text: (Write about someone or something that has a superpower.) The boy sat on the flat rock by the stream, the words on the page fading as the light faded. It was the very best part of the day, the back breaking work of the day done, a meager but tasty meal over and then his personal few hours with the books. ~~~~~ Passing by that day, on his way to nowhere or who knows where, he stopped at the smith at the edge of this town, seeking water and information that would give him some idea the best way to go on. The smith was covered in sweat, his heavy hammer pounding again and again on the red glowing bar of steel, the boy watched silently for sometime trying to understand the process, moving the metal from one shape to another. When fatigue finally stopped the hammer, sweat dropped on to the anvil and sizzled as it danced and disappeared. Looking up from the forge at last, the smith noticed the boy, nodded and wiped a dirty rag across his brow and then dipped it into a tub and draped it around his neck. “And who might you be?” Was all he said before dipping a ladle of water from a barrel, time and time again, drinking deeply to replenish the sweat cooked from his body. That was how it began, a ladle of water and information was all the boy wanted, but now going on three years later, he was still here. The smith was Rusty, called so for the red mop of hair he kept tied in a bandana as he worked. It was sometime before he had explained his name, adding that day with a growling chuckle, that his sister with like hair was called Ginger and he was sure he got the better of the two names. Rusty had freely shared his water as was the way he had with travelers, gleaning information about the roads, goings on in nearby towns, and often shoeing their horses or fixing their wagons but this boy had nothing but patched pants, faded shirt and worn out shoes. He had asked again. “And who might you be? I didn’t catch a name.” “I’m just Billy”, the boy had replied. “They used to call me Little Billy but then I grew up and that just seemed foolish, so I’m just Billy.” The conversation continued about family, or lack of family and where he was headed. The forge was cleared of the days work and made ready for tomorrow while they talked and finally Rusty said, “well you might as well come along to supper, something hot should be waiting on the stove, some straw in the stable can make a decent bed and tomorrow is soon enough to be going to no where or who knows where!” A ramshackle building behind the forge was the smith’s home, shabby and in need of care on the outside but surprisingly tidy inside. The aroma of a brown stew bubbling on the stove made them both breathe in the warmth with anticipation. Rusty went about lighting lamps and Billy looked on in awe. The single large room was pleasant. The far wall had the stove and table, an open cabinet with pots and dry goods and a doorway to another room beyond. Around him on every side in the rest of the room was books. Shelves as tall as the room filled with all sizes of books. Billy could read some, having been taught by various people along the way, places he had lived, payment sometimes for shoveling or carrying or stacking and splitting wood but mostly the book had been the Bible or the Farmer’s Almanac. Here were more books than Billy had ever seen in one place and how surprising in the home of a smith. “Have you read them all?” Billy blurted out. In rapid succession his questions flowed, not waiting for answers. “How did you get so many?” “Do you have a favorite?” Billy drew his fingertips along the spines of the books nearest him and thought to himself, what a treasure! What a real treasure! Billy already knew how learning was a powerful thing and books were the powerful tool that gave you that learning. Rusty had been busy setting the table for their supper. He turned slowly and said “I’ve read quite a few, but many go unread as there is just so much time and the forge comes first.” By the time they had eaten, Billy knew that most of the books had come as part payment for work done at the forge. He looked again at the books, floor to ceiling, and thought about the hammer strikes and sweat represented there. Thinking to himself, he had never thought before that a man can be rich in many ways. Thanking Rusty for the meal, Billy accepted the offer to sleep in the stable and adds, “Think of some work I can do as payment in the morning, I have sure needed some time off the road, tonight has been a pleasant change.” In the stable, Billy found an out of the way corner and dropped some clean straw down for a bed. Taking his single blanket, he wrapped himself , then settled into a comfortable stupor. The food, the books, the sound of the animals snuffing and moving, he is happy with this day, but he is happy with most days. It is not dawn yet when Billy brings food to the animals and buckets of water from the stream and then mucks out the stalls in the stable. It is a good exchange to be doing some common thing for a dry safe bed and a plate or two of food. He hears Rusty at the forge and gathers his blanket and heads that way still not sure which direction he is going or where he will end up. He has been searching for some time but is never sure what he is searching for exactly. Rusty tells him a plate of food is in the warming oven if he cares for some breakfast. Just go on in Rusty says, I’m too busy to join you. And so Billy finds his breakfast but also pulls a book from a shelf and carefully thumbs through it while he eats. It is not like any book he has ever seen before as it is a classical text on how to build or repair things. Common useful things. Information worth gold to the right person and here it is on this shelf waiting to be discovered. Thinking now of the missing shingles on the roof and the way the gate is hanging on one hinge he keeps looking until he finds the pages that show him the way to make these repairs. Finishing his coffee, he looks one last time, returns the book to its place and goes in search of tools. And so begins the time, without discussion or real thought by either of them, the time that has become three years and many books, odd jobs and long talks into the evening about things they have heard this day or something read. Local folks have visited the forge and noted the small improvements and have asked after Billy to do a job or two for them. And so the time has gone, Billy adding to Rusty’s comfort and earning a bit for himself, maybe his searching has found an answer. He often thinks of a place of his own, his own workshop, but the books are here and he has so many left to read. That first book on that first morning has been with him the whole way. Within the pages he found how to enclose his corner of the stable for warmth and hooks for his extra shirt and hat, rest and comfort is all he needs, nothing fancy. Billy can see how books instill knowledge and confidence and satisfaction! Some other person, the author, becomes a hero by writing down things he has learned for others to read. Books are really marvelous and strong tools! Each evening he goes off to read by the river and when the book is finished, he places it in a special place on Rusty’s shelf where the “read” books live. He loves to glance to that corner and see, really see, how many he has finished. It would be hard to say or name a favorite as he is a boy of the moment. What he is reading at the moment becomes his favorite. Closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the tree he tries to really think about which might be his very favorite. Some are useful, some are funny or romantic, a few delve into deep thoughts about life, of course the teaching books.......deep in thought, he suddenly opened his eyes and smiled..... Yes, the ones he likes best are always the most well read. Handled by many before him, notes in the margins, underlined words. Other readers leaving a touch of themselves behind, their thoughts awakened or questions presented by the writer, yes, he likes thinking about the other readers. He himself would never mark a book as they were not his, maybe one day he will be rich enough to own a few. He cannot imagine being a person from whom letters flow into words and words become books. What special people they must be! True heroes, the authors, to share so freely and enrich so well. Well, it is time to head home....home? No not really home but a comfortable place that gives him more than he ever thought possible. Tomorrow is another day to think and work, read and try to understand. Many books on the unread shelves, who knew what could be ahead for him to enjoy or discover. He can only imagine an author writing by candlelight, imparting knowledge, yes, true heroes!