After a short walk, the gloomy depths of the woods made way to a vast field bathed in sunlight where pine trees and dandelions gently swung by the wind were scattered about. There, atop the hills, the city of Sköllhyala stood tall. Thus, my destination was now finally in sight.
Before I continue, I feel I should give you a bit of a warning. If you’ve enjoyed my ramblings so far… Well, I can’t blame you. After all, these stories are the only thing that gives me strength to visit this place again. However, if a cute fantasy tale is what you’re here for, I suggest you stop reading now. This is the point where things take a turn for the worse.
O, Sköllhyala... Having spent the last few years in a small mountain range village, this place used to seem so huge to me when I was little. So overwhelming. I would even get dizzy seeing all the tall buildings, the crowds and the carriages on the streets all at once.
I remember vividly the last time I came here. It was a little over a year ago. Then, like now, I was in search of a certain treasure. A treasure available in the only shop for sculptors in the whole region that wasn’t closed permanently due to bankruptcy. I went there immediately after crossing the town’s drawbridge. It was a nice little painted lady-like house with a big shed on the back where they kept their inventory.
The shop owner was a guy named Bastian. He was a handsome young man with long hair and a beard so tidy you’d swear it was painted on his face. With a permanent marker. I’ve known him since he was still a teenager and his dad runned the place; we’ve been friends ever since.
“Yo, Rags!” he said gleefully as he saw me coming in. “Haven’t seen you around for a while. I was starting to fear you’d quit sculpting altogether.”
“Ha! Not in a million years,” I replied.
“That’s the spirit. How’s Mr. Otis?”
“Hanging in there, I guess. Doctor said he must stay in bed for the time given.”
“Sorry to hear that. I was shocked when I heard about his illness. Would you give him my regards for me, please?”
“Sure thing!”
“Great. So, what can I do for you?”
“I’ll just take the usual.”
“You’re in luck. It’s the last one. Normally I’d be all out this late into the month, but business has been a bit slow.”
“Ugh. Tell me about it.”
He next went to the shed and came back carrying a wooden handcart that contained a big block of carving stone. It was as tall as a door and almost twice as wide. An article that, crude and ordinary as it might seem, was getting increasingly difficult to acquire in all of the region. Wouldn’t be much of a treasure otherwise, would it?
“Awesome!” I shouted. “Thanks, Bastian! Mind if I take the cart too? I value my back too much to try and push this all the way back to Brümsgundy with my own two hands.”
“Sure. It’s on the house,” he said.
He then let out a long sigh and put his hands on his hip while staring at the floor. His expression suddenly changed from jolly and friendly to dead serious. I couldn’t help but to feel concerned.
“Listen, Rags,” he said. “If you ever need a job, I could use a hand here at the shop. After all, nobody knows about this stuff as much as you do. I can even rent you the shed if you need somewhere to stay.”
“Really? I thought you said business was slow.”
“...Besides, here in the city you have a chance at meeting the kind of people that can get you places. Like, academists and stuff. Real big shots. I’m just saying, talent like yours shouldn’t be left unexploited.”
“That’s really kind of you, but I can’t just bail on Mr. Otis like that.”
“Yeah, well, I mean… Y’know, in case he…” He stuttered awkwardly as he struggled to find in his mind the right words to say. It was obvious he was trying to be polite, or at least not sound overly pessimistic, which I appreciated. We both knew what he really meant, though. “He’s not gonna be around forever,” he concluded. “That’s all I’m saying.”
“He’ll pull through. I know he will.”
I then gave the bag of coins to Bastian and left the shop. And, with that, I was ready to walk back home. My quest was over successfully. Hooray.
Let me tell you a bit more about my life in the atelier. About Mr. Otis and I. Even though we were the only sculptors in the village, you could say things were pretty rough financially. Month after month, we’d barely manage to make ends meet. We struggled to find patronage, and even when we did, it paid little. Of course, the ongoing crisis wasn’t helping. Still, in spite of it all, we’d always figure out ways to get by. And we were immensely happy.
One day, someone appeared in front of our doorstep. A fancily attired lady who wore more jewelry in one finger than I had seen in my entire life. “Welcome, ma’am”, said Mr. Otis to the woman. “How may I be of service?”.
She stepped inside the atelier and introduced herself as duchess Magali Hogstad DeNido. Her presence was accordingly intimidating. She was an aging woman with red hair, all dressed in velvet, and was carrying a sheathed sword in her hip for whatever reason. She had this disinterested, judgmental look on her face the whole time as she thoroughly examined the place. She wasn’t impressed, and made sure we noticed that.
The duchess said she wanted to “fix” her public perception; I assumed what she really meant was that she expected people to somehow forget she’s an arrogant, sumptuous killjoy. Anyway, she thought that a friendly-looking sculpture made in her image in the middle of her lair-… I mean, manor, might just do the trick, and asked us if we were up to the task. Frankly, I had my doubts. It’d be easier to make pineapple pizza seem appetizing than to make this person look friendly. Regardless, my mentor quickly replied: “It will cost you”. The woman raised an eyebrow, as if she just got challenged by an opponent she deemed unworthy. She then asked my mentor to name a price, and Mr. Otis did so. After shaking their hands on it, the duchess turned around and left the atelier.
As per usual, we traveled to Sköllhyala and got the carving stone from Bastian’s shop so we could start working on the commission right away. We finished it in just a few days, and, of course, its quality met our high standards. The sculpture sat still while we waited for the duchess to come pick it up. Except… she never did. We waited for days. Then weeks. Then months. Then, no less than half a year later, we received a letter. The duchess’ signature was engraved on the sealing wax. The letter said she changed her mind. It said that she realized sculpture was an obsolete, lesser form of art, and that having something like that inside her house would only damage her image more. And, needless to say, she wouldn’t pay for it either.
I think what I always admired the most about Mr. Otis was his serenity. No matter how stressful things got, he always looked calmed and collected. Always so… peaceful. Almost uncannily so. It’s the one trait of his I never could match. That day, though, was the first time I ever saw him seething with anger. He grabbed the duchess’ sculpture and crashed it on the ground, breaking it into a million little pieces, and then locked himself in his room for hours.
After a while, I went to see if he was okay. I knocked on the door but got no answer, so I came in. I found him sitting on his bed, staring at the floor with a defeated look on his face.
"Look at me, Rags,” he said. “I'm a tragedy."
"Don't say such horrible things about yourself,” I said. “You're the best sculptor in the world!"
"Listen well, child, for this is the first time you'll hear some good advice coming from my mouth. Don't make the same mistake I made. Don't spend your entire life surrounded by stone and tools. Get a proper job. Meet someone you love and tell them so. Find happiness anywhere else. This is a dying art. It will bring you nothing but pain and disappointment, and every second you dedicate to it will be wasted. Time is much too precious for that. You're still so very young. It's not too late for you to turn back. Don't end up like me, a sad, lonesome old man who devoted his entire existence to a craft nobody cares about. Consider this my final lesson."
The next few months were… tough. On top of the duchess fiasco, I learnt by the village gossiping that Mr. Otis had recently received bad news from his doctor. Like, really bad news. Apparently, he found out about it while we were waiting to hear news from DeNido; he was hoping the payment for her sculpture would be enough to keep me afloat for some time in the worst case scenario, but that plan obviously didn’t come to fruition. I tried to bring up the subject with him on many occasions, but every time I did he would just look away and hang his head, which only led me to believe it was serious enough to make him worried.
He never sculpted again after that. In part due to his illness, in part due to the lack of patrons. But mostly due to his growing demotivation. For a few days I did my best to sweep off the dust and spider webs that were accumulating on his works, hoping he’d soon go back to being his old self, until I gave up as well. As the stubborn man he was, he only acknowledged his condition once he was too debilitated to keep pretending everything was fine.
I took care of him, of course. I made sure he was well fed and procured his medicine. In spite of that, the doctor got more and more discouraged with each of his visits. Apparently, it was a rare lung disease with no known cure and only a miracle could save him.
One day, I heard a knock on my bedroom’s door. It was him. He was covered in his blanket, barely able to stand on his feet.
"Mr. Otis!" I said. "You shouldn't be out of bed!"
He didn’t reply. He just walked in and sat on a chair. Judging by the look in his eyes, I could see he was carrying a huge weight on his shoulders.
"You've grown to be the most talented sculptor I know, Rags," he said.
"That's not true,” I said. “As long as you're around, I can only be second best."
"Tell me, dear. What is it you desire most in life?"
"To be second best for a little longer."
"You know what I desire most?"
"What is it?"
"To know my favorite pupil will do what she loves for the rest of her life."
"There's nothing in this world I love more than sculpting."
"Then grab your chisel firmly and don't ever put it down,” he said as he stood up and placed a hand on my shoulder. “I want to see one last beautiful sculpture carved by you."
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