Carving, by Tyler Germain

A tired old man lowered his aching body to the front porch step of his weathered house. As he sat, dirty sweat ran down his coffee-black forehead, gathering on thick eyebrows like a stream slowed by a dam.  He wiped his brow with the dark side of hands that were calloused and cracking and dry.  This morning—which could have been any morning—was spent splitting wood from the old black walnut tree next to the dusty drive leading to the man’s home.  It had been dying for some time now, becoming an eyesore and giving no shade.

The morning air was thick and hot in the man’s lungs as he drew it in and blew it out.  On the wall next to him, an old, round thermometer hung from a rusty nail.  The red arm that pointed to the temperature had been following the same slow arc of the sun all morning, inching closer to its peak with every passing hour.  He gave the thermometer a long, slow look, and sighed.  At the man’s feet laid a log left unsplit, set aside for carving.  The rest of the tree was split and stacked, ready to burn. 

Pressing dirty palms down firmly onto the knees of worn dungarees, the man forced his body upright.  Every joint creaked like the porch step as he stood.  He walked across the porch, every step a chore, to collect his carving tools.  Inside an old trunk was a makeshift pouch that held his chisels and knives; next to it, mallets and stones.  Each tool had its own pocket sewn into the material—the same material as the jeans he wore—into which they snugly fit.  He brought the pouch back to the step and laid it out flat at his side.  Then he grabbed a mallet and the biggest chisel he owned, chunking off pieces of walnut, forming the log into shape. 

Slipping a small round chisel from the denim pouch, the man worked.  He started slowly, taking small pieces of dried wooden flesh from the log, scooping them out like melon. They fell to the floor, landing quietly around his feet.  His face, showing wrinkles of both age and concentration, was inches from his work.  Shavings from the wood collected in his patchwork beard, flaking the black hair with white, like pepper, fresh-cracked and coarse.  There were pieces on his hands and nose and eyebrows too.  Every crack, every line he made was cut with careful precision as he carved on the piece of the dead tree.  For hours he changed chisels and stones without taking his eyes from the work, pausing only to wipe sweat from his forehead, leaving dust from the back of his hand in its place.

Once he had finished carving, the man stood, rubbing bent-twig fingers against wiry facial hair, to look at his work.  He had carved himself.  Every detail was accounted for: every line, every bump, every scar on his face. The jaws and chin: rough and scratchy with beard; the cheeks: made to droop, heavy and tired.  He looked down upon the eyes he had carved.  From the corners of them came crows’ feet, jagged and deep. Under them hung tired bags that almost rolled down the whole of the face like melted wax. The man slid his crooked fingers from his beard to his eyes, touching the wrinkles around them.  He had carved them exactly as they were on his flesh. 

The man sighed a deep sigh as he lowered himself off the porch, collecting himself atop each step on the way down.  With stiff limbs he walked to the wood he’d split earlier that morning, and leaned on his forearms against the neatly stacked pile.  His head hung down, and a couple drops of sweat fell from his brow, landing on his dark hands.  He grabbed a few of the logs, threw them in a pile, set them on fire, and walked back to the porch. He sat for several minutes watching the fire at a distance, then looked again at the immaculate carving next to him. 

It took nearly all the strength that was left in his body to pick the carving up. He almost lost his balance on the way down the stairs, the weight of the wood working with gravity to keep him from standing straight.  He felt the heat of the fire on his skin as he approached the flames. He stood feet away.  All the joints of his body jerked and clunked like a rusty machine when he strained to throw the carving on the fire.  It crashed and cracked when it hit the pile, and embers flew into the air as the fire popped and snapped; the effort it took to hurl the carving sent the man lumbering backward.  He rubbed away the dust and dirt from his arms and wiped it on his jeans.  Then he watched the towering flames and billowing smoke, and he listened to the crackling wood.  He stood for a long time, and the fire was hot on his face.

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Next on The Hindsight Bridge: "Out Of The Ordinary," by Paul Walter Hauser, is a 2 part story about Chris McDonald - an ordinary man given an extraordinary opportunity. Idle hands and empty pockets are about to bring Chris to the devil's playground. Check back on May 2, 2011!