Wintermore (Aeon of Light Book 1) by Aron Sethlen

at the marks.
    Lurrus leans forward. “Free your mind, just let it come out. Don’t step back, go with the flow and don’t stop.”
    Preta’s hands creep over the wood, some chips here, some scrapes there, a mallet strike, the chisel, the knife, the pick, the file, and over and over and over. She forces herself not to think, to not step back, she moves side to side circling the woodblock.
    Soon, Preta forgets everything and just moves; her mind and hands relax, fully in tune with the present. Her fluid body moves innately guided by another force.
    Slices and chunks of wood fly off the block at a quickened pace.
    Hours pass without Preta stepping away. Her hands suddenly stop, and she questions herself. Why am I stopping? Is it done? But Preta’s mind quickly shifts to her parched mouth, and she smacks her dry gums. She steps away and doesn’t inspect her work. Instead, Preta grabs the water pouch and drinks the entire contents without coming up for air.
    Lurrus stands with hands clasped together. “Good, very good. No need to inspect her yet. Gather yourself for a minute, and rest. When you’re ready, move on to the other figure.”
    Preta stuffs a piece of meat and bread into her mouth and chews it as she eyes the incomplete man across the road. Preta visualizes every chop, carve, strike, and stroke. She swallows with an exaggerated gulp and tosses the water pouch to the ground.
    Lurrus grabs her stool and Preta’s tools and places them next to the unfinished figure.
    Preta takes a few deep breaths and strolls toward the sculpture.
    Lurrus hands Preta a chisel and hammer. “Remember, don’t think, be in the present and free yourself from everything. Let your hands complete what you’ve completed in your mind a thousand times over.”
    Preta lays chisel to wood and sculpts. She hesitates, one foot steps back with chisel inching off the block. Mistake . Preta shakes her head, keep moving . With hands up, she steps forward. Her mind lets go, freeing herself from the mistake. Preta relaxes. Her hands move with blinding speed and with a mind of their own.
    Wood chips fly off the block and litter the ground in a blanket of curly shavings.
    Preta drops the chisel and snatches a file.
    Hours pass and a sculpture of an old man takes form.
    Preta’s hands suddenly stop with no thought of doing so. She steps back, and exhausted, her butt collapses onto the stool.
    Lurrus hands Preta the water pouch. “Wonderful.”
    Preta gazes at the figures.
    An old man with nude torso stands before her. Proud, the figure appears mostly human though otherworldly. Every bone, muscle, fat, wrinkle, hair, and sinew is sculpted into the wood. The expression is welcoming but stern, wise but carefree. His hollow eyes peer back at Preta with the vision of many years past and lives long gone. He’s alive but worn, tired but awake, at the end though still at the beginning.
    Preta’s focus shifts to her other creation.
    The elderly woman, carved in a same manner as the old man, with a nude torso, is aged by time and hardship though radiant and beautiful, every bit as detailed and expressive as the old man.
    “I never imagined these figures though,” Preta says.
    Lurrus gently pats Preta’s back. “Somewhere inside of you they were hiding, and you released them into this world. And I’ll say you released them magnificently. That’s what art is.”
    The sun sets, and Preta and Lurrus pack their things.
    They meet Deet, sitting on a stool and cleaning the horse’s hoof. “There’s my lovely ladies. So how’d it go today?”
    Lurrus beams. “Your little sister did us a great service.”
    Deet lowers the horse’s hoof to the ground. “Did she now?” Deet winks at Preta. “Well, she is a Penter after all.”
    Preta, embarrassed, glances away, then with a smile, she turns back to Deet.
    Deet winks at her again. “We better get going, ladies. We have the conscription tomorrow, and you know how that madness goes. I imagine Nala’s