The Wonder Hill: A Tale of Forge Bagnia

In the world of the Scribe, his home is referred to as “Haven.” Haven’s history is long and complicated, but the mansion home the Scribe eventually resides in is built by the famed architect and cogworker Forge Bagnia. But even the greatest of men have to grow up…

Forge Bagnia stepped down from the carriage, letting the attendant close it behind him. It pulled away, and he was left standing in front of the oversized shop. This close, he could see the edges of the false front, drawing attention while simultaneously hiding the fact it was little more than one story.

But a perceived scale would impact business, for good or ill. It was sixth rule he had been taught in his apprenticeship. The further implication, unwritten, yet still a rule, was never to trust the front anyone showed. Looking back, Forge wished he had listened to his grandfather.

He had only ever trusted in one person – truly trusted that their front was the same as the shop behind. Of course, he trusted his shop assistants to perform tasks as required, or run errands. But to depend on someone? Only one person came to mind. And that person hadn’t just let him down, they had betrayed everything they once shared.

Sighing, Forge stepped up to the door. His callused knuckles rapped on the heavy oak. After a brief pause, the door squeaked inward, revealing a short man with extremely wide shoulders. Not for the first time, Forge thought the man looked just like the building he worked in. It was almost comical, but Forge didn’t laugh. He knew this man too well to mock his physical attributes.

“Harris,” he said, by way of greeting.

“Master Bagnia,” Harris replied after a moment, studying Forge’s face, which was leathery from the constant heat of his work. “Won’t you come in?”

“Of course,” Forge said, stepping into the brightly lit shop.

“I fear I almost didn’t recognize you,” Harris said, pushing the door close and motioning toward a door in the back. Forge remembered it – he could hardly forget it if he tried. His eyes took in the familiar sights of the room, noting the changes that had taken place since he had been away.

The coat of arms still hung behind the thick pine counter, repainted so the colors seemed to pop into Forge’s eyes, even as he tried to avoid them. With a lurch, he noticed the small model carriage sitting beside the sheaf of papers that served as the current shop records. “That carriage,” he said to Harris. “Is it…”

“Yes, Master Bagnia,” Harris replied. “It’s the same one you made all those years ago. Mister Steel couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it.”

“Of course he couldn’t,” Forge said, following Harris through the wide door in the back. Even as he exited, his eyes drifted to where the carriage sat, pulled by two wooden horses, carved by Mister Steel Bagnia himself.

His grandfather’s workshop was lit only by the light of the forge and the windows – a tradition that influenced Forge until this very day. The forge, and the bright daylight shining through the wide-open bay windows, was always enough to work by. When it was not, that was when you knew your body needed rest. Try as he might, Forge could not break the habit.

A massive man was standing, bare-chested, in front of the glistening coals. He lifted a piece of glowing metal, quickly putting it on the anvil. A heavy fist lifted a hammer and began to beat the piece of metal into shape. Forge recognized the outline, even this early in the process. “Another carriage, Mister Steel?” he called.

The man looked up, noticing him for the first time. The hammer faltered, and the bearded face collapsed into shock. “F-Forge?” he asked, putting the hammer down. He almost let go of the glowing metal, but remembered the third rule of his list – Safety is key. Slipping the metal back in the fire, he turned back to face Forge again. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to make things right,” Forge said, stepping through the workshop’s entrance.

“It’s good to see you,” Mister Steel said, reaching out to embrace him.

Forge put up a hand. “I’ve come to make things right,” he explained. “But I don’t think I’m ready for that quite yet.”

Mister Steel nodded. “Of course.” He looked to the side. “Look, boy,” he started. “About what happened.”

“Tell me,” Forge interrupted. “How’s business?” He didn’t feel like he was ready for that conversation, either. “Still working on carriages?”

“For the most part. There are specialty items, of course, like iron gates and the like. But carriages remain the main source of income.”

“Have you looked into working with cogs and steam?” Forge asked.

“No,” Mister Steel laughed, shaking his head. “I’ll leave that to your young brain. Old coalheads like me can stick with carriages and horses, thank you very much.”

Forge grinned a little at that. But only a little. “The shop hasn’t changed much,” he commented.

“Nothing does much,” Mister Steel replied. “Once you find a system that works, why change?”

“Rule seven,” Forge said under his breath.

“What was that?” Steel asked, putting a hand behind his ear. “Years of pounding metal doesn’t make for great hearing.”

“I said, that’s rule seven,” Forge repeated, louder. “And you should try earplugs. It’s like a sponge that fits into your ears. Protects them from loud noises, like clanging metal.”

“I’ve heard they work well,” Mister Steel nodded.

“They do,” Forge said.

The awkward silence that followed was broken only by the sounds of the sizzling forge, and Harris’s pronounced coughing. Both Bagnia’s looked at the clerk, who was frowning at them.

“Do you have something to say?” Mister Steel asked.

“No,” Harris said. “But I believe both of you have things you need to say to each other. I suggest you start talking.” He turned on his heel and disappeared toward the shop.

The two men looked at each other. “Grandfather,” Forge said, the word feeling strange. He hadn’t called Mister Steel that in years. “I guess it’s not going to get easier. We should talk about what happened.”

“Rule five,” Mister Steel. “If you’re going drop your work, make sure you can pick it up again.” He pulled the metal out of the fire, and plunged it into the cooling bucket. Steam hissed into a cloud, and Mister Steel tossed the tongs onto a nearby counter. “Come with me. There’s something I want to show you.”

Forge followed his grandfather through the belly of the building, noticing how few apprentices were working on putting carriages together. The business had shrunk sizably since the last time Forge had visited.

Mister Steel paused at the door, retrieving a thick woolen shirt from a hanger. It was more like a poncho with arms, covered in deep pockets. Forge had a similar one – something he could quickly put on if he needed to go out to town. And, like his grandfather, he put it by the door, so he would see it while he was leaving. In the confines of the workshop, it was easy enough to forget one’s decency.

“Did your father ever tell you about Wonder Hill?” Mister Steel asked, pushing through the door and into the bare street beyond.

“Yes,” Forge said. His father, Mister Steel’s son, had died when he was young. Mister Steel had taken Forge in. In hindsight, Forge wondered if it had been a mistake. “He said he would take me when it was time.”

“It’s where I took him when he was on the cusp of becoming a man, and where my father took me, and his father before him, back many generations. You should have gone, too. But…”

“I left,” Forge said. “That’s what happened.”

“I pushed you away,” Mister Steel corrected. “It’s a short walk out of town. Are you up for it?”

“I think so,” Forge said. He followed his grandfather, taking in the sights of Norwell. So many buildings had cropped up since he had lived here. The ancient cathedral still stood, though it was beginning to fall into disrepair. Other buildings, such as the commissary, had been torn down and rebuilt completely. A necessity, Forge was sure, but that didn’t make the new, peaked roof any less jarring.

They were quiet as they walked. Bagnia’s were skilled at focusing on a task and ignoring the typical social etiquette that went along with human interaction. The town passed faster than Forge had expected, and he found himself walking toward the thick foliage of Beltsway Woods.

“Wonder Hill is here?” he asked. The way his father had talked about it on those rare occasions had left him assuming it was a long journey.

“Yes,” Mister Steel said. “It’s actually not far into the Beltsway. But you wouldn’t know to look for it.”

“Why do you say that?” Forge asked.

“Because no one notices the normality of wonder,” Mister Steel replied. “And likewise, the wonder of normality.”

Forge gave him a curious look. Mister Steel was not a poetic man in general. Perhaps he was becoming softer with age. Or perhaps the tough front he had grown with had been the false one all along, and this was the true shop behind. Rule six sprang back to Forge’s mind. Had he been too quick to judge?

They passed into the cool shade of the forest, following a well-travelled path for a few paces. Mister Steel then turned toward a large gully. “Down here,” he said, stepping down a rock stairway that Forge would have overlooked.

Forge followed, sliding down the loose dirt, just like he had when he was growing up. Mister Steel had already begun to walk down the basin of the gully, thankfully dry this time of year. Only a few minutes later, he stopped and pointed upwards.

Forge’s eyes tracked to where he was pointing. “That overhang? What’s so special about it?”

“Look at how it’s made,” Mister Steel said. “What’s keeping that it up?”

Forge examined it closely. “I have no idea. What is it?”

“Creeper trees,” Mister Steel replied, indicating the row of trees growing on top of the protruding face. “You can see the base of the roots sticking through the dirt.”

Forge gave a small expression of interest. Though they looked similar to other native trees, creeper trees were incredibly weak, using their vine-like branches to crawl up other trees until they were strong enough to stand on their own.

“But the only creeper that’s growing is all the way back on the edge of the gully,” Forge said.

Mister Steel smiled through his scorched beard. “Let me show you.” He led the way up the side of the gully, using another barely noticeable rock staircase. He sat down near the top, Forge standing a few feet below. “Years ago, this gully wasn’t anywhere near this large. In fact, it started just about where this overhang ends. That’s when our ancestor noticed something.” Mister Steel pointed to the root system. “Most of it has rotted away, but if you look closely, you can see the remains of two stumps. The one on the edge if the parent tree. Once it reached maturity, a sapling grew up next to it. It used the parent tree for stability and support, until it, too was fully grown. They grew so closely together that their very roots were entwined into an unbreakable bond.

“Years passed, and the cycle repeated. A third tree grew up next to the second. Around the same time, the first tree died, and was taken by the mill. But the roots remained. On and on, this happened, for hundreds of years. At the same time, the gully eroded, leaving the roots to open air.

“Had they been on their own, each tree would have fallen, lost to decomposition. But because they each supported each other, they remained strong. Through the years, of course, trees fell. But their strength – their roots – kept their legacy alive.”

A peaceful quiet settled over them, as Forge studied the roots with a renewed interest. His eyes roved, taking in the details he could. “That’s incredible,” he said.

“It’s a wonder,” Mister Steel replied. “A wonder of the normal world. But there’s an important lesson to learn here.”

Forge turned to him. His brown eyes reflected his grandfather’s, differentiated only by an aged, sorrowful wisdom. “I didn’t understand it, not fully, until you left,” Mr. Steel said, his eyes growing distant for a moment. “It is the job of the older to raise the younger. To support them as they age. Likewise, it is the job the younger to hold onto the older and keep them steady when they can no longer support themselves.” Mister Steel sighed. “But there’s one more thing.

“Notice that the trees continue to grow in a straight line, away from the gully. Each older tree pushes the one after it further than it could have gone on it’s own. And, my dear grandson, I did not do that. I tried to control your gift and your ability. I wanted you to be the son I lost, not the grandson I had received. You were a boy, but I treated you like you should have been a man. You had to grow up when your father died. But I stole the rest of your youth from you. And I should not have. So, Forge, I beg your forgiveness. From the depths of my heart, I am sorry.” His eyes fell away, hiding from Forge’s gaze.

For a moment, Forge was left speechless. Years of wondering and searching for the reason behind the feelings of being overlooked and misunderstood. His grandfather’s words entered his heart like a key, unlocking the hurt of his life. Blinking away tears, Forge coughed. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m not my father. But I am still your grandson.” Their eyes met again, Mister Steel’s eyes lightening with hope. “Grandfather, I don’t know if we’ll be able to be as close as we were all those years ago. But there’s still a lot that you could teach me.”

“It would be my honor,” Mister Steel replied. “I do not know if there will be much left to teach, but I will teach whatever there is.” He motioned to the trees. “You’re going to go farther than anyone else in our family. And I will do my best to support you as you do.”

Forge’s heart swelled. He recognized the difference between the words he had heard during his childhood. His grandfather was proud of who he was going to be. No longer was there the lingering implication, ‘your father would have been.’ Standing, Forge opened his arms. “We’ll see where I end up, Grandfather. But in the meantime, I think I’m ready-”

Before he could finish, his grandfather had pulled him into a tight hug. Like the creeper trees, they held and supported each other. A tear beaded a track down Forge’s cheek, shed for his father and the years of hurt. But even as his eyes mourned, Forge smiled.

“I’m home,” he whispered. And in the quiet, peaceful normality of the Wonder Hill, his grandfather pulled him a little closer.