Where the Rubies Come From
The sky had turned red. Not a blend of pinks and oranges melting until dusk, but a deep, violent crimson. This, as it so often had been, looked as though blood had been smeared across the horizon. And, at the back of his antique canoe, Harry the Jeweller lay with his limbs draped over the edges.
What was it like again, he wondered, when the sunlight did not torch his skin for the crime of being outside?
Sweat carried a thick layer of sunscreen into his dull, brown eyes. Stinging, he knew it would happen again yet still, as always, he did nothing to prevent it.
Two sailed in that frail canoe. The renegade, Victor, knelt near the front. Once, the bearded-man had been a jeweller, until the nerves in his own wrist betrayed him. The fine craft of thin metals and weak stones was all too much for his trembling hands. These days, the running of their business and the hunt was all he could muster.
Vic – which he greatly preferred – was rowing with a single, broken paddle. It was his own fault: after another loss at dice, he had snapped the timber across his knee.
A scorching wind brushed against them. Harry reached for the checkered-brown scarf around his neck and used it to cover his head. The fabric stuck to his damp hair – worthless.
The river was lined with sombre, black silhouettes of trees. Nature had once thrived here: strong bark, long branches filled with lush green leaves and colourful flowers. Now, even the stumps couldn’t be salvaged for paper. The few remaining leaves were well known to disintegrate at the slightest touch.
As a child, Harry knew hundreds of bees once called this their home. He swore he could still taste honey on his lips. Impossible, not even birds remained. And still, he searched: always seeking the violetbird – the birds with the amethyst tint on their feathers. Would there be at least one left? He had never seen one before, then again, he had always thought there would be more time.
“How about here?” Vic wielded the paddle like a sword. He was gloveless, and the tips of his fingers were welting.
With another quick glance across the remains of the riverbank, Harry scanned for crabs or rabbits or just about anything. Hope is a fleeting thought. He slipped out of the scarf, crumpled it into a ball and tossed it aside. Then, after sucking in a deep breath, he fitted the snorkel to his mouth, teeth sliding into the bite marks. After pulling the scratched mask over his face, he slumped into the warm water. It barely reached his knee. However, the sun had been brutal this past month, and that was why they needed to be there.
Sometimes rubies fell from the sky.
Despite appearances, these were not true gemstones, nor were they born in the atmosphere. Like many other things, natural or not, the red rain descended from the skies, and spilled into the environment like ash. Although, during the hottest of days, beneath the burning sun, the heat, the pressure and the light melted and solidified the droplets and grains of sand into shards of crimson glass.
Harry’s knuckles dug into the sand of the riverbed. He could still feel the air brushing along his spine.
The canoe had, once again, lodged into rubble and mud, resigned.
Underneath, tiny crimson pebbles glowed like neon lights, as though they were leading him deeper. A swarm of soil, mud and rubbish clung to his limbs, heavy and cold, weighing him down. Still, Harry advanced, eyes straining for any sign of life – something to break the eerie silence of the void. But nothing stirred. Nothing had called this place home for a very long time. Then, a mere fraction of a second before he was to turn, his eyes locked onto two faint glimmers. Within seconds, they were clutched tightly in his grip.
Above the surface, Harry spat the snorkel out, leaving it dangling beside his chin. With each breath he took, he could feel the air searing his lungs. He toppled into the canoe and ripped his mask off – red imprints surrounding his eyes.
“How’d you go?” Vic asked.
Harry was already almost completely dry. “I’m hot.”
“We’re outside. It’s always hot.”
“I wish it were cold again.”
A shadow swooped across the sky. Harry’s eyes darted above.
Nothing.
He began gnawing his bottom lip. No, he decided, just a bit of bark. The violetbird had long since moved on.
So, Harry grasped the two items he had retrieved from the bottom of the river and held them under the nose of his friend. In his palm rested a broken thermometer beside a chunk of crimson glass.
* * *
Silver rings, Harry believed, would suit this particular piece.
He remained in the dark room at the back of their shop all throughout the night. It had taken far longer to get home than expected. After digging the canoe from the mud, Vic had rushed home to ice the cramps of his locked knuckles. He stumbled home like a drunken man; hands pressed against his chest, cursing the southerly winds.
There were three sterling silver bands he had crafted the day before. So, Harry began the wearisome method of separating the glass into rough portions: to truly sell the illusion that they were genuine rubies. With careful precision, he chipped the crimson into three uneven pieces. Each was a solid, dark scarlet, the swirls in the glass gave each their own imperfection. The flaws meant none would ever notice.
Attaching the crimson glass to silver was a monotonous process. To ensure it would not crack, melt or warp – and waste his day completely – he had to solder so very carefully, so very slowly, so very methodically. Hours passed. The soldering iron grew as heavy as an eternally increasing block of lead. The tremors in his hands worsened. His fingers throbbed. His spine ached.
He pressed on. The glass had to hold.
Tedious; the weight of his eyelids had become unbearable. Harry repeatedly began squeezing them together for a few seconds before widening them in some futile hope it would repel fatigue. In desperation, Harry started to speak into the glass. Quietly, he talked of the past: about how this had once been his parent’s shop; how his father had taught him silver-smithing before he had even stepped foot in school.
Harry and his father would spend days in the workshop, occupied by their craft under lamplight. He would watch his father make necklaces, rings, broaches, amulets and even a watch here or there. Sometimes, his father would have Harry hold pieces as they filed or sanded, likely to build his interest rather than help. Harry knew now, as he had suspected then, he wasn’t actually required.
Although, to him, it was more interesting than watching his mother sell their work. He couldn’t measure up to her. She was charismatic, hopeful and protruded joy that was propelled onto any customer. He could not help but be envious. Skills with people were not something that could be soldered like two bits of broken gold. He believed she would be disappointed in him; he simply lacked the people skills.
Harry confided to the glass that Vic was once a superior craftsman, sharper and quicker with the tools. Their fathers had been friends… and rivals, and perhaps it was their legacy they lived. Vic’s bitterness over his fallen ability was most evident whenever he refused to watch Harry work. He could not hide the growing disdain in his eyes as Harry’s craft flourished, like a phantom of competition still lingering. Although Harry said nothing to his friend, if he could still call him that, he chose to believe that Vic was still interested.
Harry whispered to the crimson glass – his ruby – about working with real precious stones. They felt different to him, smoother, better, cleaner. He claimed he wasn’t in it for the money, or fame, he just wanted his work to be the best it could be.
He wanted to be just like his father.
The memory of when Vic had first discovered the crimson glass flashed through Harry’s mind. He recalled that business had been terrible and then Vic appeared with a chunk of red glass the size of his fist. He told Harry of how he had found a child kicking it like a football. As a joke, they left it on the counter and customers truly believed it was a genuine ruby. There were dozens of offers and all refused to believe it was a fake. They returned to the river, where more was to be found. Harry was the one who realised by breaking them apart and adding them to their jewellery it would increase their chances of their scheme passing undetected.
He even told the glass of the violetbird: the bird that would migrate south for the winter, soar between clouds, drink fresh water, bathe under the clear rain, lay plenty of eggs and feed healthy worms to the hatchlings.
What happened to them? Harry never voiced questions aloud. Were they aware of what had happened? Had some tried to find a new place to live? To thrive? Did that even matter?
Eyes too heavy to open, he pictured the last violetbird in existence, chirping on the branches of blackened, hollow trees.
When all had been said, and no longer were there any memories or dreams to push into the glass, was when Harry felt the searing heat of the sun against his arm, piercing through the dirty window like a flare. The glass was finally attached. He dropped the soldering iron onto the bench with a clatter. Slumping back into his chair, he stretched his aching muscles and listened to the cracking pops in his neck.
* * *
Back in the shop, the dull chime of the door opening woke Harry from his mediocre slumber. He had dreamt of his father again. They were in the garden, carefully plucking cherry tomatoes. In the dream, they had retrieved the last ripe one when the first drops of rain fell.
Birds always retreated to cover and safety from the rain.
There were customers in the shop. A couple: both with an arm around the other’s waist.
Harry slumped over the counter, slotting the newest silver ring among the others with great haste. The broken thermometer lay nearby, residing adjacent to an empty vase. Vic had told him to throw it away, but Harry had become fixated. “Maybe I could repair it?” His own words echoed in the run-down building.
“Do you mock me?” Vic’s voice tore through him – him knee deep in the muddied-water of the river, grime dripping from his claws.
Harry blinked and he was back to reality. “How can I help?” Bags hung under his eyes, water seeping from the corners.
“We’re looking for an engagement ring,” the man said. “We heard you specialise in rubies.”
Harry sighed. “Yeah. Here.” He gestured towards the hollow counter. Only one true ruby remained, the rest but only crimson glass. “This is my newest piece.” Harry drew the crafted ring. It was still warm. “Actually, only finished it a few minutes ago.”
Her nose twitched. “I think I prefer the gold one at the front.”
Harry cursed his fortunes. She had selected the sole ring in the store remaining with a real ruby; the one there only for those asking questions.
Vic would know what must be done.
With the silver ring in his left hand and the gold in the right, Harry offered them both for a closer inspection. “Trust me, this is one-of-a-kind, near flawless ruby. This is the one to celebrate your adventure in this wonderful world.”
They had made their choice and disappeared. In the now empty store, Harry gripped the remaining ring between his fingers. Then, before he placed it within the counter, he slipped it on. The ring fitted perfectly on his finger. He did not know what possessed him to wear it – perhaps it was the only real thing he knew. Although, in the end, all he could do was peer deeply into the glass of this new piece. What no one else knew, what no one would ever see, was the engraving on the underside: a bird in mid-flight, frozen in silver.
He would say this was an authentic ruby, and everyone would believe him. This was not just jewellery. This was for him: to keep safe his memories and his thoughts, to shield his feelings and his silent hopes, but above all else, it was to prove his craft. A faint pulse of warmth spread throughout his hand, and with that he felt that just maybe he still had something worth giving.
Chris Browley is a teacher based in Naarm (Melbourne), Australia. He lives with his supportive wife, daughter and energetic dog. In the rarest moments of free time, he writes short, strange and unusual fiction and enjoys creating unnecessary challenges for himself. After years of keeping his work to himself he has decided to share his words with the world.
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