A Keen Edge

I pressed the dark carbon steel blade flat against the wet whetstone. *Scrape.* A dry twig cracked behind the canvas tent—*gasp!* I froze mid-stroke, both hands clamped rigid around the rosewood handle, holding the angle dead steady at fifteen degrees. Nothing. Just an early morning breeze rustling through the alders. *Hah—phew.* With slow, circular sweeps, I guided the bevel along the grey grit, feeling the fine slurry gather along the cutting edge. *Shhh-clink, shhh-clink.* A hairline of bright silver gleamed along the dull tip. I gave it one final strop against my leather belt. Crisp, sharp, and true.