The Gift: A novel

My project for A man finds himself alone on a paradisical island where has has no need to work to support himself. His life is spent transforming the island.

My Photo
Location: Los Angeles, United States

I am an awkward, stubborn, slightly insane woman who would rather talk Plato than Prada, rather watch Frank Capra than Carrie Bradshaw, and rather listen to Norse myths sung in Icelandic than anything currently on the radio. Yeah. Told you I was weird.


Monday, November 29, 2004

Chapter 26:

Cobb advanced towards the central statue, intent upon proving a suspicion he had. Underneath the statues’ sculpted feet opened a small rift in the grassy earth, and from it came heat and light; another hot spot.
As he approached the statue, it gleamed dully with the red light from the lava and the white light of the sun. Suddenly, all the mist was swept away in a gust of wind, and the sunlight hit the statue full on: Cobb shielded his eyes from the glare. What had appeared through the mist as a dull metal proved to be, in the full light of the sun, pure gold, beaten onto the form of the embracing couple and polished to a high degree.
Cobb thoughtlessly reached out to touch the golden surface, but yelped and pulled his hand back quickly. He looked down, realizing the that heat from the open rift must drift up and heat the statue.
Dranger joined him at the statue, then the two men moved on, walking on the path that ran around the edge of the clearing, The sun was slipping down the sky, sinking towards sunset.
The hammer beat down upon the statue heavily, unceasingly, as did the rays of the sun upon the man who weilded the hammer. His hair, which had been a rich brown in his younger days, had turned silver. The sun had bleached it more successfully than it had the brown hair, and what had once been silver was now a pure warm white. His skin was dark and bronzed, standing in contrast to the shock of white hair. His hammer blows fell slowly but surely, and he worked hard. Large hammer for the big broad sections of statue, smaller hammers for the more intricate work, and small wooden dowels for shaping the smallest sections of gold.
He wasn’t sure how long it would take to smooth the gold over the statue. He had melted down the gold and poured it over the statue, then begun using the hammer to smooth out the inevitable eccentricities in the metal coating.
Twenty-five years, he thought. Everyone always asked silly questions like "Where do you see yourself in ten years?" He chuckled a bit, wondering what his classmates would have thought if, when asked that question, he had answered, "Oh, on a desert island with no hope of rescue."
He set down the hammer; he had found that he needed more rest than he used to, but he had become accustomed to it. He knew that he couldn’t live forever, and would, in all likelihood, die before another decade passed. He smiled, wondering if anyone would ever find his body, or if anyone would ever set foot on the island at all. All chances were against it, but chances were against him landing there in the first place, so it was difficult to say for sure.
He picked up the hammer again, and continued beating the gold as the sun slowly sank towards the horizon.

copyright 2004 Elizabeth J. Weaver


Post a Comment

<< Home

Weblog Commenting and Trackback by