Greater Than Any Sword – Anniemay Parker

Greater Than Any Sword

Anniemay Parker

Dear Harrison,

As I write this, I watch our father lift his hammer once more. He drops it with the same force as the ones before, and he seems satisfied with his progress. Even if from my window, little has been made. He has been smelting again, getting the weapons ready for a raid he’s planning with his comrades. I must admit, when I was younger, I admired his strength in lifting that hammer and the power to twist metal. I ogled and cooed at his craftsmanship and felt pride in carrying the Kilna name.

But now I see the ignorance in his ways. How stubborn he is to drop the hammer on the metal when it has already cooled too much to be persuaded. I can clearly spot the parts of steel that have been maimed by our father’s indelicate touch. He always catches me staring and yells, ‘If you do not like what you see, then make your own goddamn butterknife!’

He never appreciated the simplicity of my stiletto knife. Nor did those who were impaled by it. Anyway, I pray this letter has found you in a place far from the troubles you encountered when you last wrote. The concern in your words plagued my thoughts, and I fear this letter may land in your unmarked grave than in your artist hands.

You and I have always known that art is a dangerous medium. Our eyes can mistake beauty and peace as a symbol of war. I just hope those who viewed your latest exhibition in such a way are now deterred from their violent ways. Your work has been the talk of Crin, and many have stopped to congratulate me on being related to such an influential man. I must agree with them.

When we were but children, do you remember how you would paint whatever I asked? Like the woman who flitted by on her steed or the sunflowers that sing to the stars. You were always so poised— like a trained fighter, you’d attack your journal with precise strokes. Do you also remember Father ripping your journal to shreds just for you to pull another one out from under your mattress? ‘Where was I?’ you’d mumble to yourself before resuming your drawing on the new parchment.

You were always so cheeky, Harrison. Always ten steps ahead like Mother. She is fine, before you ask. She stares out into the orchard often. I think she still sees us play-fighting between the trees.

She sat me down one night when Father had left with his comrades. Asking me for some insight on life through the poems and philosophies I teach. She has been reading my papers recently and seems to lose herself in them. I’m glad she has always been so attentive to our passions, it gives me hope that minds like Father’s could be changed. Mother kept circling back to power and strength. What made it true, what could make it disappear. It’s a flimsy thing. But then again, so is everything else in the material and internal world. Our minds associate certain people, animals, and colours as powerful. The government, the calm steed, and the vibrant red of blood. Just saying these words can make someone feel weak and at the mercy of what exists. But what about the subtle strengths? Those that flicker within our souls.

I likened these concepts to the hammer my Father lifts and the brush you stroke on each canvas. I told her that power could be artificial, metaphorical, even invisible. But unlike Father, who is stuck in his ways, true strength comes from those who go from canvas to canvas and paint with new colours, new purpose, and meaning. They respect that things, like metal too cool, cannot always be persuaded to change and must instead find change within themselves.

For with an open mind comes power and strength greater than any sword.

You may chuckle at this spiel, but I want you to know you are the one I admire, Harrison. I just hope I’m as powerful as you to be admired by others.

I send my love and best wishes to you. Come home soon.

Yours truly,

Sophia