August 20 - The Carpenter

It is dark outside. The sky lies upon the world like a blanket of the darkest blue, pricked now and then with the twinkling of stars. The moon is a mere sliver, obscured occasionally by the dark form of a scudding cloud. The trees sigh and shiver in the fitful breeze. There is the sound of doors opening, closing, brief snatches of conversation and music flit by on the wind and are then quiet. A dog barks distantly, distractedly, and falls quiet. The city settles into itself with the night, creaking and groaning into sleep. One by one, lights flicker out, until the city resembles nothing more and nothing less than a night sky, pricked now and then with stars.

One light in particular burns this night, cheery yellow-red, in the window of a workshop. Inside are gleaming wood benches burnished bronze by the lamp, mellow chisels snugged securely in their niches. The slides across every surface, brushing by the bottles of stains and oils, stolid nails and broad-headed hammers. A man works at the bench, and the light touches him too, from his curly black hair and beard, to the light sheen of sweat on his bronzed skin, off the warm-toned leather of his apron. His breathing is measured, even, deep breaths matched by the movement of his arms as his plane shaves wafer thin slivers from the chocolate wood before him. They tumble lightly through the air, twisting and turning like a leaf before settling into a pale pile on the floor. The solemn sounds of the workshop mingle with the breath of the wind.

The man sets aside his plane, settling it into its drawer and tapping it once to make sure it is secure. Another drawer yields coarsely-sanded paper, and this too he applies to the wood, long strokes matching the rise and fall of his chest. He takes up a cloth that once was white, and is now filled with uneven whorls of brown and grey. He passes it over the chocolate-coloured wood, which then becomes so dark as to almost black. He sets the wood aside to dry, and turns to another piece, this one with raised ridges and mesas. With a small curved pick he carves, painstakingly growing graceful vines and delicate flowers from the wood. The only sound is the scrape of the pick, and his deep even breathing. When he his garden of dark roses is to his satisfaction, he stains it too before setting it to dry.

Now there is a change in him, his great shoulders relax, and he wipes the sheen from his brow. Each of his tools is carefully stowed, the lamp snuffed, and the workshop meticulously locked, before he begins to walk home in the starlight. As he walks his bearing shifts. No longer so solemn, as we walks he swings his arms a little, wiggling thick fingers to feel the air through them. He hums a little, quietly, and to himself, and a little smile creases the corners of his eyes. He reaches another brightly lit window, and pushes open a door with a broad grin on his face. A child with the same curly dark hair barrels into his arms with a delighted cackle, to the laughter of the man and the woman who is sipping tea by the fire. She is his wife, and both she and the child have ruddy cheeks with the effervescent glow of health, upon which the man bestows many a scratchy kiss. He sits by the warm hearth, and leans his head back into the woman who has stood behind him and is gently stroking his shoulders. Before long the fire is banked and the lights doused, and the sleep of the household joins the greater sleep of the city.

The days progress in similar fashion. The wood is planed, smoothed, carved and stained, all the while under the solemn eyes and hands of the man, making no sound but those of his tools and of the air in his great lungs. Each evening, he returns to his cheery, hearty family, and he shows his love through his smiles, his kisses, and his great booming laugh. Slowly, the wood in the workshop takes shape, dark wood stained darker, forming a box carved with roses. When it is finished it is as tall as a man, and a white cross adorns the front. He moves on to other work, a chair, a table, and with these he whistles, and sings, and the workshop is a raucous, joyous place. Every night he returns to his family, who are boisterous, and loving, gleeful. But every so often he makes a box with the dark-coloured wood, carves it with roses and stains it black, and when he does so the workshop is quiet but for his breath, and that of his tools.