The Sixth Son by Michael Merriam

The Sixth Son
by Michael Merriam

He had not meant to kidnap the Hag.
In the gloom he mistook her
for the neighbor King's daughter;
the long brown hair down her back
fooled him in the darkness.

He snatched her and ran,
gave his oath, swore upon
his father's sword to marry her,
unknowing of her true identity.

His father's first son
had slain a magical beast
and rescued a noble-born maiden.
He brought her home, inherited
their father's bog-strewn kingdom,
settled down to ledgers and crop reports.
He trained his heir and bred hounds
while his wife, forgotten,
became brooding and vicious.

His father's second son was born
small and sickly, but grew cunning,
as only a second son could.
He settled for being his brother's
right hand, and plotting his demise.
Never the heir, no estate of his own,
he longed to rule their backwater.
Once a week he plays Nine-Men-Morris
with his older brother's wife.

His father's third son was born
under the magical number three
Cocky and bold with a quick wit
and sharp blade, he eloped with a milk maid
who turned out to be the lost heir
of a distant kingdom. They juggled and sang
and owned a talking cat.
In three acts they regained her throne
and lived happily ever something.

His father's fourth and fifth sons
were strong, loyal, and brave.
One became Captain of Infantry,
the other Captain of Cavalry,
for their brother's toy army.
Both had the good grace to
die heroically in battle
and troubled everyone no more
with their extraneous presences.

His father's seventh son, seventh son
of a seventh son, grew up looking at
things just beyond normal sight.
He moved into a creaky tower,
returning to the family hold for
holidays, weddings, and funerals,
his days filled with the company of
swamp creatures, hot animal entrails,
the wise and mighty beating on his door.

But he, his father's sixth son,
had not been born to inherit or be lucky.
He was none too handsome, nor fated for greatness.
Just a necessary step to the next son,
cast away, outcast, apprenticed to a
tradesman, he spent his days making horseshoes,
sewing needles, kitchen knives and nails.
Worth less than the landed nobility
despite his own royal birth.

He took her home.
His brothers shook their heads.
The nobles smirked behind his back.
The commoners whispered.
The King from the neighboring land
rode in on a tired old stallion,
and demanded the hag back.
His brother sent him into exile,
desperate to avoid a useless war.

He squatted down on a piece of land
with his new wife in his new country.
He planted seeds in barren soil,
hammered out metal trinkets to sell,
and stewed in his humiliation.
At night, crouched and huddled,
embracing by a hearth gone cold and dark,
they love, and afterward she
whispers secrets into his ear.

On a day with no noon sun, he lights the forge.
He takes a lock of his dead mother's hair,
his broken dreams, a tear from his hag-wife,
a pinch of his native soil,
the shattered swords of his fallen brothers,
and a piece of his living heart.

He works them into a lump; formless, ugly,
blazing with the white hot fury of creation.
Reality's foundations quiver in expectation.
He raises the hammer, and strikes.