October 23, 2024

The Ironworker
​by Denise Longrie

Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai podcast.




Dierdre no longer heard the ssssh of her snowshoes in the snow or the pounding of the blood in her ears. To check her bearings, she peered out over the scarf wrapped around her face. The surrounding whiteness burned her eyes. She blinked and looked downward.

Despite turning to the blackness of her boots and the grey of her long coat, the false vision of white snow dancing before her persisted. Diamond shapes approached from her left and right, shimmering in the pale sun, and converged in an endless maelstrom. She knew these images held no more substance than the wind, yet she watched them, sometimes thinking she heard the music they danced to.

Her chest burned, as did the skin on her face. She had to keep walking. Her teeth chattered, and her chest heaved, laboring with each breath she took. To stop was to die. She would soon smell the fires of the village where Braden hid Riju and Laveda.
And when she found Bradan, she would kill him.
 
                                                                        ***
 
Therron and Jaeger, the village’s two mightiest hunters, brought the strange woman on their sled at twilight. She had traveled far and was well-provisioned, but the cold had overcome her because she was alone and on foot. She was too weak to talk and could hardly stand. The grandmothers removed her snow-encrusted furs and set her by the fire, brushing snow from her face and black hair.

Others whispered—who but an outlaw would travel like this? Where were her kin? She was dressed well and carried good weapons—an ax and a sharp knife—but this was a bad omen. The grandmothers said she was too cold and that she would never warm. Her skin was blue. Nevertheless, they nursed her. When she was able, she would tell her story.

At sunrise, the woman asked for food. They gave her warm broth and watched as she devoured it. They gave her bread and watched her devour that in turn.
“She will live,” the grandmothers decided. They did not say in her hearing that the cold had mottled her perhaps once beautiful face. It had also left its mark on her hands and feet. She would never again be whole.

They gave her dried meat. She ate that, too, as if she had not eaten for many weeks.

“Now that you’re feeling better, let us ask: what is your name? What is your business?”

“I am Dierdre.” Her voice came in rasps. “I seek my children, whom my husband abducted. Perhaps he is in this village? His name is Braden, the ironworker? And my son, Riju, a boy of some seven winters? Laveda, his sister, a dark-haired girl of five winters?”

Those listening exchanged looks and shook their heads. No one knew these people. Dierdre sighed. She would have to keep looking when she recovered. She wanted her children. She slept.
 
                                                                        ***
 
At dawn the next day, the villagers found their strange guest had disappeared. On her bed lay a gold piece, perhaps in thanks or payment. They saw no tracks in the snow. The wise women and the seer talked about the incident for many days but could make no sense of it.

The visitor ate and slept like a human. The cold had marked her, but she posed no threat to the villagers. Nevertheless, the holy men performed cleansing rituals on the chance the stranger had been a revenant. The holy men used the gold piece to buy food for the village and distributed it to the poor women.
 
                                                                        ***
 
A few days later, Dierdre came to another village. It was a fair day, so she had her hood thrown back.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” called a guard from atop the wall.

“I am Dierdre, and I’ve come seeking my husband, Braden, the ironworker,” she replied.

The guard stepped closer. “You come bringing plague!” he screamed. “Get away.”

“I’ve no plague. If you know of my husband and my children, I want to see them.”

“What man would want to see you?” the guard replied. “Your face is ravaged. I cannot let you in to kill my people. Go!” He drew an arrow and set it in his raised bow.

Dierdre remained where she stood. You damn fool. “Are you hiding Braden?”

“I know of no man by that name.”

“Very well.” She turned and walked away.

The guard lowered his bow. His hands shook.
 
                                                                        ***
 
Must keep moving, Deirdre told herself. To stop is to die. And I must find Braden.

She shivered in the fading daylight, wrapped her hood over her head, tied her scarf over her face, and kept walking.

The breeze carried the scent of wood smoke, but she couldn’t tell from which direction it came. She kept walking, hoping it would grow stronger and a cabin or lodge would appear. Perhaps in the growing dark, she’d see a light.

A cry of delight escaped her. She came upon a path. Even in the deep snow, the signs of the many feet that had trod here remained. Dierdre turned south and east. Surely, she would find shelter with a fire and food. Perhaps people there had news of Braden and her children at long last. How long had she searched?

Did the path lead anywhere? Yet the sounds of cattle lowing came when the wind turned. A holding lay somewhere at the end of the path.

Put one foot in front of the other. Must not stop. Must never stop…

She glanced toward the sky, tilting her head back. The sun never reached high this time of year. Daylight waned quickly. Dierdre kept walking.
 
                                                                        ***
 
Full darkness had fallen by the time Dierdre approached the lone cabin. Big enough for perhaps cooking and sleeping areas built around a central hearth, it lay nestled into a natural fold in the land. A long porch roof hid the only door. Dierdre surmised such a building must have been intended as a hunting lodge, a temporary shelter for hunters far from home.

Why the livestock, then? It made no sense. Could it be a den of outlaws. Nevertheless, she knocked on the door.

Silence met her. She knocked again.

A woman’s voice called from the other side of the door, “Who calls at such an hour and in such a lonely place?”

“My name is Dierdre. I search for my husband, Braden, the ironworker.”

A longer silence met these words.

“I know of no such person,” the woman said.

“May I at least have a place to stay for the night? I am alone.”

This, too, was followed by another long silence, as if the woman were conferring with someone. Dierdre told herself she should not be annoyed but nevertheless grew more so with each passing moment.

“I will offer you all the hospitality we can. In return, I ask you to treat my foster father with respect. He has sought refuge under this roof.”

Dierdre could have screamed in exasperation. “I will treat your foster father as my own,” she said, gritting her teeth.

“Very well. You are welcome, Dierdre.”

From within came the sounds of several locks being opened and a chain drawn. In a few moments, the door swung open.

Dierdre stepped across the threshold. The warmth of the hearth fire greeted her.

“I am Alma,” the woman. “Come sit by the fire. I’ll get you a bowl to wash in, then some beer and stew.”

“Thank you.” She removed her snowshoes, politely leaving them by the door, and removed her outer furs and face scarf.

Alma held out the bowl of tepid water for her guest to wash. Dierdre took it, glancing at her hostess’s face. “Thank you.”

Alma only stared at her without saying anything, her eyes wide. She turned to fetch the beer and stew, casting beseeching eyes toward her foster father, who sat wrapped in furs at the far side of the firepit.

Dierdre accepted both. Before she sat, she addressed the man. “Sir, I am grateful for your hospitality.”

“You are welcome, Dierdre.”

Something in his voice caught her ear. She sat on a bench by the fire and ate a mouthful of the thin stew. “If I may ask, sir, what is your trade?”

The man smiled.

“Father—” Alma began.

“No need to fret, my dear. When I could do such things, I was an ironworker.”

Dierdre set her spoon down. “As is my husband.”

The man merely smiled.

“You know my name,” Dierdre continued. “May I ask yours?”

A cry escaped from Alma, but she said nothing.

“Surely, you must have guessed it by now.”

Dierdre said nothing.

“I am Braden, whom you have sought for so long.”

Dierdre set her stew and beer down and raised the ax she carried. “You stole my children!” she cried. “I’ve been a wanderer since you abandoned me! Now you die!”

Alma ran, interposing herself between the enraged woman and her foster father. “Have mercy, I beg of you,” she said.

“Dierdre,” Braden said. “you’ve accepted shelter under my roof and food from my larder. Where are your manners? You cannot murder your host. At least listen to me. Please—finish your dinner. You must be so hungry.”

“You left me with nothing! And robbed me of my children. Where are my children? What have you done with them?”

“I will tell you everything that happened. I give you my word. The children are well and happy. You would be so proud of them.”

Dierdre wavered. “Tell me about them.”

Braden smiled. “Riju built a great hall and leads a band of two dozen men. He has a little son. Laveda married a great chieftain across the water. She holds many acres of land and has a daughter and a son. Not bad for the children of an ironworker, huh?”

She resumed her seat on the bench and set the ax on the floor before taking a sip of beer and a mouthful of the stew. Alma kept her place between.

“Oh, seeing them would make you so happy. They have done well.”

“But how is that possible?” Dierdre asked. “They are little children…”

“Not so little anymore. Look at me. I am an old man. I will join you soon.” He pushed back the furs around his head, revealing a head of gray hair.

Dierdre peered at him. “Braden? How is this possible?”

“I’ve spent many years running from you,” he said. “I am tired. My foster daughter agreed to care for me this winter in this lonely place.”

“What happened? What did you abandon me?”

Braden remained silent for a long time. When he spoke, he said, “I did not abandon you. You must remember—there was a fire. Probably from my forge. Do you recall?”
She shook her head.

His eyes met hers, unflinching even faced with her terrible gaze. “I woke you. I thought you would get out on your own. I saved our children, for I knew they could not help themselves. I heard you scream, but it was too late. I could not get to you. You could not come to me.”

Dierdre’s face contorted. “You lie. You say that I am dead, but that is not so…”

“If you look, you will remember. If I could have saved you…”

Her body trembled. She screamed. The sounds were not words, but they spoke of her mourning and terror as if she were still in the flames. She cried, shocked at Braden’s abandonment, lost in unspeakable pain.

Silence fell, even more dreadful than Dierdre’s wailing. Braden stood and walked to her. He placed a hand on her shoulder.

“A thousand times have I relived that day,” he told her. “A thousand times have I tried to save you and failed. But abandon you? Never. Take our children from you, their mother? Never. Forgive me, Dierdre.”

She sobbed.

“Forgive me. Release yourself.”

She turned her marked face up to his, her breath coming in gasps. “Killing you was all I lived for. It would serve no purpose now.”

Braden chuckled. She squeezed his hand.

“I will sleep here tonight and leave in the morning,” she said.

“You are welcome. Alma and I will make you comfortable.”

She nodded, letting a few tears fall.
 
                                                                        ***
 
In the morning, Dierdre departed without rousing anyone and set out for the west.
 
                                                                  💀💀💀

​Denise Longrie’s work has appeared in Spank the Carp, Bright Flash Literary Review, and Danse Macabre. She has self-published a nonfiction guide to pre-1900 speculative fiction. She is (…still) working by the flickering light of a Jacob’s ladder on a sequel treating twentieth-century pulp science fiction. In a previous life, she worked as a pharmacy technician.

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