Effigy

The Old Man rose from his stooped position next to the image his ideal. He leaned back heavily, stretching the aches and pains of great age from his tired joints. Rubbing his hands together, he filled the cramped workshop with the dust of his great creation. The particles once attached to a shapeless rock rose and fell, covering the worn surfaces of the room that had born witness to the origination of countless artifacts through its existence. The Old Man, humbled in stature by time, sat and gazed at his nearly completed masterpiece. The long silver threads gracing his face moved with the rhythm of his thoughts as he twirled the strands and immersed himself in memory.

The pathways of the past became clear and sunlit once again. A verdant meadow, an avenue lined with the brilliant hues of an extraordinary Spring; songs of joy and hope filled the air, overcoming all other sounds as the wind pulled gently on loose clothing. An azure sky gazed down upon the comings and goings of a busy world with tempered amusement as it displayed the glory of its Creator to all with eyes to see. A small child then filled the scene with her smiles and laughter. The sun became brighter, the sky deeper, the colours more vivid, and the song of Spring inescapable as it played along with the hymn of the child. The girl’s peals of amusement and gentle giggling overcame all other joys as the scene began to fade back into the present.

The flutter of eyelids and sharp intake of breath disturbed the dust settled on the Old Man’s face. With a familiar sigh he lifted his head and once more laid eyes upon his ideal, the final effort of his craftsmanship. He felt a silent regret in contemplation of the sculpted form waiting to be finished and brought fully to bear on the world in which it was created to stand. The form was bowed by choice, the Man bowed by Father Time. The Man inhaled slowly, and exhaled a prayer for the peace needed to finish what he had started so well. Slowly, he reached for his chisel, and then became still once more, transfixed by the gaze of the form before him. The figure kneeling on the cold stone in the middle of the room seemed to cry out the words written beneath his still and vivid effigy: “A broken man on bended knee.” Now was the time. Heaving a sigh, he rose to his feet, and, with a prayer for strength, took up his chisel to complete this last work of love.

Cut into the space beneath the figure were these words taken from the grave of a patriarch:

Earthly soul alive today,

Meanings fail and fade away,

Prospects burn and voices say,

To those who follow, come what may.

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What to say when words can't tell,

The story of the dark and fell,

Or tale of those alive and well,

Those whose souls they cannot sell.

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Here I stand, it falls to me,

To make a choice, with vision see,

So I chose the one I'll be:

A broken man on bended knee...

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