Artisan

I sat upon my stool, watching the master's mallet strike the chisel, over and over in a seemingly random assult on the marble block set before him. "The figure," he told me once. "Is trapped in the stone. Can you not see him? Can you not hear him screaming to be released?"

   He stepped sideways. I squinted at the block, trying to picture the man within. But only the grey veins hinted at any design, and that of a tree outside my house. 

    Rubbing my eyes I shook my head. On occasion, when he left to relieve himself, I'd press my ear against the block and listen for whatever he claimed to hear. But the stone didn't speak to me. Not like it did him. 

    And so I sat, listening to tink of iron on stone, watching the master... the way he pressed his chisel against the stone, how he held his mallet. I counted each flake as it fell to the floor, eagerly longing for the moment the man was freed from his prison of stone. 

    I step back from the marble, wipe the sweat from my brow on the back of my hand, and summon the image one more time. But I see him now, in the block, his chisel against the stone, his mallet held high.

    I turn and glance at the boy squinting at my work, fighting to see the man in the stone. "The man is not in the stone," I tell him, tapping the handle of my mallet to my temple. "He lives in here. The stone is where I give him life." 

   He nods, but his eyes hold no understanding. I sigh, but don't let him see me smile as I return to the stone. He will, one day, when it's his turn to hold the mallet.