needs.
Between bouts of working I needed to maintain constant contact with my source material. I’d spend hours wandering through the bush and the pines, adrift on the tides of the life force as it flowed through the living land. I came to know the trees. Their voices were constant, their leaves and branches never still, their mood changing with the shifting of the wind. And always there was a presence, something else that made me feel I was not alone.
Then there were dreams, dreams of walking, going to meet someone, perhaps the same someone who was watching me. But I never arrived. I always woke up, and often I’d find myself in front of the mirror. I put it all down to being stressed out. When I was more rested, things would get back to normal. That’s what I told myself.
Bramble was my friend, though a fickle one. She took tospending the nights sleeping on my sofa and the afternoons sunbathing on the cottage deck. She walked with me through the bush, though occasionally she would take off as if something had startled her. Usually I’d find her back at the cottage. Some days she needed my undivided attention, other times they’d run out on me, she and Badger, on some secret mission that took them away for hours. She always turned up eventually.
Badger had responsibilities. He spent a lot of time with Liam Connors, riding around in the little tractor, guarding the toolbox, barking at the cows—men’s work. Sullivan didn’t seem to mind both his dogs defecting, or if he did he never said anything, but they always seemed to know when he was going rabbit shooting.
I don’t know how long I’d been there when the accident happened. That particular day the work had been progressing well. I had left a lot of the original block in its raw state, allowing whatever lived within it to appear as if emerging from its natural element. Something was growing from the wood; something that at first startled me, then left me amazed. I was now working on the finer details, sensing the soul of the thing that was coming to life, and allowing it to find its independence.
The phase of the heavier tools was long over and I had been using small gouges and chisels, the heel of my hand acting as mallet for such sensitive stokes. Some areas needed refining. I prefer to use an edge of broken glass for this, even though it means wearing goggles. Restraint was the key: now the end was so near it would be disastrous to rush. So I worked the glass as if it were a feather and scraped away layers as fine as whispers.
I had worked longer than I had intended, straining my eyes to labour until the last fire of the sun had brushed the lake with molten copper. I was aware of gunshots in the distance and forced myself not to wince each time they sounded. I know I don’t eat animals but I’m not some New Age freak. Bugs Bunnyand his extended family had caused enough damage around the place to justify a cull.
Eventually I realised it was too dark to work and I was too tired to eat. I dusted the wood shavings from my clothes, shut the door against the fast approaching night and poured a glass of wine. A hot bath, that’s what I needed; a hot bath laced with something rich and creamy and smelling of exotic flowers. And another glass of wine. I drained the first and forced myself out of the sofa before I got so comfortable I missed the bath altogether.
As I got to my feet something threw itself against the door. There was a wild scratching and the latch rattled and jumped as if it were about to fly open.
‘Who’s there? What do you want?’ As if some thug in a black ski mask was going to push a copy of his CV under the door. I looked around for something heavy, but anything resembling a weapon was outside on the deck with the intruder. Now wasn’t that a sensible arrangement? I could see the headlines, ‘Famous artist stabbed with her own chisel’.
Another blow at the door and more scratching. Demon claws, tearing at the woodwork. And then a
Between bouts of working I needed to maintain constant contact with my source material. I’d spend hours wandering through the bush and the pines, adrift on the tides of the life force as it flowed through the living land. I came to know the trees. Their voices were constant, their leaves and branches never still, their mood changing with the shifting of the wind. And always there was a presence, something else that made me feel I was not alone.
Then there were dreams, dreams of walking, going to meet someone, perhaps the same someone who was watching me. But I never arrived. I always woke up, and often I’d find myself in front of the mirror. I put it all down to being stressed out. When I was more rested, things would get back to normal. That’s what I told myself.
Bramble was my friend, though a fickle one. She took tospending the nights sleeping on my sofa and the afternoons sunbathing on the cottage deck. She walked with me through the bush, though occasionally she would take off as if something had startled her. Usually I’d find her back at the cottage. Some days she needed my undivided attention, other times they’d run out on me, she and Badger, on some secret mission that took them away for hours. She always turned up eventually.
Badger had responsibilities. He spent a lot of time with Liam Connors, riding around in the little tractor, guarding the toolbox, barking at the cows—men’s work. Sullivan didn’t seem to mind both his dogs defecting, or if he did he never said anything, but they always seemed to know when he was going rabbit shooting.
I don’t know how long I’d been there when the accident happened. That particular day the work had been progressing well. I had left a lot of the original block in its raw state, allowing whatever lived within it to appear as if emerging from its natural element. Something was growing from the wood; something that at first startled me, then left me amazed. I was now working on the finer details, sensing the soul of the thing that was coming to life, and allowing it to find its independence.
The phase of the heavier tools was long over and I had been using small gouges and chisels, the heel of my hand acting as mallet for such sensitive stokes. Some areas needed refining. I prefer to use an edge of broken glass for this, even though it means wearing goggles. Restraint was the key: now the end was so near it would be disastrous to rush. So I worked the glass as if it were a feather and scraped away layers as fine as whispers.
I had worked longer than I had intended, straining my eyes to labour until the last fire of the sun had brushed the lake with molten copper. I was aware of gunshots in the distance and forced myself not to wince each time they sounded. I know I don’t eat animals but I’m not some New Age freak. Bugs Bunnyand his extended family had caused enough damage around the place to justify a cull.
Eventually I realised it was too dark to work and I was too tired to eat. I dusted the wood shavings from my clothes, shut the door against the fast approaching night and poured a glass of wine. A hot bath, that’s what I needed; a hot bath laced with something rich and creamy and smelling of exotic flowers. And another glass of wine. I drained the first and forced myself out of the sofa before I got so comfortable I missed the bath altogether.
As I got to my feet something threw itself against the door. There was a wild scratching and the latch rattled and jumped as if it were about to fly open.
‘Who’s there? What do you want?’ As if some thug in a black ski mask was going to push a copy of his CV under the door. I looked around for something heavy, but anything resembling a weapon was outside on the deck with the intruder. Now wasn’t that a sensible arrangement? I could see the headlines, ‘Famous artist stabbed with her own chisel’.
Another blow at the door and more scratching. Demon claws, tearing at the woodwork. And then a
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