A Deluded Heart | Previous Challenge Entry

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TITLE: A Deluded Heart | Previous Challenge Entry
By Bridget Bewick
04/28/26
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Sweat runs down his brow and drops off the end of his nose onto the log in front of him. The dull ache in his shoulders becomes a scream with each stroke of the plane. His hands, thickened with work, have started to crack and blister. His tools are sharp, well kept, and sit comfortably in his expert hands. But the wood is hard, that is why he chose it, and he is tired.

He lays the plane aside and stretches his arms above his head, before knuckling his back. He is stripped to the waist, for even in the shade this is hot work. His back glistens and his chest is caked with saw dust. Hard muscles tell of a life-time of such work. He drinks deeply from a jar at his side and returns to his labours.

It has been several days since he went into the forest to choose the wood for this particular work. He searched for some time before he found what he was looking for. An oak, not too old, but straight, with no low branches to put knots in his way. It took him another day to fell the tree, drag it back to his work bench and strip the bark. That done, he stood back seeing in his mind’s eye the figure within the wood.

Over some days he has cut away the pieces that he doesn’t need. He has planed the wood until the shape begins to emerge and he imagines the figure struggling free. The air is filled with the scent of warm wood and birdsong. He lifts the log and staggering under its weight, stands it on end. He looks at it for a moment, picks up a small knife, and marks the wood where tomorrow he will carve into it until the image in his mind becomes real. When he is satisfied, he collects his tools, cleans and sharpens each one and puts them away. He will rest now, and tomorrow will begin to release the figure from the wood.

The morning finds him outside his small house, stretching himself. As the dew dries on the log of wood, he walks around it, knife in hand, making small adjustments to yesterday’s marks. With chisel and mallet he taps and cuts, shedding curls of wood at his feet. To begin with, he steps back often to examine his work, but slowly becomes more confident, working swiftly with a sure hand. Even so, days pass before we too can see the figure that has been bound for so long.

It is a woman. A young woman, but there is still smoothing to be done, and fine details to add, before her beauty can be properly seen. She stands with her chin lifted, a crown of stars around her head. Her slender arms are bare. He has left her supple figure covered by a robe that flows to the ground, revealing, on one side, three toes.

At last he rubs her smooth, then taking the knife for the last time, puts pupils in her eyes and nails on her hands and toes. He parts her lips as if she is about to speak. At last he stands back and gazes at his creation. Tears well in his eyes and he kneels, kissing the foot that he has allowed to emerge from her robe. He longs for a blessing from the arms that he has carved, a word from the lips that he has parted. But there is only birdsong, and the scent of warm wood.

Sighing, he sweeps up the curls of wood, gathering them into a basket and putting them beside the pieces of rejected wood that he has already stacked for the fire.

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