Archie and the North Wind Read Online Free

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    ‘Don’t worry, boy,’ Gobhlachan immediately said to him. ‘That Goblin isn’t the only one around here who can lay his paws on good tobacco.’ And he lit his pipe, handing it to Archie, who puffed and coughed and drew in the sweet nicotine. ‘And I won’t charge you half your tangle either,’ added Gobhlachan. ‘In fact, I won’t charge you any tangle at all. In fact, you will never have to go back to your tangle again. Plenty work here, son, if you want it. Hard work. Warm work. Right here by the fire.’
    And he beckoned Archie over, telling him to lift the stoking shovel which lay by the oven door. And there, by the forge door, Archie learned all there was to learn about iron. How soft and fluid and watery it really was before it was plunged into the flames. How you could shape it into any form you wished – curved, opaque, translucent, hard, soft, thick, thin. How fast you had to be to control it, before it assumed a shape you had never desired or imagined. How impossible it was to reverse the curve or the fault or the crack once it hardened or set. Creation was irreparable.
    The amount which ended up on the scrapheap! Hooves which turned out like bits of turd, shapeless pans, kettles which could not hold a thing, parts of ploughs which were as useless as a star on a summer’s day. But all that – that physical stuff – was the least of it. Gobhlachan’s lore was what really mattered: stories and trade secrets which were as fluid, or as set, as the iron itself. How iron protected you from the Fairies and safeguarded you from the dead. How a nail above the lintel of the door ensured that no evil ever entered; how a reaping-hook placed beneath the bed was a surefire guarantee that no mother or child died in childbirth. Gobhlachan never used the word ‘magic’, but that’s what it was: manifold ways of avoiding death and misfortune.
    Iron itself was, of course, magical. With hooves, your steeds ran faster, across all kinds of terrain, than anyone else’s horses. With a reaping hook you harvested bread. With an iron plough you eased the goodness out of the earth. With keys you locked – and opened – chests. With swords you conquered. With a gun barrel you triumphed. With a knife you could skin and dismember the deer.
    Gobhlachan had other, even more fantastic stories. How the Devil had tried to marry the most beautiful girl on the island. The time another Archie swam backwards up the Niagara Falls, watched by his rival. Why beggars were called Pilgrims of the Mist. How Donald was tamed by whisky in the well. How women made clay effigies. How you could travel all the way to America on a single wisp of straw. Transformation was everywhere. He said:

    Long ago, there lived a king and queen and they had five lovely sons. Then late in life they had this wee daughter. And she was beautiful. And they all adored her. Every one of them, the boys and the king and the queen. And they were all so happy. And the boys used to take her out to play, you see, because there was a big meadow and parks and trees that led down to the water. And they had ample place to play.
    So the mother says, ‘Mind you look after your wee sister now.’
    ‘Oh, yes, we’ll look after her, Mother.’
    But you know what boys are. They like to climb trees and play with bows and arrows and things like that. So they would leave her – she was very young, you see – and tell her to sit and make daisy chains or something in the meadow while they rampaged through the woods.
    But one day she’s sitting there trying to make daisy chains, when this white bull came making circles round about her. Wide circles at first. But every time it went round, it came closer and closer, you see.
    And it says, ‘Hello.’
    And she says, ‘Oh, hello.’
    And the wee white bull says, ‘Why are you sitting there on your own?’
    ‘The boys are away playing,’ she says. ‘They’re coming back for me soon.’
    He says, ‘Now, wouldn’t you