I wrote the below piece for Alison Chisnell's much lauded Advent Blog series - the theme for the 2013 series was "Stakes and Stories"
Day
20: High Stakes
Welcome to day 20 of the Advent blogs, and today’s
post is something of an extravaganza! Written by Kate Griffiths-Lambeth
(@KateGL) who regularly shares her excellently researched views over
on her own
blog, this post is definitely something special. So, take your time,
sit back and enjoy the story…
Artwork for today (and every day!) is by the brilliant Simon
Heath and today he has excelled all expectations with his
wonderful illustrations throughout this wonderful post.
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Once upon a time, in a cave high above a valley, there lived a savage
frost giant – he was set in his ways and his wrath, when challenged, was
terrifying. The villagers living on the edge of his mountain were in a
constant fear of displeasing him and, as a result, they were timid and
browbeaten. When he made demands they were careful to tell him what he
expected to hear, even when the answers were false. The other giants who
lived nearby were also wary of him; most of the time they kept their
distance. However, occasionally they would come together to challenge
each other in competitions to see who could hurl huge cannon balls the
furthest.
For many years the frost giant had relied on the elderly village
blacksmith to make the cannon balls. As his cave was at the top of a
cliff, the giant would haul the old man up to him, in a basket, to give him his
orders. When the blacksmith passed away the villagers were alarmed, as he
had left no heirs and there was nobody with the knowledge and skills to take on
his business. In haste an advertisement was placed in the national press,
to secure a new incumbent, before the giant decided that it was time for his
next tournament and found the blacksmith gone.
A few days later a traveller arrived at the village and asked to be
considered for the role. At first the inhabitants were reluctant, as the
applicant was a woman. Many suspected that she lacked the strength
required to wield metal and cast the cannon balls, whilst others feared that
the frost giant would be displeased by such an unorthodox appointment.
However, as no other candidates responded (probably out of fear of the giant),
the community agreed to give her a go.
The very next day, the frost giant bellowed that he was bored and
demanded that the other giants be summoned for a challenge. He shouted
for the blacksmith to come and take his order and threw down the basket on its
rope. The poor blacksmith had not yet even lit the forge fire; she had
nothing to prove her skills. The villagers were nervous, in case her
claims of proficiency were false. They did not wish to be associated with
her for fear that she enraged the giant. However, as they had no
alternative, they pushed the poor girl into the basket and watched as she was
hauled up to the cave above. When the ice-clad ogre saw the young woman
he gave out a great roar, but she did not quail. She simply asked what he
needed and promised to deliver his request. The giant snarled – what use
could a feeble female be in a role designed for men? However, his desire
for new cannon balls was such that he did not ban her from smithing, although
he openly sneered that he doubted her ability to accomplish anything more
sophisticated than producing cinders.
On being lowered down to the village, the blacksmith ignited the fire,
melted iron ore with charcoal and lime and cast the mixture directly into
moulds at the blast furnace’s base. When these solid orbs had cooled, she
loaded them, one at a time, into the basket and the giant hauled them up to his
lair. No thanks nor acknowledgement was given but the following morning
the giant’s companions arrived and the competition commenced. Without
considering the impact of their acts, the giants hurled the huge balls across
the valley. They smashed their way through hedges and over fields. A goat
was killed, a barn destroyed, crops flattened and the villagers hid in their
homes, waiting for the onslaught to finish. The blacksmith watched the
devastation, heard the children’s cries and pondered why these people allowed
themselves to live in fear and persecution.
Almost as soon as the contest started it was over, the giant’s
boisterous friends left and life in the region slipped back into its ever
deepening grooves, but the unmentioned fear of the next session remained hung
over the people like a fog.
The blacksmith soon earned her place in the community, her skills at
shaping metal and shoeing horses were impressive, people respected her and her
open helpful manner earned her friends. There were particular group of fourteen
individuals with whom she forged close bonds:
- a jovial bear-hug of a man, who carried with him (and added to) a
richly illustrated book of wisdom;
- an energetic, observant fellow with a bicycle who was often
followed by a black dog;
- a warm and welcoming mother of twins, who always supported those
who asked for help and who was good at running and running things;
- an intelligent witness, with eyes deep as Orcadian pools, who knew
his own mind and was a good judge of others; he kept in his pocket some
pebbles, collected on the beach with his sons – worn smooth by the
changing tides;
- An eloquent knowledge-sharer, with fiery passion and a taste for
ale, who had great tales to tell, especially those that allowed him to
wave his red flag with gusto;
- A frog charmer, book-worm and dreamer, from North of the Border,
with a lilt to her voice and a warmth to her heart that endeared her to
those who knew her (even those she didn’t feed);
- a wise raven-like academic, who had roosted in the orient for a
while and who nurtured the young beneath the wings of a dark cloak tied
with red tape;
- a mercurial jester, clever and quick, who provided accurate and at
times outspoken observations on the world, hugely loving but, driven by a
desire to be liked, used his jangling pig’s bladder at times more often
than some found comfortable;
- an ancient soul, with the eyes of an angel and a fresh flower in
her hair, who shared the wonders and love of her world with all;
- an engaging but independent bard, travelling his own path, with a
guitar to strum slung over his shoulder, a story to tell and a song for
most occasions;
- A man from the North, with a compassion in his soul that made his
eyes sparkle and quick humour and supportive honesty in his words that
made those around him shine and glow with confidence;
- An artistic confectioner, who made smooth, strong and silky
chocolate from beans plucked with passion from the Spice Isles, and who
could charm the bees from the trees and get them to offer up their honey;
- A calm observer with a beating heart and a heart for the beat,
always gentlemanly and often surprising; a capable gardener who shared his
produce, squash and alliums as the season offered, as well as his
thoughts, as gifts; and
- A young girl, the daughter of cheese makers, with hair like
spun gold and a ready smile, who skipped and danced with joy at all she
saw around her.
The more time the blacksmith spent in the community, getting to know the
people around her, the greater she wished to make their world a better
place. At first she did it by making useful pots and tools, she
progressed to ornaments, such as pergolas and decorative well-tops, adding
charm to their gardens, and then she made useful communal artefacts, like wrought
iron benches for the villagers to rest upon. However, she knew that
these were only superficial improvements. If she was to effect lasting
change she needed to tackle the root of the threat that hung over the people,
filling their souls with dread.
It was December and holly, ivy and mistletoe festooned the doors of the
houses, candles shone in the windows and mulled wine bubbled on stoves to be
offered to any who stopped for a chat. One evening, the blacksmith sat by
her fire, contemplating what gift she could give to her friends. Little
figurines would be easy, but she wanted something more
memorable/impactful. The flames on the log burning in the hearth flared
into life, just as the mulled wine started to boil, and that was sufficient to
spark her imagination, she realised what she had to do.
As it was still early evening, she slipped out of her house and paid a
visit to each of her close friends. She chatted briefly, but was careful
to leave with an object secreted in her pocket: a yet to be illustrated page
torn from a book; the hair of a dark dog, a worn lace discarded from a running
shoe; a pebble; a small piece of red cloth; some crumbs of tattie scone; a
strip of no-longer-needed red tape; a jovial but slightly battered bell; a few
flower petals; a broken guitar string; an eyelash; a piece of chocolate; an
onion; and a small morsel of golden cheese.
On Christmas Eve each household fetched in its Yule Log, carrying it
with ceremonial pride and christening it with wine or cider before setting it
ablaze. The blacksmith was no different, only she had taken care not to
trim all the branches off her piece of ash, one stout bough remained, like a
long, raised arm reaching out from the trunk. She lit the log at the end
near the branch, using beeswax to encourage the wood to light.
That night, when all had gone to sleep, the blacksmith remained
awake. Earlier in the week she had dried oak logs in a kiln, to make
“white coal” that would provide the extra heat required to melt metal.
During the afternoon she had lit her furnace, sealing the exterior with mud to
lock in the warmth. The heat, emanating from its opening, was like a
dragon’s breath as she reached towards the entrance to throw in smelted iron
and the objects that she had collected from her friends. Cast iron’s
quality is derived from a fusion of iron and carbon melded together when the
mixture is molten – the blacksmith needed the objects to provide the metal’s
strength but, in addition, she had selected each piece with care, as a symbol
of friends and fellowships, to add a little magic.
While the mixture melted to form a glowing liquid and seeped into a bowl
at the base of the furnace, the blacksmith took a tray of damp sand and, using
a slim wooden wedge as a template, made fourteen, identical, deep
indentations. Taking up the bowl of liquid metal in her tongs, with care
she poured the contents into the hollows. Steam and sparks filled the
air, but she remained focused. Eventually all fourteen shapes were filled
with solidifying metal. It was not long before she could take the tray
outside to let the night-time’s chill speed the process. Once the metal
was cool enough, she prized the shapes from their moulds – fourteen shining
stakes gleamed in the moonlight. Along with her hand-hammer, she bundled
these into a leather bag that she slung over her shoulder. Finally, she
cracked the metal poker hard against the base of the smouldering ash branch
protruding from the Yule log, causing it to snap from the trunk. This
proved an excellent long-handled torch, blazing at its tip. Using strips
of cloth, she was able to bind the cool end to her upper arm so that the flames
shed light from above her head, while she retained the ability to use her hands
without too much inconvenience. Thus equipped, she made her way to the
cliff leading up to the frost giant’s cave.
Using the hammer, she strove to drive the stakes into clefts in the rock
and thus provided herself with handholds and footholds on which to haul and
stand. Slowly and laboriously she climbed her way up the cliff. It
was nearly midnight when she reached the mouth of the cave. She could
hear the giant grunting and snoring, lost in his dreams – he was not disturbed
by the gentle glow from the burning ash wood. It was only when she was
standing inside the entrance, had unbound the torch from her arm and was
holding it aloft, that she gently called to him and he awoke.
“Who dares disturb me at this hour?”
He bellowed and abruptly rose up from the rags of his sordid bed.
The poor blacksmith was terrified, she had hoped to come and reason with him on
behalf of the village, but his face was a frozen mask of rage. He
commenced lumbering towards her, a club from beside his bed grasped in his vast
fist. His fury and menace were almost palpable. She dreaded him
charging at her, knocking her out of the cave mouth to a tumbled death at the
foot of the cliff. In self defence she held the torch in front of her, to
try and force him to keep his distance. Instead of stopping, the giant
blundered straight onto the fiery end of the branch. As the flames
touched his frozen skin an extraordinary thing happened, the ice cracked and
split, like fine lines in fractured metal, spreading across his torso and then
it began to melt. A veritable stream started flowing from the giant’s feet
towards the cave’s entrance and poured down, over the line of stakes leading up
to his lair. As the ice melted the giant himself shrank. He dwindled,
while water drained, eventually the blacksmith had a figure the size of a young
child huddled in fear on the ground in front of her.
Bending down to him she gently reached out her hand. Tentatively,
the being touched her fingers and then looked up into her face. His
fearful eyes filled her with pity. She moved closer and held him, in the
warmth of her strong arms, as the last melt-water dripped away.
It was nearly dawn when the blacksmith lowered what looked like a small
boy in the basket to the ground below and then followed down herself. She
took him back to her home, dried and dressed him and put him to bed. The
villagers were amazed on Christmas afternoon to see their friend accompanied by
what could have been her son. He enjoyed playing marbles with the cheese
makers’ daughter and proved excellent at manning the bellows for the
blacksmith’s forge. Looking up towards the giant’s cave, a cascade of
sparkling icicles shone and glinted with beauty in the pale sunshine, as they
clung to metal spikes. They hung there until the start of the New Year
and the glinting stakes remained thereafter as a testament to the blacksmith’s
endeavours. She knew they would never have been achieved without the help
of precious friends, who gave her the courage and the confidence to do the
right thing.
I staked my career on a number of things this year – the delivery of an
industry leading Leadership Development Programme (which has already made a
demonstrable impact); orchestrating an employee engagement survey that took a
genuine temperature check and produced world-class scores; agreeing and
articulating values; ensuring clarity of understanding of the vision and the
establishment of long-term strategic objectives, with a clear linkage between
performance and results. I could not have achieved all of this by myself
– I have worked with some of the most amazing people, many of whom I hope will
read this post. I treasure wonderful memories including:
- Sipping Scotch whilst contemplating Shackleton and leadership with
a friend who had the strength and vision to change his own life;
- Seeing a man I admire raise awareness of mental health within the
workplace and the birth of a movement;
- Being inspired by a lady who called others to action;
- Sharing ideas with and learning from erudite academics in
Cambridge;
- Celebrating the co-publication of an extraordinary, collaborative
book of HR blogs curated by a man I have the honour of calling my friend;
- Setting the world to rights, as the sun set over the sea, in Cape
Town;
- Being a Dragon assessing employees’ suggestions for a leading NHS
Foundation Trust – just one of my roles as a governor; and
- Sharing precious time with family and friends.
I have cheered people on as they have attained World Records, mourned
friends and great leaders who taught me what I should aspire to become and I
have made some wonderful acquaintances with creative and inspirational
individuals. Thank you! You inspired me, enlighten me, encourage
and sustain me. I am humbled by your skills, patience and
perseverance. I can only thank you for being part of my story and,
remember, inside most giants there is only a small child…
