“Go ahead. Pick it up.”
Dominic grabbed the handle of the hammer and lifted. It didn’t budge. He shifted to a two-handed grip and lifted again. It stayed on the table as if attached by…
“Magnets,” Dominic said with a smirk. “Great trick.” He stepped back to look under the table. He didn’t see any obvious attachments but that didn’t mean anything. This was Old Skarpi’s private shop. He had built everything here, and he was the best carpenter Dominic ever knew.
Skarpi leaned against the wall, his drooping moustache hiding a smile. “No tricks, kid.” He still called Dominic “kid” after ten years working together. “The table’s just a table. The hammer’s what’s special. It’s yours, so pick it up.”
“Yeah, but I got a hammer, Skarp.” He patted the worn Craftsman hanging from his belt. “You watched my Dad give it to me the day I started here with you. What’s the deal with this one?”
“I made it, kid. A long time ago and a long way from here, for a master craftsman like me I’d meet one day.” He stared Dominic down, silver-green eyes sharp as sawblades.
“Me? Like you?” Dominic laughed, not loudly. “Nah, Skarp. I’m okay enough, but..nah.”
“There’s your problem, kid. You don’t know who you are.”
Silence stood between then as Dominic mulled the words. He ran his fingers over the hammer’s handle. “Okay. I’m…yeah,” he whispered and tried again.
The handle budged, just a little.
Old Skarpi raised an eyebrow.
I figure Norse Mythology is still ripe for the pillaging. Fair is far, right? Admittedly, I didn’t hew terrible close to legendary names nor legendary weapons, but a legendary tool is still legendary. What’s more important is whether the wielder believes he is suitable to wield the weapon. Or the pen. Whatever.
Play along with the prompt here!
(Photo Credit: Rigby40 on Pixabay)