The Godsmith

Arna brushed the knife over the wooden figure, letting the grain guide him, the figure taking shape in his hands as he worked it slowly, patiently. It knows what shape it is, they had said, his job was to find it and bring it out. Indeed, as the wood shavings drifted to the ground, certain features began to reveal themselves: here a face, there an arm, the figure emerging from the wood as if it couldn't help but take that form. He watched with curiosity as the knife slipped over the carving over and over again, remembering how at the beginning he had tried to force it, to impose a shape on the wood; those had come out rather badly, and became fuel for the fire. Now, he let the wood guide him, letting it show him what it wanted, and obeyed.

There weren't many godsmiths in the village, as it was a small one, but they were always looking for new hands, so it had been easy for him to get taken on as an apprentice. So far, he had created only minor gods, to watch over house guests, provide protection on short trips, and so on. Only the more seasoned godsmiths could create the greater gods, gods to watch over the harvest, marriages, even whole lives. There were gods for peace and gods for war, gods for protection and destruction, for giving hope, and for when hope was gone.

Every year, his masters would present a new Great god to the village, to keep it safe and prosperous, and these gods were especially powerful. It was said that in the capital city there was a Great god forty men high, that had taken a hundred godsmiths to create. It watched over the king and, to a lesser extent, the kingdom. Arna knew it would give long life to the king, but still he hoped to live until the day a new one was needed; by then, he thought, he might be good enough to help forge it.

Arna put the knife down, and turned the figure round in his hands. For a moment the considered smoothing out the arms a bit, but he knew better than that; the figure was Done, and anything he did to it now would lessen it. He placed it carefully on a worktable, and stepped back.

Now came the hard part. He had gotten quite good at bringing out the god from the wood, but any carver could do that. It was not complete, a god-shaped hole in the world, waiting to be filled. He dropped to his knees.

Arna closed his eyes, and began. He emptied his mind, banishing from it the thought of the carving knife and the block of wood, of the wood shavings scattered around him. He cast them all out, until there was nothing left but the god, and began to believe.

At first it was slow going, but he remembered what he had been taught, and took it carefully, step by step. Presently his belief began to grow, to flow through him, filling him completely. The god was there, the God would provide. The God was mercy and justice, power and compassion. The God was Good.

Arna trembled on the floor, fearing and adoring the God before him. The world drew back from him, leaving only him and It together. He felt the raw power of his belief surge through his body, then arc across to the God in a snap of white-hot energy. He slumped to the floor, panting.

After a moment, he got up, and picked the God up from the workbench. It was warm. He smiled, and held it to his ear; if he concentrated, he could just make out the telltale humming. Good.

He wrapped it carefully, and set it aside with the other completed Gods. He grinned, and reached for another chunk of wood. Three today so far, he thought. At this rate, he would make journeyman in no time.