The Coinmaker

      There was a coinmaker, well versed in his art. He fashioned delicate dies and cast them well. Each coin he made with such perfection and care. He would sit in his work room, day after day making coins for the kingdom.

      One day his young son asked whose face was on the back of the coin.

      “My son,” he replied, “Everyone knows that the face on the coin is the face of the King.”

      Years passed, and his son was now grown, had fallen in love, and a child of his own. The kingdom to have grown, it seems, and the nobles fought over petty things. And when the King passed they clambered and jockeyed, each with designs to become the new King.

      Lords and Ladies sent their stewards to beseech the coinmaker to cast in their image, for everyone knows that the face on the coin is the face of the King.

      So he minted these coins, and for some was well paid. For others he was held at the honour of the privilege. But each and all soon forgot the coinmaker, none honoured his art or remembered his name. But he minted his coins and now with no model made his changes here and there, and perfected his art.

      One day his young grandson came into the workshop and asked his grandfather of the face on the coins.

      “Dear grandson,” he replied, “everyone knows that the face on the coin is the face of the King.”

      There was a knock at the workshop door and the old King’s stewards and guards entered.

      “Sire,” they said, “the pretenders have fallen on each other’s swords, will you return to your duties?”

      “No,” said the coinmaker, “I am too old for such things. But my grandson, my heir, will soon be of age. I will regent in his stead until the time comes.”

      “Very good sire,” the stewards replied, “how soon can you have the new dies ready?”

      “Tomorrow,” the coinmaker answered, and they bowed and left.

      The coinmaker winked at his grandson and tossed him a silver coin from the bench.

      

      For everyone knows that the face on the coin is the face of the King.

The Last Daughter of Ruan

      The trees sang as the violet sun rose. Amber fields awash with tendrils of sunlight. It filled Tehnar with warmth and brought tears to her eyes. She let the sun wash over her and breathed it into her very being. It hollowed her out and took her pain, leaving only a sense of vastness as though she was a shell for the universe.

      She kneeled to the earth and took clumps of it in her hand. She smelled the dirt and spread it through her hair. She took more and washed it on her clothes. She rose and wandered to the brook and there took mud from the banks and masked her exposed skin. She was full with purpose now and rose to head towards the sea.

     The sun was higher now but the sea still blinded. Tehnar followed the narrow winding path down the bluff to the beach. The sand was not yet hot and the roar of waves was deafening. She took two small vials from her pocket, filled one with sand and the other sea water.

     Among the charred ruins of boats that lined the shore was one that escaped the fire. She searched the others and salvages what food and supplies she could, and filled the water barrels from the stream just before it met the sea.

     Pushing it into the water she walked along with it until the water reached her knees and then climbed into the boat. It would take time to fashion a sail from the scraps she had recovered, but the oar was intact. She sculled the boat away from shore and did not allow herself to look back until the sun had passed its zenith.

     The shore was small now, as was the feeling of loss that sat within her emptiness, but Tehnar returned to the way ahead and drove further from those lost shores. She thought of the vials and the mud and the dirt, and the life within her. She placed a loving hand on the small bump of her belly and sang a soft lullaby for the last daughter of Ruan.