The Ultimate Stonemage: A Modest Autobiography Page 5

  The smell was so bad that one night I abandoned my cabin entirely and slept in the large cabin with the slaves. This did not suit me, for slaves, too, have a smell. On the next night, I tried to sleep in the hold, having placed my mattresses upon the wooden floor, but it was an uncomfortable bedchamber, as well as being dark and oppressive. Moreover, I was no sooner sleeping than I was awakened by a minute sound, and upon shining a lamp around I saw a mouse scurry behind my barrels of ale. On seeing this, you may be sure I gathered together my mattresses and blankets, and climbed the ladder back to the top deck, and thence to my own cabin, and I slept there, smell and all.

  You may perhaps think it cowardly of me to be afraid of such a tiny thing as a mouse, but I know something of the ways of these animals, which have a vile disposition towards climbing into the mouths of sleeping persons in the belief the orifice is a mouse hole. Inevitably, the sleeping person will inhale or swallow, and the mouse will be drawn into his or her innermost parts, whereupon the creature, seized with a fury born of panic, madly bites and scratches in all directions, doing such damage to the internal organs that the unfortunate victim dies a vile and excruciating death. Scholars now agree countless people are killed in this way, although rarely is the cause of death accurately identified, because the mouse, following its natural instinct, retreats deep into the intestine, where it is swiftly digested by the fluids still resident in the body of its victim.

  I write these words knowing full well the nauseating effect they will have upon many readers. Yet surely it is better to speak frankly about the true dangers of the mouse, though it is horrendous to hear, than to tame the warning, thereby ensuring it carries no force and many more people fall victim to this gruesome creature.

  Now, I do not tell this tale of the mouse merely to illustrate the hazards of my voyage, for, as I lay in my cabin, this matter of providing a warning about the dangers of the mouse started to tap upon my mind, and I began to address myself to the challenge. Soon, a very wonderful idea came to me, almost as a vision. I saw before me the image of King Thyatus, who died after his victory at the Battle of Neppo Sound. It is now widely accepted that Thyatus died from intaking a mouse as he lay recovering from his battle wounds, and in my vision I saw the great king, sitting in his bed, naked except for his war helmet, pointing skyward with his right arm, and leaning on his left. His legs were swathed in satin sheets, and from his mouth, causing him the greatest alarm, protruded the tail and hindquarters of a mouse as it scrambled towards his throat on its deadly mission.

  The vision filled me with the utmost awe and dread, for consider, this glorious king, whose war victory had brought him all Asia as its trophy, now lay conquered himself, and by nothing more than a common mouse. And yet, is this not the capricious nature of all life’s victories for every one of us?

  You will certainly appreciate, then, this vision of mine was a very remarkable one, and would have made a fine sculpture or a painting—and this would by no means have been beyond my talents, for I have created many paintings and sculptures, and all who saw them, including many of the finest artists in Cyprus, wondered I had not made the pursuit of these arts my life’s work instead of playing with them merely as a pastime, for it was clear to them I had the makings of all the greatness of a Ranascawan or a Tybalt. Indeed, the great Azelian artist Chiamo Thredeem said of one of my paintings that it was “finer than any created by Tybalt.” Naturally, I give these words little heed, and I quote them here merely as an amusement. Nevertheless, it is worth considering that Thredeem’s reputation as a great artist went hand in hand with his standing as a critic, and he was not wont to give praise idly.

  To realize my vision in this way, though, would have been to betray it. For, as it came before my mind’s eye, I saw tiny mites crawling upon the sheets of King Thyatus, and a green lawn around him. Then, as I examined the vision more intently, I saw the mites were people, and the lawn was a vast forest. In short, the image I had seen was not merely a statue, but a great tower cunningly wrought into a statue’s shape. I named the work The Grief of King Thyatus, or the Grief for short.

  Upon realizing the extent of this inspired vision, I was filled with the most intense excitement and zeal, and was no longer able to sleep, for fear some detail of the conception would vanish before I woke. I therefore spent all night drawing plans and writing notes, and even as I wrote, more ideas came flooding into my head, until at last I called for the head slave and spoke ideas aloud for him to capture in writing, while I wrote further ideas by my own hand. The sun was rising before the visionary deluge finally subsided, whereupon I retired to my bed and slept very soundly until late the same afternoon.

  During the next day, the weather worsened, so we were constantly sailing through sleet and drizzle, and my reading upon the deck was brought to an end. With my wonderful new mission, however, this mattered to me not a jot. I remained in my cabin, now suddenly caring nothing for the smell of the eels, and I prepared detailed plans for the construction of the great colossus I had envisioned.

  A further week passed in this way until the plans were, in most respects, complete. When I say “plans,” I refer not to the appearance or layout of the structure—as in Luthen, this work had been completed in a few inspired hours—rather, I mean the placement of the myriad bindings upon the building.

  This reckoning of the enchantments was no trivial task. Indeed, for most stonemages it would have been well nigh impossible, for most rely upon mathematics to calculate the proper stress points, a procedure which greatly slows the reckoning time and leaves in its wake a spell scheme that is exact but mechanical and unexciting. I have not used mathematics since my schooling, when I found I did not care for the method. Therefore, I place my runes and wefts following my instinctive connection with the buildings I plan to create, which exist in the picture of my mind in a form as real as any castle or house that should fall before my eye. This is to say, then, this planning, while it would have been overwhelming for most stonemages, was a trifle for me.

  However, there were two aspects to the structure which presented a formidable challenge. The first was the right arm of the statue, which I had decided should be raised at an angle of forty-five degrees. The second was to give this great statue the property of speech. Both these problems posed a level of difficulty so great it would be over a year before I fully solved them, and even this time represented work of the most astonishing swiftness and inspiration, because either one of these tasks might well have represented a lifetime’s work for an ordinary stonemage—or even for a very great one.

  But let me say no more here. It is not the proper time to explain my remarkable solutions, and I fear my words might be misinterpreted as a display of vanity. This is not so, however, and you may rest assured that, in many cases, I have considerably understated the many challenges and difficulties which I overcame, for, although I believe in speaking truly, I often find myself racked with an almost crippling humility regarding my own talents.

  So then, I had finished my plans, yet I knew it would still be several weeks before we sighted land. The weather remained foul, so reading upon the deck was impossible—and in any case would have been unappealing to me, for I was alive with the enthusiasm to begin construction, and yet, aboard my ship, I could do nothing but wait. Oh, those weeks were a very wearisome time, and even now, in my memory, the period seems to me longer than the several years of building work which were to follow. And yet the unendurable boredom of those days had a happy and remarkable consequence, for it put my mind in such a state it became receptive to many visions. Often, in fact, as I pored over my plans, looking for some alteration which might occupy my thoughts, I would fancy I heard a noise behind me, or would feel a presence above me, and I would turn to see a great frog, or a hole with tentacles, or a shining weasel, or some such vision. And although these hallucinations were often horrible, and seemed to me to be completely real, yet I felt not the slightest alarm or fear upon b
eholding them.

  Such visions, I am told, are not unusual—and indeed are a commonplace occurrence among those who are forced to maintain a state of solitude for a lengthy period—nevertheless, they provided me with many striking designs which I have since used upon the walls of buildings as grotesques or gargoyles.

  However, one of these visions was truly singular. I was staring at the wall of my cabin when I thought I saw a movement through the porthole. Then a great, dark figure rose up from the waves. It was a giant, covered with barnacles and seaweed, with a sunken wreck for a body. He reached out and seized the porthole, tearing it from the side of my ship. In my mind I thought, “Ah, my ship will now sink, certainly.” But no. Instead the sea vanished, and I found myself looking upon a jungle. The giant still stood before me, but now had a beautiful and radiant appearance and wore a silver cloak. At his feet was a fox, feeding upon a long-dead carcass, and above him was a peacock in flight. The giant then spoke to me, saying: “Yreth, heed this—what you must lose to the fox, you will gain one hundredfold from the bird.” He said this three times, then the scene vanished, and I found myself staring once again at my cabin wall, with nothing but empty ocean beyond the porthole.

  Within an hour of this last vision, we finally sighted the shores of America. We sailed south, following the shoreline for a time until we reached the mouth of the mighty river Ram, then we sailed up this river to Ramport.

  I had selected Ramport as my destination some weeks earlier, for my head slave had told me the people of the town loved fine buildings and had plenty of arrans to pay for them. In this, he was correct, for the town was attractively plotted, with buildings of every colour, bearing numerous spires, domes, and towers, all decorated with gold and silver. In addition, almost every building in the town had a mast upon its roof, of the sort you would find upon a small sailing boat, and at the top of this mast was fastened a rectangular banner of coloured fabric called a “flag.”

  These flags worked as follows: each was fastened at two of its corners by a rope, much as a sail or banner is, except the flag was fastened vertically to the mast, without the benefit of booms, arms or stays. Further, the remaining two corners of the flag were left unbound, so, when the wind blew, the flags were pulled out, displaying their designs and making a beating sound, like the wings of a large bird. I was much taken by these flags, and later I purchased a large number to trade in the east, but the fashion has never caught on here, since American ways are unjustly considered crude, and I was quite unable to sell them again.

  I spent some two weeks exploring this town and acquainting myself with its buildings and its people. During this time, I roomed at the most expensive inns, staying no more than two nights at any one, and at each inn I let it be known I was a stonemage from Cyprus with a plan for a great construction. Naturally, word of my arrival soon spread among the rich, and before long a letter arrived inviting me to take luncheon with the town’s magistrate-in-chief.

  During the meal, this gentleman informed me that, while he had no power to authorize constructions (except for work of a trivial nature which would be beneath my skills), he knew of a project that would shortly be open to the bids of builders. The northernmost section of the town, he told me, had been destroyed by fire ten years previously, and it was now desired that this area be rebuilt. “If you feel the task to be worthy of your talents,” he said, “then I will mention your name to our principal watchman.”

  Of course, I assured the magistrate-in-chief that this commission was exactly the sort I had been seeking, and I thanked him very copiously for his kindness.

  For the next day or two, I wandered around the area which was to be rebuilt. Most of its buildings were burnt-out shells, although some retained sections of roof, and these served as homes for the impoverished and for thieves. The area was situated far from the river, and this, perhaps, was why the fire had done such damage, there being little water nearby to douse the flames.

  As I beheld the ruined houses, I marvelled at the opportunity providence had given to me, for it was clear this would be an ideal site for the construction of my Grief.

  Some days after my dinner with the magistrate-in-chief, a second invitation arrived, this time to take dinner with the principal watchman, whose name was Eon Vulpine. On seeing this name, certain doubts were immediately aroused in my head, for vulpine is a very ancient word meaning “like a fox,” and in my vision I had been warned I would suffer losses to the fox.

  Still, I dined with him anyway, and I was favourably impressed by his knowledge of the builder’s art. And, I must admit, I was impressed by the man himself. He was perhaps in his fortieth year, with a large, open face, and intelligent eyes. During the meal, I showed him my plans for the Grief, and he was overwhelmed by its loveliness, saying it was the most beautiful plan for a sculpture he had ever seen. When I explained this was to be no sculpture, but was a mighty tower, he was astounded beyond belief.

  “But I fear,” he said, “that we have no need for such a tower. Our town is adequately protected.”

  “You hear tower and you think warfare,” I said. “Yet this need not be a mere fortification. The tower’s interior is divided into a multitude of rooms, and these might serve very nicely as dwellings, or even as small shops. Thus, this statue will replace the damaged section of your town.”

  On hearing this, Eon Vulpine was overcome with joy, saying: “Then indeed, this must be built! It must! It must!” He drooled, and he clapped his hands together uncontrollably, so much was he enthralled by the prospect of this magnificent edifice becoming a part of his town.

  Then he asked me why the king had a little tail sticking out of his mouth. I explained to him this building served not only to shelter and to beautify, but also to warn all who might behold it of the dangers of the mouse.

  “What dangers?” said he.

  I then explained the dangers to him as I have already told it here. He was much alarmed to hear this news, for he, being ignorant of the threat, had given a gift of two caged mice to his children some months earlier.

  “If you will take my advice, sir,” I said, “you will kill the creatures without delay, for not to do so will certainly bring about the untimely deaths of your own dear infants.”

  This he promptly did, and he later told me he would be forever grateful to me for saving his children from so terrible a death. So, you see, even before it was built, my Grief was already fulfilling its worthy mission, although Vulpine’s gratitude brought me precious little reward, as you will see.

  We met many times over the following month and discussed every aspect of the building. Vulpine’s excitement was hardly diminished since his first glimpse of the plans. And his pleasure was greatly increased when he asked me what it might cost to create such a wonder.

  “For my last commission,” I told him, “I received gold and gifts totalling more than one thousand three hundred arrans. Though the nature of that task was very much simpler than this one, yet I would be willing to work for the same sum, provided I might be given assistants to help me with the more rudimentary elements of the construction, together with a quantity of slaves to carry stones.”

  “One thousand three hundred arrans!” he exclaimed. “Come, sir! I may be no stonemage, but I know enough of architecture to know such a price would greatly undervalue the genius of your design alone. To ask such a pittance for both the design and the construction is absurd. No, I will insist you ask no less than five thousand arrans for this commission. In addition, I will see to it you are given builders of the highest skill to work under you.”

  I was well pleased by these terms, for I had indeed set my price very low in my enthusiasm to win the commission. I was pleased also by this fellow’s recognition of the importance of my work. Nevertheless, I remained constantly mindful of my vision, and I watched Vulpine carefully for any sign of trickery or false dealing.

  A few days later, I had picked
out several builders who would help me with the job. Vulpine approved my choice, assuring me of their considerable talents and urging me to begin work without delay. But then he said a very curious thing. He said: “And if the citizens of this town are outraged that our time-honoured customs have been broken, let us care nothing for it, for we would do a far greater wrong by jeopardizing the construction of so worthy an artwork.”

  These words disturbed me, for we folk of the Cyprus Horn place a high value on custom, and so I asked him: “To which customs do you refer.”

  “Oh,” he said, “it is the usual practice, for any great building such as this is, that the many stonemages of the area be summoned together and given the chance to submit designs of their own. Then a competition is held, and the winner’s design is used for the construction in question.”

  “Well then,” I said, after some thought, “if that is the custom, let us abide by it.”

  “No no,” he said, “I could not allow it. What if some other stonemage’s work were chosen? No, the Grief must be built.”

  “Is the competition a fair one, unsullied by corruption or by prejudice towards the local stonemages?” I asked.

  “Why certainly,” he said. “The submissions are judged solely on their integral beauty, with no thought for the background of the works’ creators.”

  “And are its judges such people as would appreciate greatness in a building?”