The Origami Dragon And Other Tales, Page 2

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  Rain fell in heavy waves, drenching the hard ground until it became a marsh, a swamp, a river. A small hill rises out of the marsh. On it stands the only structure in this forgotten corner of the Earth: a ramshackle dome made from corrugated iron, dead trees, old tarpaulins. There is light inside, spilling through the many cracks into the wet night. This is a dark place, a dangerous place, a forgotten place. It is also a place of creation.

  I never know what my work will be before I see the stone. Like Michelangelo said, you see an angel in the stone, carve to set it free. This next stone is my largest ever.

  A figure stands alone inside the rickety dome shell, staring at the large stone before him. The stone is marble, his favourite. It towers over him. Large lanterns hang from the roof, casting light on to the marble. The tall sculptor holds a chisel in one hand, a hammer in the other. He stands so still that he might be rock himself. For hours he simply watches the stone, hardly breathing.

  The stone is good. I can see the shape of its soul. I can see the shape of my first strokes. I can see what the stone will look like after a day, a week, a month.

  The sculptor walks forward clumsily, his tall frame awkward. The chisel is set to stone, the hammer falls. The first piece of marble to fall is small, significant, soon lost amongst its brothers. The sculptor is dressed in dark rags. He is thin. His hammer falls quickly, confidently. His strength defies his slender arms, his technique contrasts to his clumsy walk.

  I like it here, in the wild. It is peaceful here, quiet. Even the radio waves shun this place.

  The sounds of rain are interrupted by the irregular bite of steel on stone. There are no other sounds; he works in perfect seclusion. His small family know how he works, his few friends accept that isolation is necessary for his art. His employers might try to contact him, in an emergency. He hasn’t made it easy for them.

  He works relentlessly, untiring. After twelve hours of carving he sits, eats a small meal. Rain creeps through the cracks in his shelter, dripping down to visit. He is pleased by this, for the rain is his muse. It forms puddles around his feet. He uses it to draw mud pictures in the dirt floor.

  When I was young, my foster parents introduced me to a hundred different arts, crafts, hobbies. They were worried about me; they wanted me to be normal. I picked up my first chisel when I was six years old, five foot tall.

  His work sells for millions, if he lets it. His best work decorates his home town, which has become famous. He lends his elegance to places he loved best, such as his parents’ garden. His local library received beautiful statues; his old school did not. Occasionally his works are stolen temporarily. The company makes sure that the thieves feel the full extent of his displeasure.

  He is rich, brilliant, lonely.

  Creation is a mysterious thing, even to me. Inspiration comes -or doesn’t- at its own speed. Stone sings to me, canvas is silent, paper mute. I take stone’s gift with gratitude, respect.

  The stone begins to take shape as he works, its form flowing for him. He can see the shapes in the stone, works to reveal them. The rain beats a pattern on the roof. He stops at midnight, eats a small dinner, returns to work. He rests for an hour at dawn, dreams of past sculptures. He wakes, eats, works until midnight, rises before dawn.

  This continues for days; his arms begin to ache. The stone sings to him as he works. His creation begins to take shape. The carving slows; he cannot afford to make any mistakes. He uses a smaller chisel.

  He works until dawn on the seventh day, then stops. He is exhausted; the shape in the stone is finally revealed. There will be more work to do soon, much more. He will add the details later, polish the stone. For now it is enough; he must rest.

  It may take a year to finish this work. It may take longer. My other skills are in high demand, despite my wishing otherwise.

  The rains beat a new rhythm, uneven, unhappy. The sculptor hears the roar of an engine in the distance. A kilometre away, a dark four-by-four struggles through thick mud. The sculptor waits patiently for his visitor.

  My handlers come calling. There will be no rest for me tonight; I am not pleased. My stone will wait unfinished for me.

  The car battles valiantly towards the dome. The driver is desperate; it must be an emergency. A young man exits the car, bangs on the dome’s door. It opens on the third blow.

  He isn’t someone I know. This is interesting, suspicious, worrying. I hope the company hasn’t decided to let me go. They don’t say goodbye nicely.

  “I’m from the company,” he says, answering the unasked question.

  He has the company’s mark. Not a field agent, perhaps a technician. The agent looks awkward, as well he should. He knows he is playing in a dangerous league.

  “Your sister sent me. One of the company’s people has disappeared.”

  The sculptor stares down at the agent as if wondering what soul he could carve free from the man’s body. It is unnerving, overpowering, comforting. The young man knows that this is the terror he will be relying on.

  He doesn’t even have a gun. All company men carry guns. Perhaps he knows that his bullets are wasted on me? Most men would carry one for the false comfort it gives them.

  The man shows the sculptor two ID books. The first is his own, showing him to be a medium level analyst.

  Perhaps he is my new handler, as my last one took early retirement. I was pleased: we didn’t work well together. When I crawled out of the river he didn’t even try to dress my wounds. He was worried I would contaminate him.

  The second booklet belongs to the missing person. There is a photo in it of a woman with dark, curly hair. She is wearing glasses, a wedding ring, a smile. The sculptor reads the lines of concern on the young man’s face. They are traumatic, serious, deep. It is his wife that has been taken. The company has given him the best assistance they can offer. They look after their own.

  I love my family, preferably from a distance. My foster parents did their best. My sister is loud, brash, rude, unkind. She has found her way into the employment of the same troubled souls as I. My sister knows it is not in my nature to turn this matter away.

  The silence is broken only by the rain as it sings a soft goodbye to the sculptor. An age goes past before the sculptor nods briefly, turns to pack away his tools. The agent finally relaxes a little, takes a moment to see my work.

  The stone has become a man: naked, muscular, contorted. His lower body is still in the stone; the man is struggling free from it, hacking at it with a crude hammer. The man, his tools, his features, are all carved from the stone of his birth. The statue’s body looks tired as it works at its task, so lifelike that he expects to see its breath in the cold air.

  The details are missing, particularly around the face. The stone is unfinished, raw, breathtaking.