Mark Spain Sevilla

Mark Spain SevillaMark Spain ReflectionMark Spain Pure Elegance
him an ant once, for a joke, and he’d sat up all
Terry Pratchett
night with a magnifying glass and an anvil made out of the head of a pin. The ant was still around, somewhere—some-times he could hear it clatter across the floor.
But tonight. . . well, tonight, in some way, he was going to pay the rent. Of course, he owned the forge. It had been passed down The wind rose, and somewhere there was the creak of a tree going over.
The latch rattled.
Then there was a knock at the door. Once. Twice.
Jason Ogg picked up his blindfold and put it on. That was important, his dad had said. It saved you getting dis-tracted.
He undid the door.for generations. But there was more to a forge than bricks and mortar and iron. He couldn’t put a name to it, but it was there. It was the difference between being a master farrier and just someone who bent iron in complicated ways for a living. And it had something to do with iron. And something to do with being allowed to be very good at his job. Some kind of rent.One day his dad had taken him aside and explained what he had to do, on nights like this.There’d be times, he said, there’d be times—and he’d know when they were without being told—there’d be times when someone would come with a horse to shoe. Make them welcome. Shoe the horse. Don’t let your mind wander. And try not to think about anything except horseshoes.He’d got quite used to it now.