Seventeen

Bird had been lying about not having tea. When she awoke fully, she stoked the fire back to life and hung a cast iron kettle above it. She measured out some dried herbs into a rather ugly looking mug, and when the kettle came to a boil she filled it up. She had opened the door to the morning sunlight, and the steam from her mug spiraled out to greet it.
In the light of day, Bird was still a study in black and white. Her skin was a pale white and her hair raven black. She regarded the morning sun with pale green eyes. She was built like a coyote. She was rangey, and any fat that had managed to sneak its way onto her body had done so through a hard fought battle of wills. Her age was difficult to guess, somewhere between twenty five and thirty five. Her movements were very youthful, but her eyes looked like they had seen a long life.
From a trap door in the floor, she produced a couple of eggs and some dried meat. She placed the dried meat on a plate and poured some of the water from the kettle over it to soften it up. She fried the eggs in a cast iron pan with rendered fat that filled the small cabin with the smokey scent of wild game.
After tucking into this hearty breakfast at the table where Fyndraxis still lay, she cleared her throat and addressed him.
“I watched you all winter,” she stated as she eyed the blade warily.
“What’s that?” Fyndraxis asked.
“I could see you from my front porch. You were settin’ a trap,” she said as she started cleaning the evidence of her breakfast.
“What are you talking about?” He asked her, as she grabbed a bucket.
“The lights,” she explained further, she picked up the sword and tucked it into her belt.
“I was just trying to get some help,” he explained to her as she walked with her bucket down to a creek that was about twenty meters from her house. Bird seemed to have a bit of a mint problem in her front yard. Normally a tenacious colonizer, mint had taken to the open area around her cabin in an aggressive campaign that hadn’t been matched since the reign of Queen Victoria.
“I know a clever trap when I see one,” She filled the bucket with water and headed back to the cabin, “You were trying to lure somebody dumb enough for you to trick into carrying you around. Hunner was just that kind of dumb. Now, here you are. I had all winter to ponder what you are, and why you would set such a trap.”
“Trap is such an ugly word,” he told her as they reentered the cabin. Her assessment wasn’t wrong, but Fyndraxis got a little defensive because of the implication of malice.
“We all do it,” she said as she went over to her fireplace and used a small shovel to gather some ash, “I have traps set right now. They’re for rabbits, but that doesn’t change their nature.”
“Alright, I did kind of trick him into thinking I was a magic sword, but in my defense I am a magic sword,” he said from the table where she had set him while she went about whatever she was doing.
“I’ve half a mind to walk you up into the waste and bury you where nobody will find you,” she said over her shoulder, while using the ash and water to scrub her dishes, “I’ve a feeling that you’re more trouble than you’re worth.”
Fyndraxis tried to think of all of the useful things he could do. Something that could even out the trouble to value calculation she was making. There was the small quiver of skills that he had put into practice during the theatrical approach. Namely, a fun light show, some impressive vibrational shenanigans, and a few creative narrative embellishments. He could do stuff on the radio, but that didn’t seem like something that Bird would find all that useful. He had an inner world that was available to him, but useless to Bird. He thought that he was pretty good company, but that didn’t seem to be much of a selling point to her. He was also incredibly, irresponsibly, apocalyptically sharp, and someday he would probably be able to predict the weather a little bit.
“You seem to go through a pretty decent amount of wood around here. I am unbelievably sharp, and I could make harvesting wood a lot easier for you. I can also predict the weather.” he stated, as realized that ash fat and water were the ingredients for making soap.
“I already have an ax that makes light work of trees.” she countered, her dishes were done and she continued to tidy up around the small cabin.
“How about the weather thing?” he asked, she had moved on to sweeping.
“I’ve been looking at the sky for thirty winters, I don’t need help with the weather,” she observed wryly. He couldn't really predict the weather yet, but it was worth a shot.
“I’ll bet that I am sharper than your ax,” he said, testing the waters for some light gambling. This was a bold gambit. Bringing a wager to bear in a situation like this could prove to be less than ideal. The thought of another sequestration in the woods gave him the chills. Technically, this was an unloseable bet. He was the sharpest something could be, but Bird didn’t seem the sort of person to get hung up on technicalities.
“Alright. I’ll take your bet, Fyndraxis,” she said like a cat addressing a mouse in a five gallon bucket. Fyndraxis realized that he had given her all the moral justification to toss him off into the woods that she would need. He may have made a little oopsie daisy here. If this demonstration wasn’t to her liking, she would be well within her rights to maroon him wherever she chose. From what Fyndraxis could tell, she had woken up with an opinion and was just humoring him. She was either going to hike him up into the waste or not, and there was very little he could do to change that.
Satisfied with this arrangement, Bird picked up the Daemon Sword and strolled out into the morning sun. They made their way around to the rear of the cabin, where all of the evidence of Bird’s wood operation was arranged. Hung under the eve of the roof were a hatchet, a medium ax, and a splitting maul. There were also chains and various other seemingly useful things. These tools were clean and well oiled without a spot of rust. They had been maintained so fastidiously that it was apparent that felling, chopping, splitting, and stacking wood was of great import to this woman. A neat pile of small logs ready to be split lay next to an enormous and well worn stump that she used to split wood on.
She placed one of the small logs on the stump and grabbed her medium ax. She brought the ax slightly above her head and with almost no effort, brought it down and cleanly split the log. Its two halves fell onto the ground. She gathered them up and placed them on a large neat stack of wood that was readying itself for her hearth.
“Alright,” Fyndraxis said, “draw me carefully.”
She grabbed the hilt of the sword and drew him forth slowly and carefully. Fyndraxis couldn’t help but add a little bit of vibrational theatrics to demonstrate the enormous power that she was about to wield. Bird regarded the blade once it was fully drawn. She couldn’t help but be impressed by the craftsmanship of the artifact. Its clean lines and utilitarian shape spoke to her in a language that she was fluent in. This was a tool made for one purpose, it was the platonic ideal of a cutting instrument.
With one hand wielding the blade warily, she used the other to grab a log to split. She arranged the log on the chopping block and brought the sword over her head. As she did this the sword crackled and blue light danced over its blade. She brought the sword down in a practiced overhand ax swing, and cut cleanly through not only the small log, but the chopping block as well. The blade ended up buried almost vertically into the ground between Bird’s legs. The split log and remains of the chopping block smoked lightly in the morning sun.
“Well, shit,” she said. “now I need a new choppin’ block.”
“Not bad right?” Fyndraxis boasted.
“You’re too goddam sharp. No wonder you left a trail of bodies all the way across the valley,” she regarded the blade, turning it over in her hand. Fyndraxis could see the wheels turning in her head. It wasn’t looking good.
“I guess let’s go get a new choppin’ block,” she said, to nobody in particular.
“Did I win the bet?” The Daemon sword asked, as she was putting her ax back.
“You won the words of the bet, but not its spirit. Somethin’ this sharp gives me the creeps,” she answered, “I need to think. Fellin’ wood always helps me think.”
Bird grabbed the length of chain that she had hanging on the side of her cabin, and they began hiking toward the woods that were nearby. Once they had reached the trees, Bird began walking around sizing up the crowd. She was looking for a tree of a certain diameter, she did this by hugging trees to see if her fingers would touch on the other side. Once a promising candidate was found, she drew the Daemon Blade once again.
She looked the tree up and down and lined herself up so that it would fall where she wanted it to. She then took a stance like a baseball player and prepared to send one out into the parking lot.
“Whoa, hold it a second,” Fyndraxis broke his silence. A memory had bubbled up from the deepest darkest depths of his mind, “let’s take some practice swings before you utterly cream this tree and my edge ends up somewhere that you don’t want it to. I think I can help you”
“Alright, what’re you thinkin’?” she asked, breaking her major league slugger stance.
“Why don’t you take some practice swings,” he continued, “I’ll make my handle buzz and let you know when the blade is lined up safely. Can you feel how my handle is an oval instead of round?”
“Yeah, just like an ax,” she said, taking a closer look at the handle of the sword.
“It lets you know where the edge of the blade is pointed. Also, loosen your grip a little bit. Being tense through a swing can make it imprecise,” Fyndraxis had adopted the tone of a patient skydiving instructor, or perhaps a member of ski patrol giving advice at a bar. He was aware of the inherent dangers in the situation, and wanted to be sure that his instructions were clear, without being patronizing.
Bird did a couple of practice swings and Fyndraxis guided her with some makeshift haptic feedback. She made good progress. Swinging an ax and swinging a sword are two similar but completely separate beasts.
“Looking good,” The Daemon Sword spoke, his attitude nudging dangerously close to the coolest dude in the universe, “this tree isn’t all that big, I bet you could do it one handed.”
“Really? Is that safe?” Bird asked.
“Safe? No, none of this is safe, but you are extremely comfortable with an ax, and this isn't all that different. Give it a shot.”
She gave it a shot. Fyndraxis guided her through the stroke with his haptics and the tree didn’t stand a chance. Even one handed she easily brought the tree to the earth. A smile began to creep onto her face. It was a pleasant smile that didn’t seem to show itself often, and that made it all the better.
“While I’m out here, I might as well take down a few bucks,” Bird said, using the rather obscure term buck, meaning a felled tree. With that, she began systematically disassembling the forest. Fyndraxis began to feel a sense of satisfaction while Bird went about this task. She had gone through about three dozen trees when his radio began going absolutely apeshit.