Now it happened on a certain time that a young carpenter of strong stock did travel the lands long and far in search of a home and life. After much journeying he came across an extraordinarily lush forest overgrown from the voices of a lost age, with blackwoods thicker and stronger than in Lörgren itself.
It happened that nearby this wooded paradise perched a hamlet; its folk simple, with desires befitting such humble surrounds. 'A good wife and good supper,' was how they'd explain it. 'And perhaps a fresh ale on a cold night,' added those who frequented the inn.
'Twas upon such an eve that our traveller did decide to bed, taking stock in a small room with fittings for one. Laid back on straw bedding, with only himself for company, he licked his lips and whistled into the wind a lullaby of hope for past dreams and a future brimming with natural simplicity.
He awoke no less than thirty long years thereafter in a cottage built with his own hands and seams bursting from a burgeoning kin. Hearing the rising screams of newborn, he readied himself for the day as he did all others: with a splash of cold water across a wrinkled face of silver whiskers and a quiet stroll into the heart of his mistress, Nature.
Avoiding the patter of young feet, ignoring the sweet smells of the most sumptuous kind of breakfast on a crisp morning, our traveller who, it should be clear by now is a traveller no more, stepped out into the misty morn, the muted sun affixed low across the rolling hills, and did gaze upon the sundry of his homestead. The large house, with extensions clinging to extensions, had formed a hideous whole, a confused menagerie of life, standing in contrast to the natural simplicity of the rolling hills and even grass of the surrounding countryside.
Bounding down a well-worn trail, skirting the receding tree line, he came across a strange bird seated upon the thick stump of a felled blackwood, its velvet black wings streaked with a line of blood red. Unlike the Family-pigot's of East-Farlands, this bird of unknowable origin chirped no song; indeed it made no sound at all. Like a silhouette it stood, dark against the glow of golden sun at its back.
A sudden breeze flowed across the hills and hit the nearby forest, which whistled and rustled in earnest discourse. A Godswind they'd call it in the old country, for it was as if the Gods themselves were speaking through the trees, commanding a council to discuss the fortunes of men. The carpenter, now old and wise, took heed of the warnings and stood silent, allowing the Gods their discourse without interruption, not once contemplating the blasphemous notion of interpreting such a sermon, instead turning his sharp eyes on the thin red stripe that spoiled the bird's otherwise flawless façade.
Turning to his own attire, he peered down at long draped robes, purple and yellow, embroidered with jewels, lined with the finest silk discovered on trade wagons from lands far. The intricate patterns blurred his mind in complication. Worse still were the tassels that dangled from each thick button, all ending in a charm made of silver and gold. His toes wiggled in rich red slippers, a gift from one of his more tasteless customers.
After thirty years he had built a reputation as the finest carpenter of the region, skilled most astutely in furniture of the most regal kind, full of ornamentation and delicate touches, smoothly rendered, solidly built from the choicest wood. Gentry from far would travel to sit but once on bespoke chairs that would reach the highest ceiling in the tallest halls, that would glitter with the reds and greens of beset rubies and emeralds, dazzling onlookers. Such quality and precise detail would deem it a throne to neighbours, filling its owner with the hearty esteem of his peers.
The most renowned piece the carpenter made was a monstrosity. Cut from the premium parcels of over one hundred strong blackwoods, its sheer weight was enough to rival the Great Palace Walls. Roads were widened for its transport, others still built, with fifty men and fifty wheels straining to shift the burden. To say it had the appearance of a chair would be to call a sprawling forest a twig. Emblems and engravings covered the wood, hiding it like one might a crazed uncle.
Ah, what folly, he thought to himself. Why have you lost your way so? What happened to that young man, many years ago, with the wisdom to follow the simplicity of the greatest creator of all? He would not have bowed to pettiness of a rich client, supplementing precise design with superfluous embellishment. So why should you?
'Argh, 'twas easier when younger,' he said gruffly, his morning voice croaking. ''Tis always easier on the young, with no fears or understandings of the real world. T'easy naught the burden of responsibility.'
The bird cocked its head as if raising an ear to the words. It squawked a response, short and shrill, hopped on frail feet, then opened its wings wide, flapping its communication to those who understood.
The man rubbed his sleep-filled eyes, enjoying the warm sensation of skin against skin. Beyond where the bird perched sat the clear boundary of the forest, cut back with successive customer demands, reeling from the township that was beginning to outgrow it. When he first arrived he'd spent days scouting the choicest blackwood from which to carve a design. But lately deadlines had loomed, money was needed for the burgeoning family, responsibilities had bared their teeth and forced him into the corner of mediocre, riding on the coattails of a reputation that no longer befitted him.
'Ah, but that can change,' he said. 'If needs require action, then action it shall receive.'
He returned to the house in form but not spirit, carrying out his alternate duties as husband and father as required, before beginning the work day. The small shed that had become his workshop was clean, empty of orders, ready for a new design. The thought of a long trek through the forest in search of the right tree now seemed at odds with his redeemed philosophy, particularly when he could spy some lumber that would do the job and then some.
He toiled through the day and into the night, dismissing offers for hot tea, ignoring pleas to escape the rain. The night wore on and eased into day, but the cost was worth it. Before him stood a chair bearing four simple legs, a squared off seat and flat back, each affixed with a minimal of joins.
It was beautiful.
The man was joyous for days. Rich men and those of good families travelled night and day to inspect his newest creation, saddled full of high hopes and gold coins. To his chagrin, each to a man left with their weighted burden upheld. They were not interested in such a simple chair. 'Why would I buy this,' they would say, 'when any could have created it? How am I to engender lustful gazes of my peers when they, too, could own such a chair for coppers?' He was baffled by their foolishness and at times required the restrains of neutral parties, such was his anger.
The only solace from their tortuous words was the sense of order the chair bestowed on its surroundings, the simple way it sat and held its own in a world of chaos. This was to be the answer then. A new life beckoned. Change was needed.
No more than seven days later did he address his family in the cramped dining room. They were to leave. All of them. Before the moon shone again. They would require their own abode, far from that place.
Shouting and argument forged from all quarters, besieging the old man with rancour and vitriol. He stood his ground, forcing them out with strength of character and biceps of rock. The few squatters that remained were subjected to a swinging axe and quickly fled, extensions raining down on all sides.
When he later inspected his house he was pleased for it was improved - smaller, simpler, better. For weeks he was satisfied. His broad smile scared off all interlopers, even his dear wife who begged and pleaded with the man.
But lo, a feeling crept deep within, crept and perched on his chest, just as the black bird sat atop the stump. It would not budge and he would not tell it to budge. He listened to it, felt its sharpness turning against his skin as the world turned over itself. The feeling grew until its weight was too strong and the man realised what must be done.
'It is...too much,' he groaned, standing bright and yellow beside his house, the first and only house he ever made, standing with a long torch in hand, its flames licking the cool night air. 'Too much.'
At once the flame attacked the house, eating it away in chunks, devouring with little regard for history.
'You were what I once wanted,' said the man, 'what I thought I wanted. But now I see the folly. You are too much.'
In the darkness the figure fled the warmth and light, bounding away into the forest, a glistening blade his only companion. Deep inside the dense wood, as the beginnings of morning floated in the heavens, the man found the spot. In amongst some larger blackwoods sat the massive stump of his first felling, its rings etched as deep grooves, its wood still healthy and strong. He sat upon its strength and felt the pull of peace within, a light breeze caressing his closed eyelids in a tender fashion. These were his parents in spiritual form, what he never had, never could have. And he was content.
Alas, the feeling lasted no time at all, for on its back came a rush of currents, swirling through his soul, spraying him into action. He swung his trusty blade indiscriminately like the fabled Madmen of Elleron, a rage known only to those whose spirit had fallen, landing blows against wood of all heights, cutting through smaller shrubs and grass, hitting the very air itself. Casting no shadows, he raped the forest of its livelihood before falling to his knees in exhaustion, panting.
He surveyed the large circumference around the stump of the great blackwood, the barren dirt and pleasing emptiness a brief reprieve for his senses. No life would sully his eye, nor sounds pierce his senses. It was better. Simpler.
Crouching on one knee, the old man pressed a hand against the dirt, expelling an oomph as he pushed off and rose. Where his fingers touched the ground an indentation remained. A few sweeps of his foot and the surface was clear once more, in its place a darkness, moving in the slight breeze. Wisps of black encroached his mind, harassed his nerves and spoiled the simplicity of his cultivation. He raised the blade to his head, a larger shadow forming, reinforcing, an additive to misery.
Again his muscles swelled with the energy of an inexhaustible fire, twitching with need, desperate to end the grotesque movement. In one fell swoop the metal sliced through until slowly, floating like a dream, shards of hair made their way to his feet, resting in part on the tips of his toes. He kicked them away, he buried them, he stamped and trampled over their remains.
But now he knew: there would be no reprieve. The blades of hair, just as the grass and the trees and his soul, while gone from sight, would forever remain beneath the surface, taunting him, reminding him. Tears welled up in the corners of his deep blue eyes.
Then practicality took hold as a shadow once again crossed beneath his blurred vision. A stray leg, a great trunk, connecting him to the sullied ground, the uneven textures and purveyor of hidden complexity: it, too, must go.
A swing and a thud as the leg flopped to the ground. A hopping shadow soon became squat as a second trunk was felled.
Sweet pain dripped through the carpenter's body like honey. A smile formed around yellowed teeth. The momentary elation, however, was soon withered as the grim reality of what must be splashed over him.
Tiny beads formed on his bare scalp, cold droplets of mist from the cool air. He swallowed, gulping down the pain of necessity, his throat tightening, preparing itself for the release. Hard steel soon wrapped itself around the skin and sliced through in a single energetic whip.
Peace.
Tranquil, unfiltered, peace.
The carpenter's head sat motionless, alone, perched on the great stump, looking out at the circle of nothingness. It blinked. The tongue licked its lips; not for thirst or desire, merely out of habit. After a swallow, the carpenter's mind came into focus. Glassy eyes became clear as pupils shifted their gaze, squinting at the nothing surrounding it, struggling to find focus. Suddenly the air itself became clear and it was as if the world had changed from the very large to the very tiny. Bubbles seemed to float by, bubbles of water, tiny bubbles of chaos, swimming along invisible tides, showering down on him and over him, clouding his view, nothing but bubbles, thick, slow moving, air-clogging bubbles.
He closed his eyes tight, a creased strain upon his face. With eyelids once more raised, the scene remained unchanged. Fear gripped him. The warmth of anger wavered against his skin as he tried to see through the bubbles, through momentary gaps, searching for nothing and only nothing. Instead he spotted a sight far worse: for between the floating muddle of bubbles were more bubbles. And between those were yet more, smaller still. If he could examine the gaps more clearly, if his eyesight was that to match the Elder Ceerlicles of Gragos, he knew that he would find, no matter how closely he watched, how deeply his eyes strained, there would always be something smaller, something more to cloud his vision of tranquillity, more complexity for a soul in search of simplicity.
And he cried out for eternity.
© 2012 Ben Safta
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Australia License
