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Authors: Gael Baudino
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thing. I hate death.”
Varden suddenly looked up, looked him in the face. “Death is very popular in the cities,” he said. “And in the country, too. Many people think of death a great deal. Much has been written of it, and painted . . . and carved.”
“Yes, yes. That's one of the reasons I left the capital.” David's voice was sharp with annoyance. Why was this stranger belaboring the obvious?
Varden continued to look him in the face. “But there is death, nonetheless,” he said simply, even though the light in his eyes appeared to deny that.
David noticed that his hands were shaking. “The Savior died to bring life,” he said, trying to ignore them. “I want to glorify that life. But people like Alban, like the ones in the cities . . . they're only seeing death. What's more, they seem to be worshiping it, reveling in it. It's like a . . . a horrible mistake. And I have to become a part of it now.” He struggled with words for a moment, then suddenly burst out: “And he'll probably want every single little scourge mark lovingly tricked out in the very best red paint. That . . . that—”
“You hardly sound like a man with a sister in the convent,” said Varden.
Still those starlit eyes. David felt for a moment as if they were searching his face for something.
But: “A mile from here,” Varden said suddenly, “there is a dead tree. It is quite large and well seasoned. I believe it will do for your purposes.”
Andrew was nodding slowly. “That one, Varden? Yes. And it would certainly save time. A new-cut piece of wood takes a while to season. And I assume, David, that you want to take care of this quickly.”
The carver groaned. “It will take time, regardless. It will be a huge carving. Massive.”
“Shall we go look at the tree?” said Varden. He beckoned them to follow, then led them along a nearby forest path.
The tree was in a clearing near the top of a hill, brightly illuminated by the rising moon. It was as Varden had intimated: the thickest part of the main trunk soared up gracefully about six feet, and, near its top, a large branch separated from it, curving out and up.
When he saw it, David stopped, staring, for the tree gave him an odd feeling about his heart. There was something strangely haunting about the stark whiteness of the trunk in the moonlight, and even in death, the branch seemed to be uplifted in blessing.
Andrew was examining it closely, running a hand over it with a carpenter's touch. “It looks like a very good piece of wood.”
“I'm . . .” David tried to speak, but he could not get the words out. “I'm . . .”
A little distance away, Varden was watching him, his eyes mirroring the starlight, his face as calm as that of the pale moon floating over his head.
David stood before the dead tree. “It's beautiful,” he managed at last.
***
The next morning, David, Andrew, and two men from the village went into the forest, carefully cut the dead tree off at ground level, and hoisted it into a wagon. Before they left the clearing, though, Andrew planted a small sapling next to the stump.
David watched. “Interesting sapling.”
“It's a beech. Varden gave it to me.”
“Who is Varden?”
Andrew looked up as he wiped the earth from his hands. David was rather afraid of the answer to his question, was, in fact, rather astonished at his temerity in asking it; but Andrew only gave him one of those impish half smiles that one might well exhibit when extending two closed hands to a child and asking: Which has the sweet? Of course, in Andrew's case, there was more than likely a sweet in both hands. “A friend of mine,” he said.
“What is Varden?” David felt he had to ask.
Andrew's smile broadened. “A friend of mine.”
And as the wagon jounced and rumbled down the road to his secluded house, David was half wondering if he were seeing that same peculiar starlight in Andrew's eyes. The carpenter had his elbow propped on the side of the wagon, and he
Varden suddenly looked up, looked him in the face. “Death is very popular in the cities,” he said. “And in the country, too. Many people think of death a great deal. Much has been written of it, and painted . . . and carved.”
“Yes, yes. That's one of the reasons I left the capital.” David's voice was sharp with annoyance. Why was this stranger belaboring the obvious?
Varden continued to look him in the face. “But there is death, nonetheless,” he said simply, even though the light in his eyes appeared to deny that.
David noticed that his hands were shaking. “The Savior died to bring life,” he said, trying to ignore them. “I want to glorify that life. But people like Alban, like the ones in the cities . . . they're only seeing death. What's more, they seem to be worshiping it, reveling in it. It's like a . . . a horrible mistake. And I have to become a part of it now.” He struggled with words for a moment, then suddenly burst out: “And he'll probably want every single little scourge mark lovingly tricked out in the very best red paint. That . . . that—”
“You hardly sound like a man with a sister in the convent,” said Varden.
Still those starlit eyes. David felt for a moment as if they were searching his face for something.
But: “A mile from here,” Varden said suddenly, “there is a dead tree. It is quite large and well seasoned. I believe it will do for your purposes.”
Andrew was nodding slowly. “That one, Varden? Yes. And it would certainly save time. A new-cut piece of wood takes a while to season. And I assume, David, that you want to take care of this quickly.”
The carver groaned. “It will take time, regardless. It will be a huge carving. Massive.”
“Shall we go look at the tree?” said Varden. He beckoned them to follow, then led them along a nearby forest path.
The tree was in a clearing near the top of a hill, brightly illuminated by the rising moon. It was as Varden had intimated: the thickest part of the main trunk soared up gracefully about six feet, and, near its top, a large branch separated from it, curving out and up.
When he saw it, David stopped, staring, for the tree gave him an odd feeling about his heart. There was something strangely haunting about the stark whiteness of the trunk in the moonlight, and even in death, the branch seemed to be uplifted in blessing.
Andrew was examining it closely, running a hand over it with a carpenter's touch. “It looks like a very good piece of wood.”
“I'm . . .” David tried to speak, but he could not get the words out. “I'm . . .”
A little distance away, Varden was watching him, his eyes mirroring the starlight, his face as calm as that of the pale moon floating over his head.
David stood before the dead tree. “It's beautiful,” he managed at last.
***
The next morning, David, Andrew, and two men from the village went into the forest, carefully cut the dead tree off at ground level, and hoisted it into a wagon. Before they left the clearing, though, Andrew planted a small sapling next to the stump.
David watched. “Interesting sapling.”
“It's a beech. Varden gave it to me.”
“Who is Varden?”
Andrew looked up as he wiped the earth from his hands. David was rather afraid of the answer to his question, was, in fact, rather astonished at his temerity in asking it; but Andrew only gave him one of those impish half smiles that one might well exhibit when extending two closed hands to a child and asking: Which has the sweet? Of course, in Andrew's case, there was more than likely a sweet in both hands. “A friend of mine,” he said.
“What is Varden?” David felt he had to ask.
Andrew's smile broadened. “A friend of mine.”
And as the wagon jounced and rumbled down the road to his secluded house, David was half wondering if he were seeing that same peculiar starlight in Andrew's eyes. The carpenter had his elbow propped on the side of the wagon, and he
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