Fear and Trembling-Shades of Stone


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Shades of Stone

Adam Colston

The marble was the finest quality and he was a skilled sculptor, but then she moved within the stone.

Easy-to-Read B&W Format

Fiction
Fantasy

The setting sun shone through the studio's large window, turning the block of white marble pink.

Vancussi circled it, hammer and chisel in hand, like a predator, but he felt more like prey. The first cut was always the hardest and he agonized over it. The block tormented him.

“I am in here, stone-cutter, if you can find me,“ she whispered from within, her tones seductive and full of promise.

Vancussi shook his head.

Not yet—not now. I have to stay focused.

He rubbed his temple. This commission would test his fragile sanity—he knew that. He always formed a relationship with his art—it was how he worked—but with Medusa? He thought about turning down the job, but the empty cupboards and red, demanding bills meant he needed the income. For a moment he considered the pills the psychiatrist prescribed, but they numbed him and the muse preferred him raw and bleeding. He stopped the tablets a week ago. He would trade sanity for a perfect result.

He felt a smile curl his lip. He could control this; he could keep her in check.

“Leave me alone, demon-woman. Speak when you are spoken to”

But then she moved—a shadow within the stone. A sinuous body writhing naked within its rough-hewn dimensions, her head crowned with hissing, snapping snakes. He was mesmerized.

“Find me—release me—love me.” Her voice carried like the scent of jasmine on the evening breeze. He felt himself weaken for a moment.

”Quiet—don't speak. I haven't given you permission,” he said, his heart pounding, but not from fear; it was something else. He hammered the chisel hard against a small fracture, cleaving off a segment of stone.

“You don’t exist—you can't—I haven't let you breathe yet.”

She froze, her form now fixed in his mind. He could see every crease of her body within the hard Florentine marble. It was the perfect pose. He placed the chisel on the fault line and began hammering off large chunks stone that crashed to the floor.

An hour passed, and still he drove the chisel deep within the block, coughing in the cloud of white dust that hung in the studio’s still air.

He stepped back to admire the rough shape, but the sun had set and the sky darkened. Cursing the enforced break, he stopped and switched on the bright studio lights. Picking up the chisel, he continued pounding the block until the weak rays of the dawning sun lightened the eastern skies. Setting aside his tools with blistered hands, he stumbled into the kitchen and tore open the fridge. He wiped away the dust that caked his mouth and gulped ice-cold orange juice from the carton.

He stripped off his clothes as he trudged to the shower, leaving them strewn across the hall. His body was slick with sweat and covered in a fine white layer of marble dust. He looked at himself for a moment in the bathroom mirror and smiled wearily. He looked like a ghost or, he chuckled to himself, a sculpture.

The hot water massaged his sore shoulders, and he shut his eyes as he rocked back and forth, letting the powerful jets play across his aching shoulder muscles. But after a few moments the sensation of water on his back changed. The jets seemed more like hands—supple, yet strong—massaging away the knots and aches.

“When I am free of the rock, we shall be together,” she whispered in his ear. He felt her hand on his chest and another slip round his soapy buttocks and over his thigh. “We shall be lovers.” He felt his body react to her delicate touch, and his eyes snapped open, but he was alone—just him and the water cascading over his body. He shuddered.

“Don't torture me," he whispered, but his heart wasn't in it. She was almost real, more so than any of his other creations. It was all in his mind, of course—he knew that. When he allowed them a certain existence, it helped him find them within the stone,but she was different. She had come into being on her own—without his encouragement—and powerfully so.

Vancussi stepped out of the shower and rubbed himself dry. He padded into his bedroom. He drew the thick floor to ceiling velvet curtains, blacking out the rising sun, and collapsed on the large bed.

He dreamed of times long past, of ancient mythical days. He had visions of a beautiful girl with golden hair that hung in curls like snakes coiled upon themselves.

All about were the shapes of men—warriors, mostly—as though sculpted from the finest stone by the most talented sculptors. Every feature was rendered in exquisite detail, even the smallest hair had been painstakingly carved, except he knew that no sculptor had ever taken a chisel to the stone.

Perseus gripped the sword tighter, and slowly lifted the polished shield to look behind him. With his heart pounding, he tilted the shield—corridor was clear. He moved backward down the passageway, his stomach tensing as he heard the unmistakable hiss of snakes. Then she rounded the corner, like a banner unfurling in the wind. She moved toward him, shifting her weight like a dancer, from foot to foot.

"Have you come, my hero, to slay me?" She smiled at him in the mirror, and he watched as she changed into a beautiful woman with flowing blond hair—a goddess. "That would be cruel, for I am no monster. See my beauty."

He spun on his toes with his eyes squeezed tightly shut; his sword whistled through the air—

Vancussi awoke sheathed in sweat and tangled in his sheets. His body ached, and he groaned as he sat up. He swung his leg over the edge of the bed, and spent five minutes binding his blistered hands with fresh bandages.

She won't even leave me alone in my dreams.

He walked out to the studio. The setting sun shone through the window. Medusa's shape was already obvious: the outstretched hand, the slim athletic body.

"Are you ready to start?" Her voice seemed to echo around the studio.

He nodded, but he realized one thing : he had to leave a thin layer of marble around her to make sure she stayed trapped forever. It was a sensible precaution.

"But, stonecutter, if you do that we can never be together," she hissed.

Vancussi dropped to his haunches and rocked back and forth for a few moments. He was losing it. He had to get a grip.

He stood up." Let me finish, please."

Immediately he regretted talking to her; it only made her stronger. From now on, he would ignore her.

He set to work with a new determination.

And so days passed, filled with the clang of the chisel against stone.  Days turned to weeks, and weeks became months. Vancussi worked during the night, only stepping back to view his progress by dawn's pale light. One morning, he saw she was finished—she was perfect.

The statue was exquisitely rendered, showing Medusa as a sensuous and beautiful woman.  The snakes were sculpted so carefully that, at first glance, they appeared as tresses of hair caught in a strong wind.

Vancussi put down the emery paper he used to smooth and polish the marble's surface.

"There, it is done."

"How can it be done, my love? I am not free. Let me out, my darling—set me free."

Vancussi paused as he looked at the statue. He had not spoken to her in all these months. She still visited him whenever he shut his eyes, offering unspeakable pleasures. His hands trembled, but he shook his head—he would not speak to her now. He was just about to turn away when the light of the rising sun revealed a tiny flaw in the stone—the shadow of bump.

He picked up a light hammer and a fine chisel, and put its edge to the tiny bump. Just a small blow removed it, and he turned away.
Behind he heard a sharp crack. Then a series of smaller ones followed, like a sheet of ice fracturing beneath his feet. He stood very still then slowly turned at the moment she erupted from the stone amid a shards of marble.

Dr. Parsons climbed the creaking stairs to the studio flat and knocked on the door.

A beautiful girl with long dark hair answered the door, smiling. "Dr. Parsons?"

He couldn’t help but stare at her.

"Yes, you called me, Miss—?"

"Oh, I'm Sue," she nodded. "Your number was on the pills in his cupboard. He's through here." She waved him into the flat.

Dr. Parsons followed the girl through the apartment, his eyes on her long, shapely legs. "I didn't know Vancussi had a girlfriend. He's never mentioned you."

Sue stopped and turned around; a breath of wind caught her hair, and it lifted and swirled around her face. She ran her fingers through it, flattening it back down.

"Really? I often felt he thought I didn't exist, that I was a phantom of his mind." She seemed saddened. "Here he is." With a sweep of her hand, she pointed to a statue.

Dr. Parsons glanced at the white statue. It was certainly a statue of Vancussi—Parsons would recognize him anywhere—and a very good one. "Is this a joke of some sort—" He poked it with his finger; it was warm and soft—flesh. "Ah, he's catatonic. I’ll call an ambulance. He needs hospital care." He turned to look Sue.

“Out of the question. I’ll look after him.” The girl smiled.

For a moment, he was spellbound by her eyes. “Are you sure, my dear?”

The girl nodded. So very, very beautiful, he thought. He relented. “Well, okay. Any problems, call me straight away.” His wife always said he couldn’t resist a pretty face.

He turned back to Vancussi and knelt to open his bag. Drawing up a syringe of medication, he injected it into Vancussi's shoulder. "There, that should bring him out of it. It's a long-acting anti-psychotic drug; he's had it before. Make sure he takes his tablets. He will be drowsy for a few days, but should be himself a few days after that. The wonders of modern medicine, eh?" He chuckled. "You know, for a moment when I first saw him, I thought he was made of stone. It was the dust that fooled me."

There was a strange hissing behind him, like the wind whistling through gaps in the window frames.

"Yes, doctor," Sue said. "A sculptor turning to stone—that would be a weird cosmic joke, wouldn't it? It would be so unkind—and he's so special to me." Her voice turned silky, yet there was commanding edge to it. "Turn around for a moment, would you? There's something I'd like to show you before you go, doctor: my vision of the future. You see, I am an artist of sorts, too."

An artist, too? He glanced at his watch. I've got a bit time. It probably won't take long.

"Of course, my dear. Let me just shut my bag." He smiled to himself as he clicked the bag shut. If her art was anywhere near as beautiful as she, it would be a pleasure to behold.