The Rowan Mace
A story about imposter syndrome, and the courage to face it
I held the small knife tightly in my hand. In my other was the handle of the mace.
It had taken me weeks to create it, the rough knobs at the end pointing in all directions. Right now, my tongue poked out the side of my mouth, rubbing against the exposed tooth on the left. I focused on engraving the last letter, D.
“Are you coming with us?”
I looked up to see my half-brother, Schnell, standing in the entrance to my quarters.
“I didn’t know if you wanted me to come along.” I refocused, wanting to complete the word.
Schnell grunted. He took a moment, looking around my room, as if trying to find some sort of leverage to get me to go.
“What are you working on?” His curiosity got the better of him.
“Neeka said this would help.”
“What would?”
“The right wood,” I answered.
“No, what would?”
“Rowan.”
“What?” I could feel his confusion. He shook his head. “No, what did Neeka tell you would help?”
“If I used a rowan branch when I went out, to stop… you know.”
“You’re being…” He struggled with the right word.
“Paranod,” I filled in. “That’s what you called it the last time we went out.”
“Yeah. Paranod.” Schnell nodded. “You’re not to blame.”
“Every time we go out—” I started.
“It’s not every time we go out.” Schnell rolled his eyes.
I finished the D with a flourish. I glanced up, then placed my knife back in the box on the table, closing the lid. Tucking the handle of the mace under my arm, I stood.
“You’re coming?”
Schnell smiled and started bouncing with excitement. He ran down the length of the cave, chittering in his own way, grabbing the attention of the elders in the front quarters.
Meeka, our mother, stuck her head out of the entrance. Her chittering matched Schnell’s, and they conversed for a moment in their own little language that I had always felt left out of.
As I approached the entrance of the cavern, the chittering subsided, and Meeka looked me up and down. Her eyes focused on the carved wooden mace.
“You think that’s going to help?” Her distaste was obvious.
“Neeka is wise. I trust her,” I said, lifting my chin defiantly.
She grunted in reply. She fussed over Schnell for a moment, then ushered us out and down the hill. Well, Schnell. A few chittering comments were offered to him. I knew enough to understand she was giving advice on how to deal with me joining the rest of the younger tribe members.
As we reached the bottom of the hill, the rest of the younger members’ eyes widened as they saw me approaching. Their eyes lingered on the mace.
One of them set their feet, then frowned and reset them. Another tightened their grip on their weapon, then loosened it, like it didn’t feel right in their hand.
“We’re hunting,” Schnell confirmed, his voice thick with the authority bestowed on him. He picked up his own thick stick and pointed the way.
Schnell’s ability to down a small critter for dinner was well established, and he was always tasked with helping the young ones learn their way. He could hide in the undergrowth and pounce quickly. He didn’t have shiny scales that gave away his position, glinting sunlight at the wrong time and scaring the prey.
“Does Schmog need to join us?” The whispered voice came from the youngest of the group, Ick.
Schnell gave him a look that didn’t need translating, and Ick moved to the back of the group, weaving through the others so Schnell would stop glaring.
“Yah, Schnell, he’s bad—” Dunk started.
“It’s you head getting in the way,” Schnell growled, making them step back in line. “You make the choice to be warriors today. It isn’t on Schmog to make you feel… confidont.”
“I got mace.” I held out the wooden weapon. “Neeka said—”
“Ugh. You’re being paranod.” Schnell pushed through the group, heading into the forest.
He didn’t wait for us to follow, but he paused for a moment, and his little chittering word for me echoed in my ears, my horns catching the phrase.
Sighing, I followed, the mace resting on my shoulder.
I felt it as we crossed into the forest. The line between what was safe and what was hunting ground. A small shiver ran down my spine, my blue scales tingling in response.
Schnell paused and looked at me, glancing up and down. He frowned, shrugged, and continued to his spot. His spot. Where the furred bouncers loved the sweet grass.
Ick closed in behind me. I held him back with the mace so Schnell had time to check the clearing.
A flash of blue light hit Ick square in the chest.
He stilled.
“What—”
He blinked, like something had just slipped out of place.
Then his eyes shifted past me. Focused.
“No, Schnell, we need to be over that hill. Trust me.”
Schnell hesitated. Just for a moment.
Then followed.
Ick moved differently now. Lower. Smoother. His brown fur shimmered as he slipped through the foliage, almost disappearing. His sling made no sound as the stone flew, cracking the bouncer’s skull.
A clean shot.
The group behind me gasped.
Schnell moved in, silent as ever, retrieving the white bouncer. The blood was barely visible.
“Well. Ick. What did you do differently today than last cycles?”
Ick glanced at me. Then at the mace.
“I… ah. The weapon.” He pointed.
Dunk stepped forward, pushing into the mace deliberately.
The same blue light flared.
Dunk stilled, his jaw tightening.
“There’s a tunnel. Just there.”
He didn’t hesitate. He moved into the scrub, loosed his spear, and struck a second bouncer clean through the chest.
Schnell smacked my shoulder. “Neeka said wood would work?”
I nodded.
The rest of the group started to line up. Waiting.
“Two more,” Schnell ordered. “We don’t want to waste good.”
We walked back into the cavern later, Meeka waiting for Schnell, her chittering high and eager, expecting his offering.
But this time—
it was me who carried the bouncer home.
Author’s Note: Meeting Schmog
Schmog wasn’t born in a story.
He was given to me.
During a conversation about imposter syndrome, someone suggested I try something different. Instead of fighting it, ignoring it, or letting it run wild in my head… name it. Understand it. Learn how to work with it.
So I did.
Schmog became the name of that voice. The one that questions, hesitates, second-guesses. The one that tells me I’m not ready, not good enough, not there yet.
But once he had a name, he stopped being everything.
He became something.
And something can be worked with.
Not long after, something unexpected happened.
My friend Zanne, an incredibly talented pottery artist and teacher, shared two of her in-progress creations with me. Two creatures, still unfinished, not yet fired or glazed… and I knew them immediately.
One was Schmog.
The other was Schnell. His half-brother. The one who moves faster, acts quicker, believes a little more easily, even if he doesn’t always understand.
Seeing them take shape outside of my own mind shifted something again.
Schmog wasn’t just a feeling anymore. He had form. Presence. Story.
And that’s where this began.
This piece, The Rowan Mace, is part of the exploration of my Imposter Syndrome. What happens when doubt isn’t hidden? When it’s shared, confronted, even transformed?
Because imposter syndrome doesn’t disappear.
But it can be understood.
And sometimes, even… trained.
Above is the image of Schmog and Schnell in their earliest form, before firing and glaze. Raw, unfinished, and becoming something more.