term, but every profession has its bad apples, and the snake-oil salesmen of the bunch gave monger a bad reputation. By the middle of the 16th century, the term often implied that a merchant was dishonorable and contemptible. Nowadays, monger is typically appended to another word to identify a trader of a particular type. Some combinations (such as fishmonger) suggest respectable commerce, whereas others (such as rumormonger, scandalmonger, and hypemonger) imply that a person is trading or spreading information in a careless or deceptive manner.
Enjoy a recipe for Viking Bread.
corvi and mama_kestrel. It also fills the "drop out" square in my 4-1-19 card for the School Days Bingo fest. This poem belongs to the series Gloryroad Crossing."The Ironmonger"
Garn was happily retired in
the town of Gloryroad Crossing.
When the old swordmaster had begun
to slow a little, and had enough put by
to buy a shop, he thought about
where adventures often started
and set up as an ironmonger.
He bought and sold weapons,
tools, and raw materials --
most of them ordinary,
a few enchanted, and
occasionally cursed.
He didn't neglect
his neighbors, either.
Garn endeared himself to
Brilla the baker by making her
a bread knife from part of an old saw,
to the cut the tough viking bread
full of nuts, seeds, and dried fruit.
For Dron the barkeeper, Garn
saved the metal flasks that could be
filled with booze and sold at an upcharge.
Hob the Beggar brought scrap metal
and other useful tidbits. In exchange,
Garn traded him pieces of a mess kit:
a small cookpot, a cup and a bowl-plate,
knife-fork-and-spoon strung on a ring.
It would have been fine were it
not for the novice swordsmen --
boys, really. Some of them
could barely sprout a beard.
They came, one by one,
following the fading trail
of his reputation as
a great swordmaster.
Every single one of them
seemed to think he could teach,
for no earthly reason that Garn
could ever figure out.
The problem was
that he couldn't.
Oh, sure, he knew
how to use a sword,
and he could still do it
damn well, even if he
wasn't quite as lightning
as he used to be.
He just didn't know
how to explain it.
His knowledge was
intuitive, even instinctive.
He didn't think about what
he did; he just did it.
How could he ever
teach someone?
But the novices kept
coming, and some of them
pestered him until he took
their money and pretended
to teach them swordfighting.
It became a running gag
in Gloryroad Crossing.
As soon as Dron spotted Garn
in the salle with a new "student,"
he sent Hob the Beggar around
to set up a betting pool on
how long it would take for
this one to drop out.
For his trouble, Hob
got a cut of the pot, and
everyone was happy --
except for the students,
of course, but they had
only themselves to blame.
Garn had never claimed
to be any kind of a teacher.
He always told them so
before he took their money,
and it still took them anywhere
from two hours to two months
to figure it out for themselves.
Then one day, a newly minted
apprentice bard came into town.
Her name was Tramma, and she
played a drum because she couldn't
play a harp or a gittern or any of
the other usual instruments.
"I like to feel it in my hands,"
she said, waggling her fingers.
Wasn't that interesting.
Garn had always felt
the same about swords;
he loved feeling the clash
of steel echoing up his arms,
something that most people hated.
He liked to think that was part
of what made him so good.
Tramma brought him
battered old instruments
to see if he could repair them,
dented drums and scratched flutes,
and once a platter-sized cymbal with
a slash almost all the way through it
that he cut down to make zills.
She liked to hang out with
the rowdy sort, and the loot they
brought back was often damaged,
but they brought back a lot of it.
Tramma and her adventure buddies
would hang out in town between trips,
getting drunk and starting brawls for
the fun of it, but they also made
diligent efforts to work out and
practice their fighting skills.
They weren't very good at it --
they were still novices -- but
they made up in enthusiasm
what they lacked in finesse.
The boys favored axes
and warhammers, but
Tramma swung a sword.
Garn couldn't help but notice
that they watched him when
he worked out, and they
watched Dron too.
One day, Tramma
strolled over to him
after practice and said,
"Mind if I work alongside?"
Garn gave her a dubious look.
"You want me to teach you,
after you won the pot last week?"
"No, no," she laughed. "I just
thought I could pay you a copper
or two to borrow your salle
and watch you close up."
Garn shrugged. "Sure, kid."
So they agreed on a copper
a day for use of his salle, and
Tramma began working out there
whenever she was in town.
She wasn't great at swordwork,
but she had a lot of raw power,
and she was absolutely fearless.
Garn found himself admiring her,
despite his better judgment.
Then one day, when he saw
Tramma muffing her footwork
in a way that could get her killed,
he walked over there and kicked
her feet into the proper position.
Instead of complaining, Tramma
just grinned at him and went on with
her workout, now in better form.
The next time her party returned
from an adventure, she brought him
most of a chainmail suit, a flute that was
never again going to be anything better
than kiddie whistles ... and a silver piece.
"What the hell is this for?" Garn said,
picking up the silver piece in surprise.
"That fancy footwork kept me from
falling on my ass," Tramma said.
"Figured I owed you some thanks,
and we both know words are just air."
That was another funny thing
about Tramma the bard -- she
couldn't sing worth a damn.
You didn't want to be standing
across from her when she started
beating that battle drum, though;
it would make your heart jump
and thrash in your chest.
So it went with them.
Tramma would pay Garn
to let her practice in his salle,
and once in a while he'd correct
some mistake she was making.
Then she'd come back from
her adventures and tell him
all about the wild shit she'd done
while she piled his counter with
increasingly valuable treasure.
One day, they came in hauling
a twelve-foot-long dragon carcass
in a cart, all of them crowded
between the handles to pull it.
Tramma broke off at Garn's
and dumped the little steel claws
on his countertop, along with
a pile of scavenged weapons.
"This is enchanted," Garn said,
turning the tiny dagger so that
the sun caught in its carved hilt.
"That little pigsticker?" she said,
staring. "What the hell for?"
"You cut someone with it, and
they keep bleeding until they get
magical healing -- or they bleed out,"
Garn said, polishing it with a cloth.
"You want to reconsider selling it?"
"Damn," said Tramma, then shook
her head. "Naw, it's too small for me.
Some bard or thief will love it, though."
"Ayup," Garn said, then named a price
that made her jaw drop. "Come on, kid,
let's go to the bar. I'll buy you a drink
to celebrate your first real treasure."
"Gee, thanks!" Tramma said.
Then she hugged him. "I swear,
Garn, you're the best teacher I ever had."
Garn was so flabbergasted he couldn't speak.
So he just returned her crushing sideways hug,
and led the way over to Dron's tavern.
* * *
Notes:
monger
noun
mon•ger | \ ˈməŋ-gər , ˈmäŋ- \
Definition of monger
(Entry 1 of 2)
1: BROKER, DEALER — usually used in combination
alemonger
2: a person who attempts to stir up or spread something that is usually petty or discreditable — usually used in combination
warmonger
Peddlers (especially fish merchants) have been called mongers for more than 1000 years. The term traces to a Latin noun meaning "trader." Initially, it was an honorable term, but every profession has its bad apples, and the snake-oil salesmen of the bunch gave monger a bad reputation. By the middle of the 16th century, the term often implied that a merchant was dishonorable and contemptible. Nowadays, monger is typically appended to another word to identify a trader of a particular type. Some combinations (such as fishmonger) suggest respectable commerce, whereas others (such as rumormonger, scandalmonger, and hypemonger) imply that a person is trading or spreading information in a careless or deceptive manner.
Enjoy a recipe for Viking Bread.