The Stonemason and Other Tales Read online

The Stonemason

  and Other Tales

  By Michael Patrick McMullen

   

  Copyright 2013 Michael Patrick McMullen

  Cover Design by Jess Dickerson 

  Table of Contents

  The Stonemason

  Beneath the Falling Stars

  The Gift

  The Incident at Outpost 51

   

  The Stonemason

  The workshop was smaller than Marion had expected. When she heard that she was going to profile the city’s longest working and most prolific stonemason she pictured a large warehouse or a spacious loft with a gorgeous view of the city. The humble shed behind the small house far south of the city had its unique charms, however. She was impressed with the view of the river and the rolling hills that surrounded the property. After several minutes Gregor came down a small pathway alongside the house and greeted Marion. They exchanged pleasantries and he guided her around the back of the house to the workshop.

  Gregor’s work could be seen all over the city in the form of fountains and statues. His most recognized statue was one of President Lincoln, placed in the center of a roundabout downtown. Marion however was more interested in the work less often seen by the public, those that sat atop two of the city’s cathedrals and the roof of the newspaper office she worked at.

  “Gargoyle is not the correct term,” Gregor said, wiping some dust from his glasses. “It is only a gargoyle if it is used to direct water away from the building, such as a downspout.”

  “Interesting!” Marion said, scribbling in her notebook. “And what are they called if they aren’t downspouts? The statues you create, what would be the term for them?”

  “Grotesques,” Gregor said, smiling.

  Gregor began a tour of the workshop as he discussed the process at length, providing more detail than Marion would likely use in her article but fascinating, none the less. He showed her a statue still in progress. A large head with partially formed features jutted from a block of stone as if trying to escape. The visual was remarkable, if somewhat unsettling to Marion.

  “Would you like to see some of my side projects?” Gregor asked. “They are more personal works. I'm setting up a collection of unique statues to sell to a business associate.”

  Marion excitedly agreed and Gregor walked past her to open a small door at the back of the workshop. The door opened to a garden with a long, narrow path leading down a small hill behind the house. The garden itself was impressive. It was large, with several topiaries trimmed into the shapes of animals. In the very center of the garden sat a small fountain and, off the path, there was a covered sitting area. Gregor said that the fountain was one he made as a gift for a former mayor, but there was a scandal and the mayor was impeached before he could give it.

  “I didn’t like the next mayor, so I kept the fountain,” Gregor said, smiling.

  The path ended at a barn that looked old and frail. Several boards had fallen off the side facing them as they approached. Gregor pointed out the condition and said that, after the statues were gone, he was going to have the barn torn down, but that he needed a place to store them for now.

  “The sale of these works will be enough that I can retire,” Gregor said. “I am getting tired so quickly these days. That piece you saw back there, in the workshop, is late, I’m afraid to say. These works are…slightly different than what you have seen so far. The collector I am selling them to had very specific tastes. I even had to use a new technique for them. At my age, that was no easy task!”

  Marion and Gregor stepped into the barn. Beams of sunlight cut through the holes and missing slats in the roof, filling the barn with soft, dappled light. The three statues stood in the middle of the barn, each one underneath a tarpaulin.

  Gregor pulled the first tarpaulin away, revealing a statue of a woman, nude, holding a sword in one hand, lazily by her side, and a pomegranate in the other, up by her face as if studying it. It was gorgeous and meticulous in detail. Marion studied it intently, walking around the statue.

  “This is marvelous work!” Marion said. “I have never seen stone cut to such perfection. You say you used a new technique; may I ask what it was?”

  Gregor smiled and walked to the next statue.

  “I’ll be sure to give you a demonstration in a moment. Perhaps you could even model for me?” he said, winking.

  Marion blushed as Gregor pulled off the tarpaulin of the next statue, and gasped when she saw it. Where the first exuded a delicate grace and beauty, the second was dark and truly grotesque. The body was that of a male, slender and well defined, but the head was monstrous. It was jagged, with leering and bulbous eyes. The mouth was opened wide as if in mid-shout. The lips were pulled back revealing long, pointed teeth. One arm was raised above his head and it held a large knife, ready to strike, while the other was outstretched, as if trying to grasp the onlooker. Marion turned and cleared her throat.

  Gregor stepped to the side and revealed the next statue. The stone figure appeared to be in anguish. Another male figure, with arms held rigid at his sides. The head was cocked back at a sharp angle to the body and the face was grimacing in an eternal scream. Both hands clasped the thighs, fingers appearing to dig into the form. Marion stepped back, unsure of what to say. Gregor came and stood next to her still smiling as he gazed at his work.

  “So what do you think?” he asked. Marion looked back at the statues hoping they would look less menacing after the initial shock had worn off. Instead they looked worse. The eyes of the first male figure seemed to be staring straight at her. The woman’s expression looked different now as well. She seemed sad, distant somehow.

  “Well, they are magnificent in technique,” she finally said. Gregor could hear the hesitation in her voice and turned to face her.

  “Be honest, my dear. What do you think of them?”

  “The first is beautiful; truly a magnificent work of art. But the other…”Marion steadied her voice as she was suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. “Oh, Gregor, I’m sorry, but I find them hideous. Ugly, ugly figures. They are finely crafted but they are so dark and ominous that I…”

  Marion’s hands began to shake. The air in the barn suddenly felt different; colder. She began moving towards the door. Gregor grabbed her arm and asked her to stay a bit longer. His fingers felt boney and rough as sandpaper. A chill ran up Marion’s arm.

  “Perhaps you would like to see how I made them? The technique I used is rather cunning and I guarantee no other artist uses it. It would be a wonderful addition to your article.”

  “I’m sorry, Gregor. I really have to be going.” Marion pulled her arm away and walked out of the barn. Gregor said something but she couldn’t hear it as she headed back up the path.

  Marion hurried her walk to the end of the garden and, as she came around the side of the workshop, she screamed. The first male statue from the barn stood between her and her car. She turned to walk around him, but the second male statue was standing near her as well.

  “Gregor!” she yelled. “Gregor, I don’t like this. This is a horrible joke.”

  Gregor walked up from the garden, his expression cold and rigid. Marion’s heart began to race. She tried to take a step towards her car, but her legs suddenly felt heavy. She looked down to see they had both turned the pale white of the statues surrounding her, and hard as rock. She looked up and saw Gregor getting into her car and driving off. As the dust from the gravel road to his property settled behind the disappearing vehicle, Marion looked back at the first male statue. Its face had contorted from the maniacal yell to a broad, crooked grin.

  Gregor returned to find Marion in the barn, standing across from the woman with
the pomegranate.

  Gregor patted Marion’s arm. “There is a turn between here and the city that many people unfamiliar with this part of the country take when heading home after day-trips or camp-outs. The map says it is a shortcut, but the road is very treacherous and it is not uncommon for cars to end up in the river. Of course, the rapids there are so swift, people escape their cars only to be swept downstream and never seen again. In fact, not very long ago, a young married couple got lost on a weekend trip picking fresh pomegranates, and ended up at my house asking for directions. Even though, as I told the police, I expressly told them to avoid the shortcut, they took it anyway. The couple was never seen again. People will come looking for you, of course. But I won’t be here to ask. The sale was completed today as I now have the fourth and final statue for the collector. He’ll be by later today to pick up the items. I’m sure your new home will be lovely.”

  Gregor walked out of the barn. He pulled the door shut and the dull thud of the wood echoed in the now darkened space. A single beam of sunlight cut through the holes and missing slats in the roof above Marion, and brushed across her back. She began to think about the warmth of the sun, and how she longed to feel it now. But as she stood on the pedestal in the dark of the old barn, all she felt was cold.

   

  Beneath the Falling Stars

  To the untrained eye, like my own, they seem indistinguishable from the stars in the sky. The scientists say that each one is the size of a city block, and they’re moving towards us at several thousand miles per hour. I take their word for it.

  It wasn’t so bad when we first heard about it. The headlines had always been so chock full of news about the wars, collapse of markets, celebrity gossip and political intrigue that it was almost a relief to have something new to read in the morning edition. However, when it was discovered that the one object was actually several objects and the realization that they were all on a direct path towards Earth came to light, you would think the news had never talked about celebrities or politicians. Despite the best efforts of governments the world over to hide or disguise the truth, the facts kept coming. Now it’s inevitable and humanity knows it. The end, truly, is nigh.

  I left the city soon after the death knell had been rung. By the most recent estimate, there were fifteen of those things heading our way. There would be no recovery from this. Not for our species anyway. And, to be honest, this couldn’t have worked out better for me. Even though retirement is, or was, still several years off, I’ve been feeling worn out and have been looking for an excuse to get away from it all. No better excuse than the end of the world.

  I came out to the old family farm, several hours north of the city. My brother and I inherited it after our parents died. Tom, my brother, had been in talks with an out-of-state development firm to bulldoze the land and put up some kind of resort. I didn’t like that idea and we argued quite a bit over it. Fortunately, the deal was dropped when Tom went missing a few years ago. Poor fellow had been greatly affected by our parent’s death, and some think he was using the development deal as a way to cope. Like saying he didn’t want to see this place again because it would bring up the grief of losing his parents. Those dime-store psychologists didn’t know that he never liked it out here. He always thought himself better than the rest of us. He especially hated working in the orchard. I was laughing about that when I buried him there.

  Oh, sure, he’s missing to someone. See, “missing” is a fluid term, like “happiness.” As in, not everyone is happy that the blue planet will soon be void, yet I’m almost giddy at the idea. No more secrets to hide.

  My brother is only one of many secrets I’ve planted around the old family farm. I always preferred the orchard for burying the past, but if you go poking around underneath the barn, you’re bound to find some of my more recent work. Some I preferred to keep off the property.

  Take the cellar of what used to be the neighbor’s house, for instance. It contains what used to be the neighbors. They were a nice enough family of three, but their adult son wouldn’t move out and get a job like a man. The couple coddled him and let him stay rent free. He didn’t even have his own car. The bastard cried the night I came to visit. Oh, how he cried. “If you’re not going to contribute to society,” I told him “then you don’t get to be part of it!” Even by my standards, I went a little crazy on that one. I probably should have burned the house down but, at the time, that would have drawn too much attention. As you may have guessed, attention isn’t something I crave.

  I used to get nervous anytime a hiker got lost in the woods behind our property. All I needed was one hippie to stumble across one of my treasures and game over. I don’t worry anymore though. Not with those beautiful rocks in the sky hurtling towards the homestead here at thousands of miles per hour.

  Nobody’s going to find me out now. Even if they did, there’s no police force left to arrest me, no courts left to find me guilty and no power left to fry me. When those rocks tear through our atmosphere, and the dust and ash blot out the sun; as the world burns and the people clutch their loved ones and cry out for mercy from their gods, I’ll still be sitting here, drink in hand, laughing as the universe finishes my work. 

   

  The Gift

  Thomas wanted to tell her, but the words would get stuck. He would tell his mom that it felt like the words were moving around, just below the surface of his skin. He wondered if she had noticed the raccoon near the crosswalk on her way to school. All the other kids went to the crosswalk up the street, but he knew Amber used the one at the south end of the park. Even though it added a few minutes to her trip, she liked the time to think. Her diary had several mentions of needing quiet time. She liked to think about animals, and how they made her happy. Amber wanted to be a veterinarian when she grew up. Thomas waited anxiously, wanting to know if she had seen the raccoon, but she hadn’t come to class yet. Even when he thought of her, he could feel the words begin their dance.

  Thomas’ mother, Deborah, began cleaning her son’s room. She had picked up all the dirty clothes and used dishes scattered around the floor but still had not found the source of the terrible smell. It had gotten worse while they were away for the weekend and she began to worry if there was a mouse somewhere in the room.

  Amber suddenly burst into the classroom, crying, and went directly to the teacher. Tears streamed down her bright red cheeks and the teacher guided her outside the room. The kids could hear talking, but couldn’t understand what was being said. Thomas watched as the teacher gasped in horror and came back in to tell the class to keep working while she was gone. She and Amber walked down the hall towards the office. Thomas grew irritated when the other kids in the class, of course, started talking to each other instead of working.

  Deborah opened the closet in her son’s room and sighed in frustration, and disgust, at the pile of dirty underwear and socks piled just inside the door. She began picking up the clothes when she noticed Frittzy, the neighbor’s missing cat, lying in the corner. Its tongue hung black and thick out of its mouth and its legs were straight and stiff. Next to him was Sprinkles, the other neighbor’s missing cat, and between them was Jeffery, their own missing guinea pig. Deborah recoiled at the sight and began to leave when she noticed something odd. Her blood ran cold as she opened the door wider to let more light into the dark corner. The light cutting through the closet door revealed each animal had something, a name, carved in their sides.

  It was the same thing Thomas was writing over and over in his notebook while the other kids had their vapid discussions about which celebrities they thought were cute. The name delicately carved into his bed post, the tree outside his window, and the raccoon by the crosswalk she took every day to school. A gift to the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

  “AMBER”.

   

  The Incident at Outpost 51

  Anderson blinked several times and looked around the cockpit. No lights were on in the ship but the silver g
low coming in through the cockpit window lit up the space enough that he could see the flight control deck. He looked out the window and noticed he was surrounded by large, sharp rocks. His head was throbbing and he felt disoriented. The engine wasn’t running. He assumed it was a rough landing judging by the knot on his forehead.

  He cut himself out of his seat harness, grabbed a small flashlight from his jacket and turned to look around the ship. The hull had large, inward dents along the length of it on all sides. Every muscle in his body hurt. He looked around until he found the first aid kit. He popped it open and smiled at the sight of the pain killers.

  ***

  When the pain began to subside, he tried activating the flight console. He remembered the emergency power needed to be switched on manually, a feature he never liked in these ships. He flipped the switch and the lights on the panels flickered and then kicked on with an electric hum. A sharp buzz came from a speaker directly above his head. The Interstellar Communicator was working, but he was mostly getting static on his end. He looked over the control panel until he saw the controls for the IC. He turned the dials until the buzzing sound stopped.

  “This is Captain Anderson Wesley. I have crashed. No location yet. Over,” Anderson said into the handset. There was a long silence. He turned on the ship’s navigation computer. It showed the marker for his ship in the middle of a black screen. No location information at all.

  “Captain! This is Lieutenant Lawrence Quigley, sir. We lost you on our nav screens. It's good to hear from you, sir. Are you all right?”

  “I'm a little banged up. No worse than my ship. Listen, do you have any idea where I am?” Anderson asked.

  “None, sir. I'm sorry to say but you went off the map. Do you remember where you were headed?” Lawrence responded.

  “The Delta Bay, just past Outpost 51,” Anderson said.

  “Have you turned on your emergency beacon?” Lawrence asked. Anderson shook his head at his own negligence.

  “I forgot all about it. Hang on one second,” he said as he flipped on the beacon, which was set underneath the main control panel. Three lights came on the front of the beacon, blinked twice and then remained steady.