The Ring (short fiction)

The Alchemist Josiah

The heat was overwhelming -- stifling Josiah's breath as he poured the precious, molten metal into the channel in the stone mold. He had done this a thousand times. A thousand times his steady, perspiring hands had spiraled around in a circle -- holding the crucible wrapped in rags to shield his fingers from its searing heat -- close above the rapidly heating granite until the blistering liquid filled the channel that he had created just for this purpose to the very top.

But, this time, it was different. This time, as he watched the gleaming liquid fill the mold, a strange, rushing feeling began to well in his chest. It was as if he had been reflecting upon an especially sweet coupling with Miriam on some cool evening long ago in his youth when no such thought had entered his mind. It was a profound epiphany, as though some divine, cosmic energy had chosen that moment to course through his body -- as though, in that moment, his innermost self and his life would be changed forever and he would never be the same thereafter.

As suddenly as it had come upon him, the odd, overwhelming feeling was then swept away on the desert breeze. Shaking the memory of it from his mind, Josiah returned the crucible to its shelf and turned away from the stone mold. Allowing his newest creation time to cool, he drew a cup of water from a pitcher that sat in a dark corner of his workshop.

Taking a long drink, he wiped the sweat from his brow with a corner of his robe and stepped out into the small, shady courtyard where -- surrounded by the scent of fruit ripening on the espaliers -- he took a gigantic breath of cool air. His gaze fell upon Miriam, his wife, as she crouched grinding the grain into flour over a milling stone. He hadn't noticed how old she'd become, how her once shining, chestnut colored hair had begun to show the snow of age at the temples and crest.

In his mind's eye her bent, frail figure transformed into the memory that he kept of her as he'd first seen her -- gossiping, laughing and teasing with the other village girls at the well. A slight smile played upon the corners of his mouth as, in a vision, an earlier version of her came pouring forth through a rip in time and space surrounded by muted, glowing, white light.

My Miriam, murmured his inner voice, my staunchest supporter, my refuge, my truest love and my wife, how I love thee. . . Thou art as a part of mine own body . . . as necessary and seamless to me as my legs, my hands or my very own heart . . . We are and always have been as two halves of a single whole as, even unto death, we shall always be. . .

As if hearing his unspoken words, Miriam glanced up, smiling, and a brief, knowing look passed between them before she cast her attention back down to her task.

The Procurer Salome

Salome was perplexed -- perplexed and annoyed -- as she scurried along the narrow street past the fruit vendors, the weavers and the occasional soldier standing guard along the way.

When I get to his shop, that smith better have my ring ready as I commissioned. If he has sold it to someone else, thought Salome resolutely, I will convince The Procurator to banish him from the city -- I swear I will. . .

The truth was that, several weeks before, at a party being given by her husband, the regional Roman Procurator, Salome's attention had been drawn -- as if under some kind of bewitchment -- to another example of Josiah's work adorning the very wealthy finger of the Roman Prefect's wife.

In that very instant, she knew that she would be forced to set aside her infamous pride in order to beg the woman for the name of the craftsman who'd created it.

Never before had Salome seen such fine work as the Prefect's wife sported on her finger that evening. The workmanship was exquisite. The thickness of the gold itself was barely the diameter of a leaf from the fig tree and, yet, she'd marveled at the ring's strength and durability once she'd coaxed the woman to remove it for her closer inspection. At the top and bottom, the geometric-patterned fluting that was tooled into the edges was -- in her near-expert opinion -- perfectly executed, so evenly spaced and proportioned that it was difficult to believe that it had been crafted by human hands. She knew then that she must have one just like it.

Uncharacteristically for Salome, the mere sight of the object seemed to force all care from her mind over the whispering that would erupt behind her back if she succeeded in acquiring another ring just like that one. It seemed oddly unimportant that word of the shocking state of her undisguised jealousy would pass from member to member among her friends and relations, as one who had loved position, status and admiration all of her life suddenly abandoned all precepts of decorum. She saw herself, as if she was a helpless bystander -- outside her own body -- watching herself interrogating the poor woman, pressing her to divulge the identity of the ring's creator and apparently powerless to alter her own behavior in any way.

At first, the Prefect's wife had been reluctant to say where and from whom she'd acquired the ring but, under the intense onslaught of Salome's inquisition, she felt threatened and just the slightest bit afraid, although, she wasn't quite certain why. . .

Finally, in her mounting anxiety, the woman blurted out Josiah's name and the name of the section of the city in which Josiah lived just to escape Salome's crushing inquest. Salome made her way to Josiah's small shop the very next day where she gave him two gold coins to commence work on her own ring.

The customers of the local vendors along the street that Salome now negotiated on her way to claim her prize infuriated her with their sluggishness. Why did they not get out of her way? Why, instead, did they slowly mill about like stunned fish instead of drawing their dealings with the vendors closer to the sides of the street to allow persons with important business to move along at a more rapid pace down the center of the narrow thoroughfare?

Thrusting herself this way and that between the lazy patrons, Salome stopped and scanned the block to get her bearings. There it was; the powder blue, plastered walls of the smith's house. She jerked open the gate and stepped into the courtyard. A small, red dog lunged out from a shady corner of the yard and began barking at her in high pitched, sharp whelps in rapid succession.

"Mani! Mani! Hush now! Is that any way to treat our paying customers?"

Josiah, the goldsmith, crossed the courtyard and shooed the dog off in his wife's direction at the hearth.

"Once again, you honor my humble home, Madame Procurator. Welcome. Welcome!" he said warmly, bowing slightly at the waist, "May I have my wife draw you a cool cup of water? Or would you prefer a slice of apple? This variety is quite good eating," Josiah said as he gestured toward one of the espaliered fruit trees which lined two walls of the courtyard.

"Thank you, no," Salome answered pertly, "I do not wish to be rude but, I have come for my ring and my time, I'm afraid, is limited today. The Procurator requires my services as hostess early this evening for another affair of state and I really must be going soon."

Josiah bowed again, "Of course, Madame, your ring is here and ready," he said gesturing toward the doorway of his shop, "Right this way, Madame."

Salome stepped inside the tiny, sweltering room behind Josiah who reached up and took a wooden box down from an upper shelf. He placed the box on the now cooled slab of granite carved with his various molds and opened it with a modest flourish revealing a bundle of black cloth which he removed and unwrapped like a magician producing a dove by sleight-of-hand.

Salome leaned slightly forward and held her breath in anticipation as the cloth unfurled but she could almost discern the gleam of the ring even before the last folds fell away.

It seemed to Salome that the ring had the ability to gather all of the available light in the dim, dusty shop into its one, tiny circle and then cast it back a hundredfold.

"Oooooohhhh," she cooed with her fingers poised above Josiah's outstretched palm, "It is exquisite! Marvelous! You are a master, smith, a master of your craft! This ring is even finer than the one you fashioned for the Prefect's wife!"

Embarrassed, Josiah bent his head and mumbled some words of appreciation for her enthusiastic praise but Salome heard nothing. It was as though her hand acted of its own volition, as if, in a dream, she watched it snatch the ring from Josiah's hand. In her next conscious moment, she found herself standing just outside the shop door, in the courtyard, holding the ring in her flattened palm with no memory at all of having grasped it nor of having stepped outside.

The bright sunlight in the courtyard infused the ring with its brilliance. It flashed and glinted and grew warm in her hand as she examined it, awestruck by its sheer beauty. Then, to Salome's ears, the noise from the busy street beyond the courtyard walls faded away and grew strangely silent as a long, sustained note of harmony -- sounding like a large chorus of angelic voices very far away -- took its place.

Transfixed, Salome held the ring gently between her trembling fingers and slowly slid it down the middle finger of her left hand.

Josiah stepped down from the doorway and approached her tentatively.

 "You hear it, as well, do you not?" he inquired in a hushed tone.

It was several moments before Salome became aware that she was being spoken to. Swaying slightly, she took a breath and shook her head from side to side, regaining her bearings. "I'm sorry, smith," she answered, "You were speaking to me?"

"When you look... at the ring..." Josiah stammered, "Do you not hear... a sound... as though... as though, far off... in the distance... there were many voices... voices harmonizing in song?"

Salome brought her gaze up to meet his and a minute or two passed as they stood, motionless, each trying to read the thoughts that lay behind the other's eyes.

Salome spoke first -- carefully forming her words: "I did hear... something... I thought I did, anyway, and it was as you say... Although, at this moment, I'm not at all certain what it was that I heard."

"I first heard it as I was pouring the mold," Josiah said glancing up, "I was thinking about my wife, Miriam, in an off-handed sort of way, I suppose, and of my great love for her when I felt something... a feeling like some wonderful thing was about to happen... I know it sounds mad but, then, later on, as I was etching the pattern into the edges, I heard a chorus of voices that seemed to grow louder and louder until it drowned out every other sound ... I have no rational explanation for it but, as I was forging and shaping the ring, it was as though a divine force somehow surged through my hands and infused itself into the very metal of the ring..."

Josiah grew suddenly silent.

After a moment or two, in a worried tone, he spoke again, "It must mean that I'm going mad."

He studied Salome's expression. "But, then, I thought I saw something in your expression as you beheld the ring -- as though you, too, were listening to those same voices..." he trailed off as his eyes entreated hers for validation.

A slight smile passed over Salome's lips. "You must love your Miriam very much, smith," she murmured gently, "Very, very much."

"Aye, I do," he affirmed, lowering his gaze, "She is the light of the world to me."

"I think I have an idea what may have happened," Salome offered, "I think that your great love for your wife has created some kind of direct communication with The Living God or, at the very least, created such a link with his powerful messaging angels.

I believe that all superlatively creative gifts such as yours are bestowed by Him. Further, the objects resulting from the exercise of those gifts should have been prepared with the deepest appreciation for having been given them and with a great deal of love in one's heart for The Bestower.

I think that you are one of the very rarest of human beings, smith: One who holds pure love and gratitude in his heart every moment of every day and, for this, God has bestowed upon you a gift for creation beyond that of most mortal men. I think that the pure joy you feel simply in the working of your craft for His glory has garnered you a second gift, as well: The ability to transform and transmute the inanimate minerals you fashion into beacons of the most powerful energy on the face of earth -- beacons that attract to their beholders pure, divine love."

"You are wise, Madame Procurator," Josiah said as he fell to one knee, "I am humbled by your words."

Salome's musical laughter scattered across the courtyard, "Arise, smith! You are not obliged to honor me! If anyone here deserves honor, it is you -- not I."

She drew a small cloth bag from her robes and tossed it in Josiah's direction and, as he caught it, the distinct clinking of gold coins echoed from inside.

"You'll find a good deal more there than we agreed upon for your services, smith," Salome smiled broadly, "I think you'll be pleased with the amount. And, now, I must be on my way. May He bless and keep you and your Miriam -- she is an extremely lucky woman, indeed, to have won such a love."

In a wave of her robes, Salome turned and swept out of the courtyard gate like some great bird taking flight. In a moment, she was gone.

Miriam came running eagerly to her husband's side, "Well? Was she pleased with your work, Josiah?"

Josiah pulled open the bag and shook the contents out into his palm.

"Glory to God!" he exclaimed, staring wide-eyed at the contents resting in his hand, "She has paid not only more than the price I asked in gold but here are precious stones as well! Two sapphires, three rubies and, look, Miriam, a great, green emerald!"

Miriam reached out, plucked one of the rubies from Josiah's hand and stared at it with her mouth agape. "I don't believe it! Josiah! These stones must be worth a small fortune!" she exclaimed, looking up at her husband.

He smiled and reached out to embrace her, "A mere pittance in comparison to the wealth of love that I have for you, my beloved Miriam," he told her as he grasped her tightly to his body, "A mere pittance..."