The Sculptor

It’s always worst with the light being torn to shreds like this. When only fragments of single beams make their way through the holes where moths have feasted on the fabric of the heavy curtains, then the images of living shadow become more bizarre, more surreal. As if it wasn’t scary enough without this trick of light.

But no, the curtains must be drawn whenever he’s working in here. Full sunlight hurts his eyes, he says. Insists although I doubt the validity of his statement.

I know better than to openly argue or complain, of course. I know my place. I know my debts. I know whom to thank for what little I have, so there is no point in cursing him and his attitudes in the next breath. I prefer to think of myself as a loyal servant, after all.

On some days, I’m quick to think I should—curse him, I mean. Curse him and his ‘art’—or obsession, as I’d rather term it. But oh yes, he would insist it to be art. How could he not. He’s the master of this house, so his every word is the unwritten law. And that law determines that the curtains be drawn also during the day, except when he is absent for a longer period of time.

I wonder when that might actually occur. It never has during my four years of servitude, and I doubt it ever will. There’s something about his stature, his physical fragility, that evokes doubt as to his being physically fit to leave the castle at all. Green hills and rich forest as far as the eye can see, and yet he never seems to set a single foot outside.

Whatever business he happens to have outside his home, he has it taken care of by one of the servants. There are about two dozen of us, most of them longer in his services than my four years. Each and every one of us has their appointed tasks, and one of mine is to make him his tea and serve it to him in his atelier. None of the others are allowed in here safe for the occasional dusting and cleaning.

The only opportunity for me to see this room in full light is shortly after dawn. There’s not much for me to do until he rises, usually shortly before noon, and I’d make use of the time to briefly visit the atelier then, when it’s less scary, if scary enough. It helps to remind me each and every day anew of what those bizarre shadows really are. Those numerous hands, those faces—there’s no liveliness about them at all, and yet they seem to move, tilt, turn, grab for you or look in your direction behind your back. Only behind your back, mind you, so that you can’t see, but you would know what’s happening nevertheless, and not being able to catch them at their little game makes it all the more discomforting.

They really are the most bizarre things I’ve ever seen. Basically human in shape albeit with ridiculously long and spidery limbs, just like his own, they look as if sprung from a nightmare, or a cheap horror tale. Numbers of legs and arms are bent in unnatural angles, and here and there single lumps of clay would either appear out of place or be lacking. The faces are distorted masks of soundless cries; their grey skin wrinkled and withered like dried, ashen leaves.

Oft have I wondered . . . if I opened a window, would the wind blow them away?

But the curtains are drawn and the windows permanently closed against the onslaught of life from outside. And the silver teapot and cup make a soft clatter as I carry the tray across the room to where he stands and looks at me.

A gentle smile graces thin lips as he uses a muddy cotton cloth to wipe the moist clay from his hands and lifts the steaming teacup to take a sip; daintily; careful not to get burned by the hot liquid. Another sip, then the cup is placed beside the matching teapot again, and a near-skeletal hand gives the familiar wave that I am to sit on the small divan to his right with the tray in my lap.

On most days, he would have me place the tray there and dismiss me; on days like today, though, he would allow me to stay—order me to stay—and keep him company for a while. Just why he would have me stay in the first place eludes me to this very day, for he would neither speak, nor would he even look at me once he refocusses on his morbid work. Most of the time, he would even forget about the tea and my presence altogether.

Today appears to be a very unusual day, however, for he watches me closely as I take my seat on the divan, and even as his hand reaches up to caress an ashen face do his eyes never leave mine.

“It is done at last.”

This is the first time in maybe a year that I hear him speak, and his voice is nothing like I remembered it—too strong to have emerged from that frail body, and reflecting the unprecedented joy that now shines from hollow eyes.

I know not what to reply or how to act, so I remain silent, just to be safe, and wait for him to fall into the old pattern of simply ignoring me. But no, not today.

“Will you say nothing?” he demands, not unkindly. “Can you not see the grandeur of this?” His arms fan out to indicate the good dozen of inanimate figures that stand behind him in an unruly assembly of nightmares taken shape.

“I . . . my congratulations on finishing your . . . project, Sir,” I offer for a diplomatic answer.

His laughter literally takes me aback, and the unexpected force behind it frightens me. I do my best not to let go of the tray and jump to my feet.

My efforts are rewarded with a warm smile. “I know that you don’t understand any of this yet, but you soon will. Very soon indeed.” Another smile, then he turns his back on me. “You may go now. And take the tea with you, if you please. I have more important matters on my hands right now.”

Without even bothering to give a reply, I do as I am told and make for the door, tray in shaky hands. It is a fast retreat, and only when the door has securely snapped shut behind me, do I stop to take a deep breath, head resting against the wood. One, two, three, exhale.

The door is massive wood, but not very thick, so I am not really surprised when a sound reaches my ears through it. I am rather surprised by what that sound is: a grating, shrieking noise that causes the tiny hairs on my arms to stand. He’s opening the curtains!

For a moment, curiosity wells up inside me, and I turn and bend my knees in order to peek through the keyhole. That is when I can make out another sound. It starts as a soft whisper but quickly swells to seep—waft—through whatever tiny opening in the door. A rustle of leaves in a stiff autumn breeze.

Leaves. Dried, ashen leaves!

For one more moment, I stand there, facing the closed door, then my legs start moving of their own volition. I hurry away from the door in a jumble of bones, silver, and scorching liquid. As fast as I can, I dash along the corridor, past the servants’ quarters, past the open kitchen door, past questioning, whithered faces.

Four years. Four long years, and I’ll be damned if I stay a second longer.

THE END