Moonlight and Rainwater

It was late afternoon as the young man entered the workshop, shirt soaked from the heat and excitement. The workshop was supposed to be closed—the front was dark and there was nobody to greet him, save for the ornate stone statues and figurines staring from the shelves. As a child, he would have loved to pocket any one of these figures, but as a man, what he wanted was somewhere in the back. He could hear it, the faint sound of metal chipping away at stone. 

His heartbeat quickened with anticipation. .  

Under the hum of a bright fluorescent light, an old man was hunched over carving a face into a limestone block. 

“A-are you the master?” The young man called over the noise. He was smaller than he had imagined, with a much kinder face. He had a round pudgy face, adorned with a beard. Flecks of white peppered about thin wispy black hair. 

“Master of what?” the man yelled back, not turning away from his work. His hand shaking, he pulled out a black revolver from his bag. He clicked back the hammer. 

“Are you the master?” he repeated, trying his best to steady his voice. 

“Oh I’m only kidding, child.” said the old man, dropping his chisel.  “That is a title you weirdos gave me. I do not claim it.”

The young man found himself at a loss for words.  

“This is the part where you ask me something.outline with your eyes.” said the old master, impatiently. “Come on now, ask away!”

“P-people tell me you know the path to eternal life.”

“Oh is that what they say?” mocked the old man. “What do you say? Tell me what you think.”

“I think I wanted to see for myself.”

“Well, you came to the wrong place. We live in the digital age. Just snap a picture, it’ll last longer than you, surely.”

The old man stood up, and walked towards the young man, unperturbed by the gun pointed at him. “Come on, let’s get you home.” 

“I-I meant true immortality.” spat the boy. “Something that is alive. Something you can touch.”

“I believe you mean to say “immortalized’..  

“Don’t correct me!” yelled the young man.. “Don’t you—” He pulled the trigger, the shot echoing loudly through the workshop. “—correct me”. 

The old master stood for a moment in shock. The young man held his breath, unable to believe what he had done. The old master, confused, checked his body, then checked behind him. Suddenly, he screamed in agony. “What have you done!?” 

The face he had been working on had been obliterated by the bullet, fine delicate features now dust. 

The old man turned, in a fit of rage and grabbed the boy by the wrists. 

“Show me your hands,” he said.

“No, you’re going to take my gun-”

 “I won’t take your gun. Just show me your hands!” commanded the old master. The young man crumbled under his harsh voice. Trembling, he did as told.

The old master examined the callouses on his fingers, and looked into the boy’s eyes which were wet with regret. 

“Bah,” he spat in disgust. Then he sighed tiredly. “So you do understand what you’ve done.” 

 He sighed again, long and loud, till it became a soft groan. “Fine, I will show you what you ask.”

The old master walked to a dark corner in the room and opened a large trap door.  

“Walk with me, and do not fall behind. I feel better if we speak while we move.” 

“W-here are we going?” asked the young man as the old master lit up an electric lantern. 

“She’s waiting for us.” 

He led the young man into a narrow tunnel. It was a long and sharp incline, the light from the lantern unable to reach its end. The walls seemed rough and textured. Looking closer, the young man found them to be screaming. All along the length of the wall, faces were carved as though they were born from stone. 

“Did you carve all of this?” 

“Many, many years,” said the old man. “It will be a long way down. Enough to ask me my questions.” 

The young man lifted his gun, and pulled back the hammer again. “Don’t think I’m going to let you do what you want—I’m still in control here.” 

“I’m sure you feel that way.” said the old master, “But this isn’t the first time my life has been threatened. So just concede the old man some gossip, eh?. The only currency the aged deal in is stories.” 

“F-fine.” 

“So who is she?” he asked

“I’m sorry?” 

 “Is it a he? The one you’re trying to bring back.” 

The old man turned to find an embarrassed face, cowering behind a gun. 

“Oh I saw it in your eyes. The way you traced my face. You don’t get into our line of work without falling in love with some unattainable ideal of beauty. So what were they like?”

“Yes, he was beautiful.” the young man agreed.   

 So did they die or leave you?”

“They’re the same thing.” 

The old man stopped. “Never. Never the same. But if it means anything, I know how your story ends, sweet Pygmalion. You have my sympathy.” 

“Not if you show me, not unless you give me what I want. 

It is silent for a moment, except for their footsteps and the buzz of the lantern and their breathing. They had been walking for nearly 5 minutes, the path spiraling, and showing no sign of end. 

“Is the one we’re meeting yours?” chimed the young man, breaking the silence. 

“Oh she never was mine. But if it were only the wish, then yes—she was, so.” 

“I met her when I was not much older than you.” His voice was thrown along the stone hall, as though the statues spoke in choir. “By then, I had already made a name for myself, commissioned by the wealthy and the vain.”

 “Well I didn’t feel it. I certainly didn’t look like it—anxiously wandering to that nice side of town, smelling of chemicals and covered in dust. I had knocked on her door, feeling like a boy who stumbled into a world that wasn’t his own.” 

“Her voice beckoned me in—I did not know what she looked like. I had only been given instructions and a stack of bills in her letter.” 

“Truth be told, I expected a monster—as many of the wealthy are hideous or vapid. She did not live like a monster. As I entered through that unlocked door, her house was much smaller than I had expected, a cramped narrow hallway on a single floor. Certain things did betray her wealth, however: Ancient paintings adorned her walls, with scenes from bygone eras. I stood there marveling for a while before she called me again. ‘I’m in the garden’  I noticed tracks of dirt on the floor, with strangely shaped footprints, leading into a small well-adorned living room, leading to a glass door.” 

There was a hitch in the old master’s breath. 

“It was like looking into Eden: As I entered, even in the moonlight, I could see a small field of gorgeous white flowers, bordered by a little orchard of mulberry trees. And there, at the center of it all, marring that wondrous landscape, was a large limestone slab at least ten feet tall. It should have taken a crane to lift it here, but as I approached I could see a heavy track like a scar along the grass—something had dragged the block in.” 

‘What do I look like to you?’ Her voice called from the stone. I looked around, and behind it, but all I could find was laughter, filling the garden around me. Skeptically, I pressed my ear against the stone, listening to my heart climb out my chest and into my throat. Then I heard something clattering above me.” 

“That was when I saw her, clattering her teeth in a spiderlike grin.” 

“She certainly sounds like a monster then,” said the young man. 

“You bite your tongue off!” yelled the old master, turning, eyes glassy and wild. His voice bounced wildly off the walls, threatening to wake up the statues around them.

Seeing the boy raise his gun again, his voice turned soft again. “Forgive me for frightening you. Yes, I suppose you are correct.”

“What was she then?” 

“She was my muse.”  

“She wanted to set the terms.” he started again, as they came up to a bend. The tunnel widened, and the statues were taller, more fierce. “‘You will sculpt me? You will do it well?' She asked. ‘Without question’, I promised. 

‘You will die if you do not finish’ This was more of a command than a question.  

“I simply nodded. ‘Would you like me to start?’ She had a love for laughing that was for sure. 

‘Are you even ready?’ she asked, leaning in. ‘Tell me then, What do I look like to you?’

In the moonlight, it was hard to say. She shimmered like a heat haze, and I couldn’t quite parse her outline. Only her smile and the coldness of her skin made it seem like it wasn’t a dream. 

It seemed like that moment of silence was enough for her. ‘Are you sure you’re the artist  I hired?’ She held my face in her hands cold as ice. ‘Are you sure you can finish?’

‘If it kills me.’ I swore to her. And you may wonder, why would I be so dedicated?”

The young man shook his head. “You were already in love.”

The old master grinned. 

“Her touch left me drunk and her form left me utterly enticed. I couldn’t quit even if it killed me. But I wasn’t going to tell her that. I was going to catch her and bind her to that stone and have it speak for me.”

“However, all I found myself doing was staring. She was like a cloud reflected in a still pond in the night. ‘You’re creeping me out.’ she said. ‘If you really can’t start, you don’t have to finish tonight.”

“So you would have me stay forever?, I asked. ‘No, I would just kill you right now.’

‘Then here we shall stay, I told her.’ 

“She seemed in between bored and distracted, as though I wasn’t even there to sculpt her. She wouldn’t stop moving, dancing between the flowers and the stone. But her eyes did not leave me for a second.’

‘Why do you sculpt?’ She suddenly asked me, falling to the soft grass.” 

“It was my mother, actually. She didn’t like buying me toys so I settled for breaking rocks from the quarry. Eventually I saw a face. And I wanted to see it again.”

“How about you, boy?” asked the old master. 

“It was actually one of your pieces. We had an old figurine of yours in our old house. I wanted to recreate it but I could never get it quite right.” 

“Was it the nose? I always used to hate doing the nose.” chuckled the old man. “Michelangelo used to say it was about setting the angel in the stone free.”

“I told her that. And to my delight and joy, she grew wings. ‘Do I look like an angel?’ she asked.” 

“‘Only sometimes,’ I told her. She promptly ripped those wings off. 

“Sounds like you hurt her,” said the young man. 

“She was certainly no angel. Her feathers scattered like dandelions in the wind.”

‘Perhaps you would like me to do poses?’ she offered. 

She ripped off her arms and clothes to be the Venus de Milo. She changed her gender and hair to be David. She shifted and remolded herself like clay. 

‘Is there anyone you love? Anyone you would like me to be?” 

I could not tell her the truth. I could only ask. ‘Why do you want me to sculpt you? You can be anything you want’

There was no laughter, only a command. ‘Tell me what I look like then.’

“I cannot answer.” I told her. ‘Neither can I’, She said. ‘You can only hold the moonlight with your eyes.’ 

‘How long have you been like this?’ I ask. She does not answer. She only beckons me closer. 

‘Lay with me’ she said. And I obliged. But I did not dare touch her. I only looked for the moon hidden by the clouds. “

“‘Surely your parents didn’t raise you to be so shy.’ she said. Her hands were soft, as they pulled my eyes shut. I could feel her weight upon my chest like a dark cloud. Her body was as cool as rain. 

‘Do you remember yours?’ I had to ask. Her voice was a soft breeze, whispering. 

‘I cannot count the many years that have passed, much less the countless people who have said they loved me. They come and go like the seasons. But I remain…a moonlit goddess.  

“I imagine it would hurt too much to remember.” I told her. The night died for a moment, before she asked, once more.

‘What do you see now?’

“When I opened my eyes, I saw a vision of unearthly beauty. A pale succubus with hair that trailed off into the black night, eyes like burning quasars, with lips so full and red around a grin that wished to devour me whole. She held my hands to her body. “I am this moment. I am yours to make.” 

He sighed. 

“But I could not. I pulled my hands away. “I cannot sculpt you like this.” I told her. 

“Her face soured. ‘You would deny yourself a goddess?’ she said.”

“I cannot work like this.” I said to her, “It is too hard.” 

She threatened me. She pinned me down and drove needles into my hands. “If you leave, I will kill you. If you refuse to work, I will take your fingers, your very life.’

So I had to tell her. ‘But you look so tired.’

“Ah the look on her face when I said that. If you have ever angered your love, you already know the lick of hellfire.” 

The old man touched his face fondly. “That sting stays forever.”

“After she struck me, she let me stand up and grab my things. And while I walked away awaiting death, instead she told me, ‘There are things I do remember.’

“I turned to her, sitting in the grass. Flowers, for example. This garden.’ she continued.”

“People who say flowers are bad gifts have never taken care of them properly. Sure they will eventually wither, but keep them alive when you can. If you’re lucky they might just sprout more.”

“She smiled at me softly, ‘I can’t remember their faces but I never lost their flowers.”

 “So yes, I suppose I am tired. She stood back up and told me ‘You can leave after today. But promise you’ll stay with me till dawn.” 

“We did not speak another word then. The next words spoken came when the light broke over the horizon..” 

“She was the one to speak first.

 ‘It’s been a while since I’ve let someone stay with me this long.’ she said. 

As the sky picked up color, a warmth spread across her face. The garden seemed to glow, the myriad of colors burning like an aurora burning and lifting into the sunlight. 

I realized I could see her then. In this bright place, she no longer hid from me. Her flaws, her age, her truth. She laughed once more, but softly, somberly like she was remembering a bad joke. Her smile was not so scary then, only a little sad, but just to me.

She must have noticed my gaze because she looked me dead in the eye and asked me. 

‘What do I look like now?’ 

I paused for just a second too long to tell her. 

She was gone when dawn changed to morning, taking the garden with her like it takes all dreams. All that was left was the scent of dew and petrichor lingering in my nose and the memory that I forever seared into my soul.” 

“But what did she look like in the end?” asked the young man, lowering his gun.  

“She–” the old master stopped. “Well, we’re almost there. It would be easier to show you.” 

The tunnel opened up into a wide chamber, carved entirely out of stone, illuminated by a single hole in the ceiling to let the moon in. 

“My eternal love rests here,” said the old master. 

At the center of the room, in the white spotlight, was a statue, at least 3 meters tall, covered in a large cloth. 

“In a way, she was right. I would have died had I not finished. I would have still been there in that garden, trying to regrow the flowers, waiting for every moon till the light began to look like her. Just so I could have given her an answer. But here, I have carved out the answer in stone. When she looks down, she will see who she was to me.” 

"May I remove the cloth?” asked the young man. 

The old master nodded, sitting down on the ground, exhausted from his story and the walk. He looked up at the covered figure, as the white light set its outline aglow. 

The young man tried to get the cloth off with one hand, but it was far too heavy. He wanted to be as ginger as possible. His hands were sweaty with anticipation. He could hardly breathe in this dusty dank place. 

He turned, and saw the old man, eyes not leaving the statue, dreaming with his eyes open. 

The young man sighed and set the gun down. Using two hands, he was finally able to budge it off. 

As the cloth slid away, and gave way to stone, he was only able to glimpse just a bit of her hair, before suddenly being deafened by thunder. 

Smoke and dust mingled with the moonbeams, she would have been wreathed in stone flowers, but her face was no more. 

Something hard struck his face. He fell to the statue, something crunching beneath him, something jagged. 

With his face stinging, ear ringing, he saw the old master standing over him, holding the smoking gun. 

He pressed it against his temple, cocking the hammer back. He pulled the trigger to a nasty hollow click. 

“How the hell do you only have two bullets?” he yelled. 

“You killed her!” screamed the young man. 

The old master struck him again. 

“Killed her? She is a statue. What does it matter that you cannot see her? Would you give me any other answer other than she was beautiful?”

“But how can you destroy something like that? How can you just kill what you love?” 

He threw the gun across the room.

“Do not conflate my love with yours. I love her. I love her. She is still here with me. In here” 

He clenched his hand against his chest, and stumbled towards the statue to lean against it. 

“Even stone weathers…from moss, from sunlight, from wind and rain—even our gaze. They’re only meant to last as long as they will mean something to someone. Just like flowers.” 

He pulled the young man up.

“So, leave me now. I am no master who can give you life. I will forget your face after today.” 

The young man left, wandering the empty tunnels in the blackness as stone hands guided him back up. He could hear the echo of someone working down below. Someone chipping away at stone. 

When he finally was outside again, the streets were empty and the moon was full. He almost crumbled to the ground from exhaustion. A sharp pain still throbbed from where he fell. 

Checking the wound, he found something was embedded into his skin—it was a stone flower. 

He held it up to the light, delicate petals you couldn’t believe were carved out of stone by human hands. Drenched in his blood, it looked soft and alive.