INIGO
In the mountains of Central Spain, set high in the hills above Toledo, was the village of Arabella. It was very small and the air was always clear. That was all you could say that was good about Arabella: terrific air—you could see for miles.
But there was no work, the dogs overran the streets and there was never enough food. The air, clear enough, was also too hot in daylight, freezing at night. As to Inigo’s personal life, he was always just a trifle hungry, he had no brothers or sisters, and his mother had died in childbirth.
He was fantastically happy.
Because of his father. Domingo Montoya was funny-looking and crotchety and impatient and absent-minded and never smiled.
Inigo loved him. Totally. Don’t ask why. There really wasn’t any one reason you could put your finger on. Oh, probably Domingo loved him back, but love is many things, none of them logical.
Domingo Montoya made swords. If you wanted a fabulous sword, did you go to Domingo Montoya? If you wanted a great balanced piece of work, did you go to the mountains behind Toledo? If you wanted a masterpiece, a sword for the ages, was it Arabella that your footsteps led you to?
Nope.
You went to Madrid; because Madrid was where lived the famous Yeste, and if you had the money and he had the time, you got your weapon. Yeste was fat and jovial and one of the richest and most honored men in the city. And he should have been. He made wonderful swords, and noblemen bragged to each other when they owned an original Yeste.
But sometimes—not often, mind you, maybe once a year, maybe less—a request would come in for a weapon that was more than even Yeste could make. When that happened, did Yeste say, “Alas, I am sorry, I cannot do it”?
Nope.
What he said was, “Of course, I’d be delighted, fifty per cent down payment please, the rest before delivery, come back in a year, thank you very much.”
The next day he would set out for the hills behind Toledo.
“So, Domingo,” Yeste would call out when he reached Inigo’s father’s hut.
“So, Yeste,” Domingo Montoya would return from the hut doorway.
Then the two men would embrace and Inigo would come running up and Yeste would rumple his hair and then Inigo would make tea while the two men talked.
“I need you,” Yeste would always begin.
Domingo would grunt.
“This very week I have accepted a commission to make a sword for a member of the Italian nobility. It is to be jewel encrusted at the handle and the jewels are to spell out the name of his present mistress and—”
“No.”
That single word and that alone. But it was enough. When Domingo Montoya said “no” it meant nothing else but.
Inigo, busy with the tea, knew what would happen now: Yeste would use his charm.
“No.”
Yeste would use his wealth.
“No.”
His wit, his wonderful gift for persuasion.
“No.”
He would beg, entreat, promise, pledge.
“No.”
Insults. Threats.
“No.”
Finally, genuine tears.
“No. More tea, Yeste?”
“Perhaps another cup, thank you—” Then, big: “WHY WON’T YOU?”
Inigo hurried to refill their cups so as never to miss a word. He knew they had been brought up together, had known each other sixty years, had never not loved one another deeply, and it thrilled him when he could hear them arguing. That was the strange thing: arguing was all they ever did.
“Why? My fat friend asks me why? He sits there on his world-class ass and has the nerve to ask me why? Yeste. Come to me sometime with a challenge. Once, just once, ride up and say, ‘Domingo, I need a sword for an eighty-year-old man to fight a duel,’ and I would embrace you and cry ‘Yes!’ Because to make a sword for an eighty-year-old man to survive a duel, that would be something. Because the sword would have to be strong enough to win, yet light enough not to tire his weary arm. I would have to use my all to perhaps find an unknown metal, strong but very light, or devise a different formula for a known one, mix some bronze with some iron and some air in a way ignored for a thousand years. I would kiss your smelly feet for an opportunity like that, fat Yeste. But to make a stupid sword with stupid jewels in the form of stupid initials so some stupid Italian can thrill his stupid mistress, no. That, I will not do.”
“For the last time I ask you. Please.”
“For the last time I tell you, I am sorry. No.”
“I gave my word the sword would be made,” Yeste said. “I cannot make it. In all the world no one can but you, and you say no. Which means I have gone back on a commitment. Which means I have lost my honor. Which means that since honor is the only thing in the world I care about, and since I cannot live without it, I must die. And since you are my dearest friend, I may as well die now, with you, basking in the warmth of your affection.” And here Yeste would pull out a knife. It was a magnificent thing, a gift from Domingo on Yeste’s wedding day.
“Good-by, little Inigo,” Yeste would say then. “God grant you your quota of smiles.”
It was forbidden for Inigo to interrupt.
“Good-by, little Domingo,” Yeste would say then. “Although I die in your hut, and although it is your own stubborn fault that causes my ceasing, in other words, even though you are killing me, don’t think twice about it. I love you as I always have and God forbid your conscience should give you any trouble.” He pulled open his coat, brought the knife closer, closer.”The pain is worse than I imagined!” Yeste cried.
“How can it hurt when the point of the weapon is still an inch away from your belly?” Domingo asked.
“I’m anticipating, don’t bother me, let me die unpestered.” He brought the point to his skin, pushed.
Domingo grabbed the knife away. “Someday I won’t stop you,” he said. “Inigo, set an extra place for supper.”
“I was all set to kill myself, truly.”
“Enough dramatics.”
“What is on the menu for the evening?”
“The usual gruel.”
“Inigo, go check and see if there’s anything by chance in my carriage outside.”
There was always a feast waiting in the carriage.
And after the food and the stories would come the departure, and always, before the departure, would come the request. “We would be partners,” Yeste would say. “In Madrid. My name before yours on the sign, of course, but equal partners in all things.”
“No.”
“All right. Your name before mine. You are the greatest sword maker, you deserve to come first.”
“Have a good trip back.”
“WHY WON’T YOU?”
“Because, my friend Yeste, you are very famous and very rich, and so you should be, because you make wonderful weapons. But you must also make them for any fool who happens along. I am poor, and no one knows me in all the world except you and Inigo, but I do not have to suffer fools.”
“You are an artist,” Yeste said.
“No. Not yet. A craftsman only. But I dream to be an artist. I pray that someday, if I work with enough care, if I am very very lucky, I will make a weapon that is a work of art. Call me an artist then, and I will answer.”
Yeste entered his carriage. Domingo approached the window, whispered; “I remind you only of this: when you get this jeweled initialed sword, claim it as your own. Tell no one of my involvement.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
Embraces and waves. The carriage would leave. And that was the way of life before the six-fingered sword.
Inigo remembered exactly the moment it began. He was making lunch for them—his father always, from the time he was six, let him do the cooking—when a heavy knocking came on the hut door. “Inside there,” a voice boomed. “Be quick about it.”
Inigo’s father opened the door. “Your servant,” he said.
“You are a sword maker,” came the booming voice. “Of distinction. I have heard that this is true.”
“If only it were,” Domingo replied. “But I have no great skills. Mostly I do repair work. Perhaps if you had a dagger blade that was dulling, I might be able to please you. But anything more is beyond me.”
Inigo crept up behind his father and peeked out. The booming voice belonged to a powerful man with dark hair and broad shoulders who sat upon an elegant brown horse. A nobleman clearly, but Inigo could not tell the country.
“I desire to have made for me the greatest sword since Excalibur.”
“I hope your wishes are granted,” Domingo said. “And now, if you please, our lunch is almost ready and—”
“I do not give you permission to move. You stay right exactly where you are or risk my wrath, which, I must tell you in advance, is considerable. My temper is murderous. Now, what were you saying about your lunch?”
“I was saying that it will be hours before it is ready; I have nothing to do and would not dream of budging.”
“There are rumors,” the nobleman said, “that deep in the hills behind Toledo lives a genius. The greatest sword maker in all the world.”
“He visits here sometimes—that must be your mistake. But his name is Yeste and he lives in Madrid.”
“I will pay five hundred pieces of gold for my desires,” said the big-shouldered noble.
“That is more money than all the men in all this village will earn in all their lives,” said Domingo. “Truly, I would love to accept your offer. But I am not the man you seek.”
“These rumors lead me to believe that Domingo Montoya would solve my problem.”
“What is your problem?”
“I am a great swordsman. But I cannot find a weapon to match my peculiarities, and therefore I am deprived of reaching my highest skills. If I had a weapon to match my peculiarities, there would be no one in all the world to equal me.”
“What are these peculiarities you speak of?”
The noble held up his right hand.
Domingo began to grow excited.
The man had six fingers.
“You see?” the noble began.
“Of course,” Domingo interrupted, “the balance of the sword is wrong for you because every balance has been conceived of for five. The grip of every handle cramps you, because it has been built for five. For an ordinary swordsman it would not matter, but a great swordsman, a master, would have eventual discomfort. And the greatest swordsman in the world must always be at ease. The grip of his weapon must be as natural as the blink of his eye, and cause him no more thought.”
“Clearly, you understand the difficulties—” the nobleman began again.
But Domingo had traveled where others’ words could never reach him. Inigo had never seen his father so frenzied. “The measurements . . . of course . . . each finger and the circumference of the wrist, and the distance from the sixth nail to the index pad . . . so many measurements . . . and your preferences . . . Do you prefer to slash or cut? If you slash, do you prefer the right-to-left movement or perhaps the parallel? . . . When you cut, do you enjoy an upward thrust, and how much power do you wish to come from the shoulder, how much from the wrist? . . . And do you wish your point coated so as to enter more easily or do you enjoy seeing the opponent’s wince? . . . So much to be done, so much to be done . . .” and on and on he went until the noble dismounted and had to almost take him by the shoulders to quiet him.
“You are the man of the rumors.”
Domingo nodded.
“And you will make me the greatest sword since Excalibur.”
“I will beat my body into ruins for you. Perhaps I will fail. But no one will try harder.”
“And payment?”
“When you get the sword, then payment. Now let me get to work measuring. Inigo—my instruments.”
Inigo scurried into the darkest corner of the hut.
“I insist on leaving something on account.”
“It is not necessary; I may fail.”
“I insist.”
“All right. One goldpiece. Leave that. But do not bother me with money when there is work that needs beginning.”
The noble took out one piece of gold.
Domingo put it in a drawer and left it, without even a glance. “Feel your fingers now,” he commanded. “Rub your hands hard, shake your fingers—you will be excited when you duel and this handle must match your hand in that excitement; if I measured when you were relaxed, there would be a difference, as much as a thousandth of an inch and that would rob us of perfection. And that is what I seek. Perfection. I will not rest for less.”
The nobleman had to smile. “And how long will it take to reach it?”
“Come back in a year,” Domingo said, and with that he set to work.
Such a year.
Domingo slept only when he dropped from exhaustion. He ate only when Inigo would force him to. He studied, fretted, complained. He never should have taken the job; it was impossible. The next day he would be flying: he never should have taken the job; it was too simple to be worth his labors. Joy to despair, joy to despair, day to day, hour to hour. Sometimes Inigo would wake to find him weeping: “What is it, Father?” “It is that I cannot do it. I cannot make the sword. I cannot make my hands obey me. I would kill myself except what would you do then?” “Go to sleep, Father.” “No, I don’t need sleep. Failures don’t need sleep. Anyway, I slept yesterday.” “Please, Father, a little nap.” “All right; a few minutes; to keep you from nagging.”
Some nights Inigo would awake to see him dancing. “What is it, Father?” “It is that I have found my mistakes, corrected my misjudgments.” “Then it will be done soon, Father?” “It will be done tomorrow and it will be a miracle.” “You are wonderful, Father.” “I’m more wonderful than wonderful, how dare you insult me.”
But the next night, more tears. “What is it now, Father?” “The sword, the sword, I cannot make the sword.” “But last night, Father, you said you had found your mistakes.” “I was mistaken; tonight I found new ones, worse ones. I am the most wretched of creatures. Say you wouldn’t mind it if I killed myself so I could end this existence.” “But I would mind, Father. I love you and I would die if you stopped breathing.” “You don’t really love me; you’re only speaking pity.” “Who could pity the greatest sword maker in the history of the world?” “Thank you, Inigo.” “You’re welcome, Father.” “I love you back, Inigo.” “Sleep, Father.” “Yes. Sleep.”
A whole year of that. A year of the handle being right but the balance being wrong, of the balance being right, but the cutting edge too dull, of the cutting edge sharpened, but that threw the balance off again, of the balance returning, but now the point was fat, of the point regaining sharpness, only now the entire blade was too short and it all had to go, all had to be thrown out, all had to be done again. Again. Again. Domingo’s health began to leave him. He was fevered always now, but he forced his frail shell on, because this had to be the finest since Excalibur. Domingo was battling legend, and it was destroying him.
Such a year.
One night Inigo woke to find his father seated. Staring. Calm. Inigo followed the stare.
The six-fingered sword was done.
Even in the hut’s darkness, it glistened.
“At last,” Domingo whispered. He could not take his eyes from the glory of the sword. “After a lifetime, Inigo. Inigo. I am an artist.”
The big-shouldered nobleman did not agree. When he returned to purchase the sword, he merely looked at it a moment. “Not worth waiting for,” he said.
Inigo stood in the corner of the hut, watching, holding his breath.
“You are disappointed?” Domingo could scarcely get the words spoken.
“I’m not saying it’s trash, you understand,” the nobleman went on. “But it’s certainly not worth five hundred pieces of gold. I’ll give you ten; it’s probably worth that.”
“Wrong!” Domingo cried. “It is not worth ten. It is not worth even one. Here.” And he threw open the drawer where the one goldpiece had lain untouched the year. “The gold is yours. All of it. You have lost nothing.” He took back the sword and turned away.
“I’ll take the sword,” the nobleman said. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t take it. I only said I would pay what it was worth.”
Domingo whirled back, eyes bright. “You quibbled. You haggled. Art was involved and you saw only money. Beauty was here for the taking and you saw only your fat purse. You have lost nothing; there is no more reason for your remaining here. Please go.”
“The sword,” the noble said.
“The sword belongs to my son,” Domingo said. “I give it to him now. It is forever his. Good-by.”
“You’re a peasant and a fool and I want my sword.”
“You’re an enemy of art and I pity your ignorance,” Domingo said.
They were the last words he ever uttered.
The noble killed him then, with no warning; a flash of the nobleman’s sword and Domingo’s heart was torn to pieces.
Inigo screamed. He could not believe it; it had not happened. He screamed again. His father was fine; soon they would have tea. He could not stop screaming.
The village heard. Twenty men were at the door. The nobleman pushed his way through them. “That man attacked me. See? He holds a sword. He attacked me and I defended myself. Now move from my way.”
It was lies, of course, and everyone knew it. But he was a noble so what was there to do? They parted, and the nobleman mounted his horse.
“Coward!”
The nobleman whirled.
“Pig!”
Again the crowd parted.
Inigo stood there, holding the six-fingered sword, repeating his words: “Coward. Pig. Killer.”
“Someone tend the babe before he oversteps himself,” the noble said to the crowd.
Inigo ran forward then, standing in front of the nobleman’s horse, blocking the nobleman’s path. He raised the six-fingered sword with both his hands and cried, “I, Inigo Montoya, do challenge you, coward, pig, killer, ass, fool, to battle.”
“Get him out of my way. Move the infant.”
“The infant is ten and he stays,” Inigo said.
“Enough of your family is dead for one day; be content,” said the noble.
“When you beg me for your breath, then I shall be contented. Nowdismount !”
The nobleman dismounted.
“Draw your sword.”
The nobleman unsheathed his killing weapon.
“I dedicate your death to my father,” Inigo said. “Begin.”
They began.