The Forge At War's End
I found these notes, dated December 11, 2023, written upon waking from a dream. Perhaps it now belongs in the realm of myth and hope-filled parable for better times.
I awoke into a dream. Deep within the forest, I approach an ancient structure built wide and tall of dense, old-world oak. The black, ironwood forest surrounding it had pulled back a safe distance eons before and now stood guard against dangers from both without and within.
The heavy oak door groaned on its hinges as I pushed against it, its rusting iron latch giving way grudgingly as I pressed my shoulder firmly to the wood. It opened by inches until I could twist my body through the narrow opening.
Inside, the hearth appeared cold and dark. Yet, as I drew near, I felt the familiar burning glow of coals banked against the furnace’s northern wall. The forge was waiting impatiently now for the return of the blacksmith. The time had come.
The Warriors needed new armor: light, strong, impenetrable chainmail and plates of the finest steel and hardened gold; helmets that offered protection from unseen blows – dark beside and black behind; and broad expanse of clear vision ahead.
As I spread the coals and laid new wood upon them, a flock of doves rattled their wings in the rafters and took flight through open windows high above. “The time for peace is not yet,” I thought. Its offer is only trickery – a prelude to deception and betrayal. “That time is not yet.”
In the hours and days that followed, the Blacksmith – the Master of his trade – and I forged new swords, lances, and arrows of attack, and strong shields of oak and iron for defense. The bellows breathed life and ferocity into the fiery forge unceasingly.
More Smiths joined us and Artisans of all trades of both war and peace came from across the waking lands. We fashioned bracers of gold and gloves of strong new leather. And all of these we heaped upon a long train of massive wagons, delivering strength and reinforcements to the Warriors standing guard on the front lines.
In a while, I paused to take it all in. The lands were awakening into a war never wanted, and only known in the darkest nightmares of ancient days.
The Master Smith joined me to watch the train of wagons roll along the hardened road into the forest. “The tide of that war is turning,” he said in a firm and reassuring tone.
“Make no mistake. The war is already won,” he said. “The dark forces are now beginning to lose hope. Losing hope makes them fight all the harder. Yet, their weapons are depleting quickly and their armor is breaking down. The war is over. They simply do not know how to stop fighting.”
The Master paused in reflection of a teaching of a general of a distant land and ancient days, of whom it is said that he never lost a campaign. His gaze fixed on the sun, setting on the horizon. His features melted as shadows spread across them.
“At the end of battle,” he reminisced slowly, darkly, “the time comes to ‘knock the enemy’s heart out’ and ensure the fire of hope in conflict is finally extinguished. Then, only then, will there be no more war forever.”
He glanced to the side as he turned away and strode back towards the forge.
I gazed along the line of wagons as they rolled into the forest and for an moment fell into fervent, hopeful prayer.
“May it be so.”
Contributing Editor: Stephanie Reynolds, Ph.D.
Image credits: (top) ΘSWΛLD; (bottom) Marx Ramirez, Guayaquil, Ecuador.
deep sigh