The Wood Carving
Nov. 5th, 2007 05:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hells_half_acreHere's the beginning part of a story I wrote last week:
So there I am, freeing the hostages, when it suddenly occurs to me that it had been your birthday three days previous.
"Damn it!" I exclaim in a harsh whisper, startling the man who is shimmying under the fence that I am doing my best to hold up for him. His large brown eyes lock with mine in panic.
"What is it?!" he asks between frightened breaths.
"Nothing, go!" I reply. I wave my hand in the dismissive commanding way that has become all too natural. I remember how you had yelled at me, not long ago, about my work habits bleeding into our home life. You are not to be commanded, but the truth is that I am far too used to being obeyed.
The man scrambles out from under the fence. His feet have not traveled more than a foot, before the hands and head of the next person appear. They have also heard my muttered curse, they look at me with the same panicked confusion, but know enough not to voice their questions. This one has green eyes with golden flecks, like dark moss that has been exposed to the sun too long. I've always been amazed at the colours contained in the iris.
They are the last in the compound. I cover our tracks as best I can on the outside of the fence, but I know they'll easily track us. We'll double back to the ravine before they even discover the escape, but it won't buy us that much time. It is two days up the river, and one of its tributaries, before we'll reach safety. Two days of hiding ten odd people from search parties. I only hope they don't have scent dogs.
If I had remembered your birthday before my trip, I would have left at least a card. "Sorry I couldn't be there, but...hostages and all. Miss you, love you." Maybe something a little more sappy. Something more romantic. You do put up with so much - allowing me to have a secret weapons cupboard in our sitting room, not trying to peek into the safe in the bedroom, pretending you haven't picked up the code my colleagues and I speak in.
"What do you mean you signed me up for the weekend conference? You know I hate those things...oh fine, so it's just an excuse to get away from home. I swear you should just get a marriage counselor...right, you don't believe in conselors..."
Of course that all somehow translates into: I have to go south, rescue a dozen or so hostages and then hike two days down a ravine with them, hoping we get somewhere before hunger drives them even more crazy than they already are.
Luckily I've got that commanding nature to me. They follow me like hungry puppies. You wouldn't yell at me about ordering you around if you were with me in the ravine. No, I think you would. You have never been intimidated by me, it's why I love you. I find myself missing you at the thought of you undermining my authority in front of the hostages. It wouldn't have been good though. They need someone with authority. They need someone infallible, not some idiot who forgot it was your birthday and didn't even leave a card. What if I died here?
I figure I should probably get you something nice to make up for it. I need to make it seem like I had been thinking of your birthday the whole time, as if, for some reason, I had planned it this way. But no, there is still the problem of having not left anything behind. If I had remembered, I would have.
I'll be apologizing no matter what then. So what I need is a present to show that I had been thinking of you. That I did in fact remember, just a little too late.
As we reach the first hideaway - carefully crafted by me a few days earlier - I decide what needs to be done.
"Is anyone here an artist?" I ask. Many brilliantly wide eyes all turned to me at once, questioning, confused. It was gorgeous, and I wish for an instant that I was the artist.
"Wh...why?" a timid voice asks amongst the group.
"I need a sculptor, a wood carver. I know it's a trade around here." I reply, perhaps my tone is too commanding, perhaps I am making them nervous. I pause for a few seconds, when no one speaks, I continue in a softer voice. "It's alright. I was just wondering." I smile in the way I remember you always smiling, when we first met, and you had been trying to put me at ease - as if no matter what I did, I could not disappoint you.
I give a few more instructions on where to sleep, hand out the extra bug netting that I had stuffed in the bottom of my bag and tell them they better double up for warmth and protection, that I will be waking some of them to take watch when I get tired. I doubt any of them will sleep anyway.
When everyone is set up. I sit on the ground and look up through the tree canopy in the hopes of seeing the stars. I can, just a little. There is a rustle behind me and I see the gorgeous brown eyes that had overheard my curse by the fence. I raise an eyebrow in question, but most likely it goes unnoticed in the dark.
"Um...officer?" I smile, people never know what to call me.
"What is it?" I ask. I don't usually learn names if I don't have to. I give everyone nicknames in my head, assign my own back stories.
"I..." he begins, "I'm not an artist by trade, but I have a talent for it - the woodcarving that is."
I smile, I can't help it. The gods must be smiling too. Brown-eyes smiles, and I think of him sculpting in his spare time - wood shavings lying around his house, the ever-present wonderings about whether he missed his true calling at some point along the road.
I look around, using memory more than anything to find what I'm looking for. There's a fallen sapling, that lies not far off from where I have been sitting. I find it, embarrassingly groping for it in the dark. I unsheathe my machete and quickly chop a good piece off. I move back to him, handing him the wood and taking out one of my small jack knives.
"Can you carve something out of this? An animal perhaps? A human figure? Something beautiful?" I ask in a hushed hopeful whisper. The confusion is still present in the brown eyes, but suddenly I see the mouth quirk upwards in a smile that seems to say that he thinks I might be insane, but he's oddly happy about it.
"Yes" he answers.
"Don't forget to sleep." I say, slipping back into a voice of command, "and collect all wood shavings, we can't leave a trail." He nods a little frightened and submissive, and crawls back to his bed-mate, who has been watching us uncertainly. Everyone probably saw, but as long as I don't acknowledge they did, then nothing has changed. They'll never admit to it, and no one is bold enough to question the artist.
So there I am, freeing the hostages, when it suddenly occurs to me that it had been your birthday three days previous.
"Damn it!" I exclaim in a harsh whisper, startling the man who is shimmying under the fence that I am doing my best to hold up for him. His large brown eyes lock with mine in panic.
"What is it?!" he asks between frightened breaths.
"Nothing, go!" I reply. I wave my hand in the dismissive commanding way that has become all too natural. I remember how you had yelled at me, not long ago, about my work habits bleeding into our home life. You are not to be commanded, but the truth is that I am far too used to being obeyed.
The man scrambles out from under the fence. His feet have not traveled more than a foot, before the hands and head of the next person appear. They have also heard my muttered curse, they look at me with the same panicked confusion, but know enough not to voice their questions. This one has green eyes with golden flecks, like dark moss that has been exposed to the sun too long. I've always been amazed at the colours contained in the iris.
They are the last in the compound. I cover our tracks as best I can on the outside of the fence, but I know they'll easily track us. We'll double back to the ravine before they even discover the escape, but it won't buy us that much time. It is two days up the river, and one of its tributaries, before we'll reach safety. Two days of hiding ten odd people from search parties. I only hope they don't have scent dogs.
If I had remembered your birthday before my trip, I would have left at least a card. "Sorry I couldn't be there, but...hostages and all. Miss you, love you." Maybe something a little more sappy. Something more romantic. You do put up with so much - allowing me to have a secret weapons cupboard in our sitting room, not trying to peek into the safe in the bedroom, pretending you haven't picked up the code my colleagues and I speak in.
"What do you mean you signed me up for the weekend conference? You know I hate those things...oh fine, so it's just an excuse to get away from home. I swear you should just get a marriage counselor...right, you don't believe in conselors..."
Of course that all somehow translates into: I have to go south, rescue a dozen or so hostages and then hike two days down a ravine with them, hoping we get somewhere before hunger drives them even more crazy than they already are.
Luckily I've got that commanding nature to me. They follow me like hungry puppies. You wouldn't yell at me about ordering you around if you were with me in the ravine. No, I think you would. You have never been intimidated by me, it's why I love you. I find myself missing you at the thought of you undermining my authority in front of the hostages. It wouldn't have been good though. They need someone with authority. They need someone infallible, not some idiot who forgot it was your birthday and didn't even leave a card. What if I died here?
I figure I should probably get you something nice to make up for it. I need to make it seem like I had been thinking of your birthday the whole time, as if, for some reason, I had planned it this way. But no, there is still the problem of having not left anything behind. If I had remembered, I would have.
I'll be apologizing no matter what then. So what I need is a present to show that I had been thinking of you. That I did in fact remember, just a little too late.
As we reach the first hideaway - carefully crafted by me a few days earlier - I decide what needs to be done.
"Is anyone here an artist?" I ask. Many brilliantly wide eyes all turned to me at once, questioning, confused. It was gorgeous, and I wish for an instant that I was the artist.
"Wh...why?" a timid voice asks amongst the group.
"I need a sculptor, a wood carver. I know it's a trade around here." I reply, perhaps my tone is too commanding, perhaps I am making them nervous. I pause for a few seconds, when no one speaks, I continue in a softer voice. "It's alright. I was just wondering." I smile in the way I remember you always smiling, when we first met, and you had been trying to put me at ease - as if no matter what I did, I could not disappoint you.
I give a few more instructions on where to sleep, hand out the extra bug netting that I had stuffed in the bottom of my bag and tell them they better double up for warmth and protection, that I will be waking some of them to take watch when I get tired. I doubt any of them will sleep anyway.
When everyone is set up. I sit on the ground and look up through the tree canopy in the hopes of seeing the stars. I can, just a little. There is a rustle behind me and I see the gorgeous brown eyes that had overheard my curse by the fence. I raise an eyebrow in question, but most likely it goes unnoticed in the dark.
"Um...officer?" I smile, people never know what to call me.
"What is it?" I ask. I don't usually learn names if I don't have to. I give everyone nicknames in my head, assign my own back stories.
"I..." he begins, "I'm not an artist by trade, but I have a talent for it - the woodcarving that is."
I smile, I can't help it. The gods must be smiling too. Brown-eyes smiles, and I think of him sculpting in his spare time - wood shavings lying around his house, the ever-present wonderings about whether he missed his true calling at some point along the road.
I look around, using memory more than anything to find what I'm looking for. There's a fallen sapling, that lies not far off from where I have been sitting. I find it, embarrassingly groping for it in the dark. I unsheathe my machete and quickly chop a good piece off. I move back to him, handing him the wood and taking out one of my small jack knives.
"Can you carve something out of this? An animal perhaps? A human figure? Something beautiful?" I ask in a hushed hopeful whisper. The confusion is still present in the brown eyes, but suddenly I see the mouth quirk upwards in a smile that seems to say that he thinks I might be insane, but he's oddly happy about it.
"Yes" he answers.
"Don't forget to sleep." I say, slipping back into a voice of command, "and collect all wood shavings, we can't leave a trail." He nods a little frightened and submissive, and crawls back to his bed-mate, who has been watching us uncertainly. Everyone probably saw, but as long as I don't acknowledge they did, then nothing has changed. They'll never admit to it, and no one is bold enough to question the artist.
