Read Online Spires of Spirit by Gael Baudino - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gael Baudino
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was whistling a jaunty tune as he watched the forest go by.
Idly, the carver let his hand rest on the trunk beside him. The wood was surprisingly smooth to the touch, hardly weathered at all considering that the tree was seasoned well enough to have been drying for at least two years.
Andrew's genial little tune danced through his head. The carpenter was a very good whistler, and now he was adding ornaments to the melody, little turns and graces that could not but lift David's spirits in spite of the task he was facing.
Blue sky, yellow sun. David settled down comfortably beside the tree, his hand still on the warm smooth wood, and as his thoughts drifted away from the wagon and into the forest, dancing with Andrew's tune among the leaves and squirrels, leaping and jigging down by hidden brooks and ponds, he suddenly felt as though, in the wood beneath his hand, something stirred.
He jerked his hand away as though he had put it on a hot stove, and, frightened, looked at the tree; but there was nothing overtly unusual about it. It was only good, solid, warm wood. Yet he was now seeing shapes in it, shapes that he, a carver, could release. The tree itself was telling him what should be carved from it. In fact, it was telling him what must be carved from it, and the vision that leaped into David's head was so overpowering that it made him giddy.
The problem was that it had nothing whatsoever to do with a crucifix.
***
The wagon reached David's house by noon, and the carver's companions set the tree up in his workshop, said farewell, and left. For several hours, David busied himself cleaning the wood and preparing it for carving, and then he backed off a few feet and looked at it.
And, two weeks later, angry, frustrated, and almost afraid, he was still only looking at it. In the fields surrounding the village, grain was reaped and gathered in, melons ripened, and apples reddened; but David's mallet and chisel lay untouched on his workbench. He had spent the days nervously pacing back and forth in the shadow of the tree, picking things up and putting them down, staring out his window for long minutes: despite his efforts to banish the vision that had come to him on the wagon, the vision that dictated imperiously the final form of the tree, it would not be banished. In fact, while what tentative ideas he had forcibly fostered within his imagination for the design of the crucifix had grown hazy in his mind and threatened to disappear altogether, the vision had not only persisted, but actually intensified. He had only to look at the weathered surface of the trunk and he would see the face, the uplifted arm, the calm eyes. The tree itself was only an overlay, a veil that dimly hid what was already present in the wood, what he, a carver, had to release.
After nearly a month of impotent staring, he was reduced to sitting on a stool with his face buried in his hands. Through his tightly shut eyes, he could still see what he had to carve, and he was roused from his turmoil only by a knock on his door.
He shook himself out of his frustrated trance and rose, but Alban had already entered. The priest's eyes lit up when he saw the tree.
“Ah, David! A fine piece of wood! Some of the men in the village were saying that you had found material for the crucifix, and now I see that it's true. Excellent, my son!”
David watched him, hollow-eyed.
Alban folded his hands inside his sleeves and wandered around the trunk, examining it from every angle. “Just the right size, too. I assume you'll be adding the outstretched arms later?”
David's anger was building. “Have you ever thought about asking permission before entering a household?” he said as evenly as he could.
Alban paid very little attention. “And this upper section,” he continued, “you can see the face right here. See how this line runs down and forms a grimace? Why, the mouth is almost ready-made. You can feel His pain, the terrible throbbing in His hands where
Idly, the carver let his hand rest on the trunk beside him. The wood was surprisingly smooth to the touch, hardly weathered at all considering that the tree was seasoned well enough to have been drying for at least two years.
Andrew's genial little tune danced through his head. The carpenter was a very good whistler, and now he was adding ornaments to the melody, little turns and graces that could not but lift David's spirits in spite of the task he was facing.
Blue sky, yellow sun. David settled down comfortably beside the tree, his hand still on the warm smooth wood, and as his thoughts drifted away from the wagon and into the forest, dancing with Andrew's tune among the leaves and squirrels, leaping and jigging down by hidden brooks and ponds, he suddenly felt as though, in the wood beneath his hand, something stirred.
He jerked his hand away as though he had put it on a hot stove, and, frightened, looked at the tree; but there was nothing overtly unusual about it. It was only good, solid, warm wood. Yet he was now seeing shapes in it, shapes that he, a carver, could release. The tree itself was telling him what should be carved from it. In fact, it was telling him what must be carved from it, and the vision that leaped into David's head was so overpowering that it made him giddy.
The problem was that it had nothing whatsoever to do with a crucifix.
***
The wagon reached David's house by noon, and the carver's companions set the tree up in his workshop, said farewell, and left. For several hours, David busied himself cleaning the wood and preparing it for carving, and then he backed off a few feet and looked at it.
And, two weeks later, angry, frustrated, and almost afraid, he was still only looking at it. In the fields surrounding the village, grain was reaped and gathered in, melons ripened, and apples reddened; but David's mallet and chisel lay untouched on his workbench. He had spent the days nervously pacing back and forth in the shadow of the tree, picking things up and putting them down, staring out his window for long minutes: despite his efforts to banish the vision that had come to him on the wagon, the vision that dictated imperiously the final form of the tree, it would not be banished. In fact, while what tentative ideas he had forcibly fostered within his imagination for the design of the crucifix had grown hazy in his mind and threatened to disappear altogether, the vision had not only persisted, but actually intensified. He had only to look at the weathered surface of the trunk and he would see the face, the uplifted arm, the calm eyes. The tree itself was only an overlay, a veil that dimly hid what was already present in the wood, what he, a carver, had to release.
After nearly a month of impotent staring, he was reduced to sitting on a stool with his face buried in his hands. Through his tightly shut eyes, he could still see what he had to carve, and he was roused from his turmoil only by a knock on his door.
He shook himself out of his frustrated trance and rose, but Alban had already entered. The priest's eyes lit up when he saw the tree.
“Ah, David! A fine piece of wood! Some of the men in the village were saying that you had found material for the crucifix, and now I see that it's true. Excellent, my son!”
David watched him, hollow-eyed.
Alban folded his hands inside his sleeves and wandered around the trunk, examining it from every angle. “Just the right size, too. I assume you'll be adding the outstretched arms later?”
David's anger was building. “Have you ever thought about asking permission before entering a household?” he said as evenly as he could.
Alban paid very little attention. “And this upper section,” he continued, “you can see the face right here. See how this line runs down and forms a grimace? Why, the mouth is almost ready-made. You can feel His pain, the terrible throbbing in His hands where
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