![]() ![]() If I do, he’s going to tell me, and I’ll never get out of here. Did I mention the Packard Special? I’m guessing it’s from the early 1940s, but I’m careful not to ask Boyd too much about it. ![]() Nearby, two vintage Vincent motorcycles-one black, one red with a matching sidecar-gather dust. Behind me, tools appear to be piled one on top of another, on surfaces that were once worktables but now function as shelves. I’ve been hanging out with Boyd for almost four hours now, squirreled away inside his cramped and, to my untrained eye, disorganized shop. I guess it would turn water red, but the steak comment is kind of creeping me out, as is the growing realization that if these swords could talk, I couldn’t stomach half the tales they’d have to tell. It comes with the territory.”īlood rust: I hadn’t thought of that. If there’s blood on the sword and you start polishing it, the sword bleeds. I’ve encountered this before with Japanese swords from World War II. And it smells like a steak cooking, like cooked meat. If it’s blood rust it bleeds, it looks like blood in the water. “You can tell it’s blood,” he says matter-of-factly, “because ordinary rust turns the grinding water brown. “When I got this sword, it was completely covered in blood rust.” Sword maker Francis Boyd is showing me yet another weapon pulled from yet another safe in the heavily fortified workshop behind his northern California home. ![]()
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