The Golden Acorn Chapter 2.

Chapter Two.

 

The Witch.

 

One day, Babbin was standing outside the smithy, taking a well‑earned break from the heavy work, when a woman rode up on a tall black horse. She dismounted, tied the animal to the rail, and strode across to him. She was dressed from head to toe in black.

Babbin inclined his head politely.

“Good morning, ma’am.”

She spoke in a harsh voice.

“I am told you are the finest blacksmith in the kingdom.”

Babbin shrugged.

“Other people say that,” he replied carefully. “It is not a claim I make for myself.”

“Hmmm.” The woman’s eyes narrowed. “My horse needs new shoes. He does not like to be touched by anyone except me. No one else has managed to shoe him properly. Do it, and you will be handsomely rewarded.”

“I will certainly do my best,” said Babbin.

“Of that I am in no doubt,” snarled the woman. “Everyone does their best for the Witch of the Dark Forest.”

Babbin went over to the horse. Gently, he ran his hand down its neck. The animal trembled, turned its head to look at him, and then, like every other creature, relaxed. Babbin lifted its back leg and examined the shoe.

“No wonder this animal is unhappy,” he said. “These shoes should have been replaced long ago.”

“Then I suggest you get on with it,” the Witch snapped. “He seems to trust you.”

Babbin set to work. The Witch paced up and down outside the forge, impatient as a storm cloud. When he finished, she mounted her horse and looked down at him.

“It appears you are indeed the best smith in the kingdom.”

She threw a coin at him. He caught it neatly. It was unexpectedly heavy, a large gold coin.

He held it up to the light.

“Do not concern yourself,” the Witch sniffed. “It is true gold. Only a poor witch is a moneyless witch.”

Babbin shook his head.

“I did not doubt that, your ladyship. It is simply far more than the job is worth, and I doubt there is enough money in the whole village to give you change.”

The Witch laughed, not unpleasantly this time.

“So, not only a craftsman, but an honest one too. Keep it.”

She paused. “I may have other work for you yet.”

With that, she rode away.

Babbin looked at the gold coin, flipped it in the air, and caught it. He knew exactly what he wanted to do with it. Instead of handing it to Inga, he went to a high shelf in the forge and took down a battered tin box. Inside was a gold chain he had bought for Inga’s birthday. Now he had an idea for something to hang from it.

Exactly a week later, the Witch returned. Babbin went out to greet her.

She did not dismount at first.

“Could you make a suit of armour?” she demanded.

Babbin thought for a moment.

“I could make one if I could see what it looks like.”

The Witch dismounted, tied her horse, and clicked her fingers. A sheet of paper appeared in her hand. She gave it to Babbin.

“Like this?”

Babbin wiped his hands on a rag and studied the drawing while the Witch tapped her foot impatiently.

“Well, man?” she snapped.

Slowly, he nodded.

“Yes. I reckon I could do that.”

“Good,” said the Witch. “It must be as strong as possible, but still light and flexible.”

“That will need special steel,” said Babbin. “It is not cheap. I would have to buy it from the makers in the city.”

The Witch reached into her saddlebag and thrust a heavy pouch at him.

“I think there is plenty enough in there.”

Babbin opened it. The bag was full of silver coins.

“More than enough,” he said.

“Then get started at once. I need it as soon as possible.”

Babbin hesitated.

“I wonder if there is something you can do for me.”

The Witch sniffed.

“What?”

Babbin explained about wanting to learn how to make delicate trinkets like those he had seen at the market.

The Witch laughed, not kindly, and nodded.

“Yes, I can give you the secret, if you truly want it.”

“Yes, please,” said Babbin.

“If you give me what I ask for, the spell is yours.”

She waved her hands over his chest. “There.”

“One more thing, ma’am,” said Babbin.

The Witch snarled.

“What now? This is beginning to bore me.”

“Who is to wear the armour? I will need measurements to make it fit properly.”

Just then, Inga came out of the cottage and crossed the road to her father’s saddlery.

A nasty smile crossed the Witch’s face.

“Make it fit her,” she said. “She is about the right size for what I have in mind. Now get on with it.”

She mounted her horse and galloped away.

Babbin worked out how much metal he would need, harnessed the pony and trap, and set off for the city. He toured the steel‑makers until he found the strongest, thinnest steel available. It cost a great deal and made a deep hole in the bag of silver.

Back home, he hammered and welded and sweated in the heat of the forge. By day he worked on the armour; in the evenings he explored the new skills the Witch’s spell had given him.

He melted a candle and shaped the wax into the model he wanted. Then he covered the wax with clay, leaving a drain hole. He heated it until the wax melted and ran out. He melted the gold coin and poured the liquid metal into the mould.

Impatiently, he waited for it to cool. When he opened the mould, he was delighted to find a perfect golden acorn, the perfect gift for Inga’s birthday. All he needed now was to fix it to the chain.

A week later, the Witch returned. She demanded to see the armour. When she saw it, she pursed her lips.

“That is far too shiny. It must be black.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” said Babbin. “You asked for the strongest, lightest, most flexible armour I could make. It has to be steel, and steel is shiny.”

“There must be a way to make it black,” she snapped.

“None that I know,” said Babbin. “I could enamel it, but that would crack the first time it was used. I could paint it, but it would scratch off.”

The Witch stamped her foot.

“It must be black.”

Then she took a deep breath. “Finish it, and I will return when I have found a way.”

She rode away, and Babbin sighed with relief.

A week later, the armour was finished. The Witch reappeared with a packet of black powder.

“Mix this with oil and paint it on,” she ordered. “And whatever you do, do not get any on your skin.”

She laughed.

“It will not come off. When you are done, heat your forge to its hottest and burn the wrapping. And do not breathe the smoke, or your lungs will be black forever. I will return in two days.”

Babbin obeyed. The armour turned black. He burned the wrapping and watched from outside as the black smoke curled into the sky.

True to her word, the Witch returned. She examined the armour carefully.

“Good,” she said at last. “Exactly what I wanted.”

She looked at him closely.

“I see you have been using the skills I gave you.”

Babbin frowned.

“How did you know?”

“My spell,” said the Witch. “I know when it is working. Show me what you made.”

Babbin found he could not refuse. He fetched the golden acorn from his tin box.

The Witch smiled an unpleasant smile.

“I said you would give me what I asked for, and you will. This is perfect for my plans.”

She held out her hand, and Babbin dropped the acorn into it, helpless.

“I put my heart and soul into that,” he said sadly.

“I know,” said the Witch. “I can feel it.”

She held the acorn against the armour, right where the wearer’s heart would be.

“Leave the armour in the lane behind the forge. Someone will collect it tonight.”

“But what about the acorn?” Babbin whispered.

“Oh, you may take it back when your heart stops beating and starts again. The spell will end when you give it away again.”

With that, she left.

An hour later, when he did not come home for his evening meal, Inga found Babbin lying on the ground. He told her everything and showed her the golden chain that was meant to hold the acorn.

The armour vanished that night. No one saw or heard anything.

Babbin continued his work as a blacksmith, but with a heavy heart. Something was missing. Children no longer rushed to greet him, and horses that once trusted him now trembled at his touch.

For some reason, neither he nor Inga could ever speak of the black armour, not even when messengers from the King came asking if anyone knew anything about a black knight.

And though he still had the ability to make delicate things, he no longer tried.