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.
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