The Golden Acorn Chapter 9.

Chapter Nine.

 

A Heart to give away.

 

Babbin was helped to his feet by Prince Rogan and the Sergeant, who half carried, half dragged him to the bench outside the inn.

Jack followed, looking very worried.

“The clock must have stopped. I don’t understand it. That clock was one of the best I’ve ever made.”

Five minutes later, Babbin sat upright again. He took a deep breath.

“It’s beating again.”

Inga bent over and listened to his chest. She nodded.

“It may be beating, but the spell is wearing out. We must get the acorn back as soon as possible.”

A small crowd had gathered.

“If it doesn’t rain again today,” said one villager hopefully—

“Sorry, ma’am,” interrupted the Sergeant. “I’ve been down to the ford this morning. No one can cross it. The river should be passable tomorrow. It goes down quickly.”

Inga began to argue, but Babbin raised a hand.

“I’ll be all right. I can last another day as long as the clock keeps ticking. And the rest will do me good.”

He grinned. “Besides, I’m famished. I left before breakfast.”

Prince Rogan laughed.

“Then food you shall have, but not until you show us what you’ve made.”

“I can show you,” said Jack. “If Babbin doesn’t mind.”

Babbin shook his head, smiling even more broadly.

Jack opened his hand. Nestled in his palm was a golden star.

“Baron Astel has a single star on his shield, so we thought he’d like a clock weight in the same shape. Babbin made the mould last night. We had to wait for the clay to harden before pouring the gold. It’s still warm.”

Everyone crowded round to admire it, except Inga, who pointed firmly at the inn door. Babbin obeyed at once.

 

They spent the day resting. Babbin was not even allowed to walk about.

That night, torches were lit on every building.

“I don’t think the Wraiths will attack here,” said Prince Rogan, “but better safe than sorry.”

The next morning, as predicted, the ford was passable. Inga was eager to leave.

But as they prepared the cart, a messenger arrived. He dismounted and handed Prince Rogan a letter.

“Sorry, everyone,” said the Prince. “I must deal with this. I recognise my father’s seal.”

He read the letter, pacing up and down. Inga and Babbin waited impatiently.

Rogan tucked the letter away.

“I’ve been ordered to go to Rougham Hall to meet a troop of cavalry. The Baron and I are then to go south to see if the Wraiths or Magalan have caused trouble there.”

He laughed. “Lucky we were going there anyway.”

The messenger saluted.

“I have another letter for you, sire.”

Rogan opened it and chuckled.

“This one is from Princess Aidel. She’s coming with the cavalry. She says she’s fed up with my being away so much, so she’s bringing our son Aidan and joining me on the southern tour.”

He clapped his hands.

“Since we must go to the Baron, we’d best be off.”

Jack begged for a lift in the trap.

“It’s my clock, after all. I want to see why it stopped.”

Baron Astel was delighted to see Prince Rogan.

After greetings, Rogan explained about the cavalry and Princess Aidel.

“I look forward to seeing her again,” said the Baron. “And your son as well. But that’s not why these good people are here, is it?”

Jack stepped forward.

“About the clock…”

“Ah, yes,” said the Baron, looking embarrassed. “My fault entirely. You said it was a seven‑day clock and needed winding once a week. I forgot. Luckily, I was looking at it when it stopped, so it didn’t take long to start it again.”

He led them to a beautifully furnished room. The clock stood proudly beside a bookshelf.

The Baron opened the front door of the clock. Inside, the golden acorn glinted as it swung back and forth, ticking steadily.

Jack reached in to take it.

“No,” said Babbin. “I think I must do it. The Witch said I could take it back when it had stopped beating and started again.”

Jack handed him the golden star. Carefully, Babbin unhooked the acorn. The clock fell silent.

For a moment, Babbin held both the acorn and the star. He smiled at Inga, then gently hooked the star onto the pendulum chain. He gave it a small push. The star swung, and the clock began ticking once more.

Everyone breathed again.

“Is the spell broken?” asked Baron Astel, closing the clock door.

“Not quite,” said Babbin. He turned to Inga. “In all the excitement, you’ve forgotten something.”

She looked puzzled.

“Today is your birthday,” said Babbin. “I asked Jack the date.”

Inga frowned, then laughed.

“So, it is. My mother always said I was born the day after the first autumn storm.”

Babbin took the chain from his pocket and threaded it through the loop on the acorn.

“I made this for your birthday. I put my heart and soul into it.”

He slipped the chain over her head. The acorn rested just above her heart.

“Magalan said I had to give my heart away again after it began to beat,” he said softly.

“You’ve always had my heart,” he added.

From somewhere far away, Babbin felt a sudden intake of breath, as if a weight had lifted. His shoulders straightened. He felt fully alive again, more alive than he had in months.

Inga flung her arms around his neck and kissed him.

“It’s mine now,” she said. “And you’ll never give your heart to anyone else.”

Sometime later, Babbin was standing outside the smithy, taking a well‑earned break, when a woman rode up on a tall black horse. She dismounted and tied the animal to the rail.

She strode across to him, dressed head to toe in black.

Babbin inclined his head.

“Good morning, ma’am.”

“I am told you are the finest blacksmith in the kingdom,” she said in a harsh voice.

Babbin shrugged.

“Other people say that. It’s not a claim I make myself.”

“Hmmm.” She eyed him. “My horse needs new shoes. He doesn’t like anyone touching him 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 have no doubt,” snarled the woman. “Everyone does their best for the Witch of the Dark Forest.”

Babbin approached the horse. Gently, he ran his hand down its neck. The animal trembled, then relaxed completely.

He lifted its back leg.

“No wonder he’s unhappy. These shoes should have been replaced long ago.”

“Then get on with it,” snapped the Witch. “He seems to trust you. And while you work, I’m going to see the Saddler across the road. I hear he makes the finest saddles, and I need a new one.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Babbin mildly. “And a new pair of gloves too?”

The Witch nodded.

“And a new pair of gloves too.”

When Babbin finished, the Witch came out of the Saddlery. She ran her hand over the horse’s back.

“He looks happier.”

Babbin nodded.

“I see you have a newborn son,” said the Witch. “A big lad, like his father.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Babbin proudly.

“Excellent.” She handed him a small bag of money.

“This should pay for the work.”

Babbin weighed the bag.

“There is far more here than I need.”

“Well,” said the Witch, “that is because I have another task for you.”

“I don’t make armour,” said Babbin quietly.

The Witch laughed.

“Good. But you do make flowers from copper, or so I’m told. I want you to use the silver coins in that purse to make me a rose, like the one you made for your wife.”

Babbin smiled.

“I can do that. With great pleasure, great pleasure indeed.”

Babbin returned to his forge, stronger and happier than he had ever been. Inga kept the books for both the Smithy and the Saddlery, and their baby son grew as fast as a well‑fed foal. The golden acorn never left her neck. Sometimes, when the light caught it just right, it seemed to glow with a warmth all of its own.

People in the town often said that Babbin’s work had grown even finer since his adventure. His horseshoes lasted longer, his tools were sharper, and the little trinkets he made in the evenings were more delicate than ever. Some whispered that he must have a touch of magic in his hands. Inga only smiled and said nothing.

As for the Witch of the Dark Forest, the real one, rode up on her tall black horse, inspected Babbin’s new silver rose, and nodded once.

“Acceptable,” she said.

Which, from Calizone, was the highest praise anyone could hope for.

Before she left, she leaned down from her saddle and looked at Inga’s baby son, who stared back with wide, fearless eyes.

“A strong heart,” she murmured. “Just like his father.”

Then she rode away without another word, her cloak swirling behind her like a shadow.