The First King of Shannara - Terry Brooks [156]
A block of wood always suggested certain possibilities before he ever took a knife to it. You just had to look carefully enough to see what they were. Once you had done that, the job was half-finished.
The shaping always seemed to take care of itself.
It was evening in Dechtera, the light fading to hazy gray where the furnaces did not glare with their hot white eyes. The heat was oppressive, but Urprox Screl was used to heat, so it didn’t bother him to sit there. He could have stayed home with Mina and the children, dinner complete, the day at its close, rocking on the long porch or sitting out under the shade of that old hickory. It was quiet there and cool, his home removed from the city’s center.
Unfortunately, that was the problem. He missed the noise and the heat and the stench of the furnaces. When he was working, he wanted them close by. They had been a part of his life for so long that it didn’t seem right not to have them there.
Besides, this was his place of business, same as always, same as it had been for better than forty years. It had been his father’s place of business before him. Maybe it would be his son’s — one or the other of them. When he worked, this is where he liked to be. This is where he belonged, where his sweat and toil had shaped his life, where his inspiration and skill had shaped the lives of others.
It was a bold statement, he supposed, but he was a bold man. Or mad, depending on whom you asked.
Mina understood. She understood everything about her husband, and that was more than you could say for any other wife he knew. The thought of it made him smile. It gave him a special feeling for Mina. He began to whistle softly.
The people of the city passed down the street in front of Urprox Screl, hurrying this way and that, busy little beavers engaged in their tasks. He watched them surreptitiously from under the knit of his heavy dark brow without letting them know he was looking.
Many of them were friends — or what passed for friends these days. Most had been shopkeepers, tradesmen, artisans, or laborers for the same amount of time as he had been a smith. Most had admired him — his skill, his accomplishments, his life. Some had believed that he embodied the heart and soul of this city.
He sighed, and the whistling died away. Yes, he knew them all, but they paid little attention to him now. If he caught someone’s eye, he might get a solemn nod or a desultory wave. One or two might stop to speak to him. That was about the extent of it. Mostly, they avoided him. Whatever was wrong with him, they didn’t want it rubbing off on them.
He wondered one more time why they couldn’t just accept what he’d done and let it go at that.
He stared down momentarily at the carving. A dog running, swift and strong, legs extended, ears flattened, head up. He would give this one to his grandson Arken, his oldest girl’s boy. He gave most of his carvings away, though he could have sold them had he chosen to do so. But money wasn’t something he needed; he had plenty of that and could get more if it became necessary. What he needed was peace of mind and a sense of purpose. Sad to say, even two years later, he was having trouble finding both.
He glanced over his shoulder momentarily at the building behind him, a dark, silent presence amid the cacophony of the cit)
In the growing twilight, it cast its squarish shadow over him. The great doors that led to its interior were closed tonight — he hadn’t bothered to open them. Sometimes he did, just because it made him feel more at home, more a part of his work. But lately it had depressed him to sit there with the doors open and the interior dark and silent, nothing happening after all those years of constant heat and noise and activity. Besides, it only drew the curiosity seekers, suggesting to them the possibility of things that would never happen.
He stirred the wood shavings with the toe