Letter ‑ A
Name ‑ ANSUR
Meaning ‑ A MOUTH
Planetary Rulership ‑ MERCURY PASSIVE
Gemstone ‑ EMERALD
Flower ‑MORNING GLORY
Number ‑ 4
Arthian ‑ MERLIN
WEATHER ‑ MORNING BAD, AFTERNOON PLEASANT.
Association words: A mouth, Verbalization, A test, Apprenticeship, Thought, Eloquence.
For all matters connected with education and communication. To instil confidence in exam situations.
Points to the Querent receiving instruction or advice, doing well on a test, advice usually comes from a known source, possible visitation from some adviser or instructor. Promises made and kept, honesty, truth, negotiations, teaching.
Bad advice, broken promises, difficulties learning, keep your mouth closed to succeed. Trickery and dishonesty may be affecting the Querent, or they may be abusing knowledge. Older persons may pose difficulties due to their dependency, or maybe the Querent just isn’t learning life’s lessons. Possibly the Querent is an eternal student, always receiving the gift of knowledge but never using or sharing it.
Fjorn looked at the metal by his father’s forge. The square, stonework, firebox was banked the dull glow of the coals cast a red light through the room. The wind howled outside the closed doors of the smithy. Outside the jotun cast snow and ice over the land. The storm was primal dangerous, but jotun were what they were. Not evil, they simply were. Like iron, it was a thing to be shaped by the hammer into something useful. So, Thor used Mjolnir to tame the frost giants. So, the gods bent the primal forces to their will and shaped the daylight realms.
Picking up a broken sword blade Fjorn flicked it with his fingernail. The metal thunked dully. He put the blade down.
“Aye, no wonder that one snapped. Good metal should sing.”
Fjorn turned to see his father coming from the living area of the house. In deference to the smell of the forge, a thin wattle and dab wall separated the smithy from the family room. The older man was massive with strong arms and a stomach that bulged against his brown tunic. His dark-blond hair was liberally streaked with grey, and his beard curled and blackened from where sparks had flown up to sizzle against it. Years of experience showed in the plethora of old burn marks that spotted his body.
“I’m looking for the best we have. But I can’t find enough to make a sword, not if I want it to be quality.” Fjorn picked up another piece of iron and flicked it.
“A sword, you say. I won’t stop you son, but it seems ambitious. You’ve not made but two long blades, and I stood beside you for each. This is to be your master’s piece. Half the masters out there can’t make a long blade I’d take into battle. Make your life easier, do a dagger. Give it a fine edge then make it pretty. Something small and well-made will impress the other smiths more than something big and badly turned out. You’ll have years after they declare you master to perfect making swords.”
“You’re right father. Little Ylfa is nearly three. I’d like it if I could be declared a master before she can remember different. And Sigurlina deserves a master for a husband.”
“Far as that, they both love you, whether you be Master or Journeyman. And as to your mother say, she’d toss us out of the house before she’d Sigurlina or the little terror. She loves finally having a daughter, and you picked a fine one for us all.”
“All the more reason I needs pass this test. Sigurlina deserves a Master.” Fjorn picked up another piece of metal and flicked it. The metal sang. Nodding, he set it aside.
“You’ll make a fine piece, son.” Fjorn’s father nodded and returned to the living side of the shop.
Spring had come. Fjorn walked the fields outside the village palisade hand in hand with Sigurlina. Their daughter chased the crows that picked worms from the turned earth.
“It is a fine dagger, relax,” said Sigurlina.
Fjorn pulled her into his arms, allowing her embrace to calm him the way it always did. He almost chuckled. When he had proposed, he’d actually looked up into her eyes. Now her head could rest under his chin when he held her. “I want you to have reason to be proud of me.”
“Silly man, I’ve always been proud of you. I’m not a fool to toss you aside after six years as your wife.”
Fjorn’s father strode towards them over the rows of young wheat.
“Father?” Fjorn’s voice held a tremor.
The older man smiled. “What are you doing here? Wondering about when there’s work for a master smith do. Old Ragna said it was as fine a dagger as he’d ever seen.”
Fjorn hugged Sigurlina in joy and felt his father then his little girl embrace both of them.
Jokull ran his fingers over the boiled ox hide that was stacked in a heap on the living platform of the shop end of the house. The top hide was overly stiff and needed to be thinned before it could be shaped into much of anything but leather for the souls of boots.
“You’ll never make a breastplate out of that. Too small.” A sower-looking, slender man with pinched features and dark, greasy hair clad in a tunic and trues shouted from the living side of the tannery.
“Master Gaut.” Jokull started nervously. “I was going to make a set of boots so that I would have more time to focus on the work.”
The older man released a dismissive burst of air. “This is your master’s piece, boy! Stop thinking like a journeyman. Do something that will impress the masters.” The old master strutted over and shuffled through the hides pulling out a large, thick, poorly tanned piece. “Now, this will do for a master’s piece. Mark me, the other masters will be looking for something spectacular. The bigger, the better. Really show them what you can do.”
Jokull nodded. “Yes, Master. I will.”
The spring rains had turned the village courtyard to mud which splashed up to spatter Jokull’s leggings as he paced.
Master Gaut approached from the tannery.
“Well?” asked Jokull.
“You over-reached, boy. You should have made something simple that you know how to do well, like a pair of boots. You’ll know better for next year.”