Stonebreaker
best to keep your head down and carry on.
The stonebreaker prayed to his god as advised, and the ping of his pickaxe answered with,
“What are you afraid of?”
This ritual was repeated thousands of times a day for years. Each clink would inquire as to the source of the breaker’s fear, and each swing would serve as a somatic reset.
Without fail, his legs would drag his frame homeward each night, and he would rest on the cold ground to contemplate an answer.
I do not fear the stone.
I do not fear the axe.
I do not fear the swings.
I do not fear the work.
So what do I have to fear? This question would always be his final conscious thought, marking the end of the daily cycle.
The stonebreaker would rise with the first light. This was all he had ever known. From the time he could swing til this moment, all he had ever done was chip away at whatever site he was directed to.
The stonebreaker’s work gave him goals, identity, and boundaries; He could see the fruits of his labor in piles around him. He could measure his worth in stone. His body and all its functions were perfectly tuned to his tasks, and he identified as an extension of
the stone,
the pick,
the muscle,
the blood,
and the sinew.
These things merged with his breath; they comprised him.
Clink..Clink..Clink.
“What are you afraid of?” answered his digging this day as well.
Over and over, it followed the klang and the thud of pick meeting rock.
The stonebreaker continued with his sense of diligence and duty.
Now, the question came without prayer.
No longer summoned, only endured
It was an intrusion on the sanctity of labor.
The sun went down, and he was filled with new feelings.
A dread had overtaken his stoic resolve.
Tendrils of doubt wormed through his calloused shell
The darkness meant he would be alone.
Alone to contemplate a reason for fear.
Sunbaked,
his body stretched out on the cold ground.
Before he even had a moment to ponder, he knew what he feared.
After all these years, his mind had finally solved the puzzle.
He was afraid of that very question itself.
Dawn hung over his attempts at rest. He shivered and wept at the inevitable volley which would ring from the stone. He could neither find rest nor solace, and when the pink dawn shed its shrouded guise, he hoisted his pick and stumbled over the paths of broken stone he had carved during this season’s task. Each crumbled piece he stepped over mocked his fear and reminded him of the ceaseless examination he was about to endure.
Four swings into the dawn, and he was struck stillwake with dread. The pickaxe hit the ground with a clink of resignation, and the questioning ended.
.
The whips and clubs of his overseers had no further questions for him. Their intent was clear and did not require a response. His flesh split and swelled, but this was preferable.
The stonebreaker welcomed the abuse, deprivation, isolation, and starvation they thrust upon him in total silence. After weeks of this physical torture, he still refused to pick up his axe.
This endurance, coupled with his former productivity, afforded him a mercy that most would not have received.
He was to be reassigned. He was to help the smiths with their tasks.
His body had atrophied during the weeks of stillwake, but muscle memory, genetics, and hope drove him to the shovel, and he began moving the heavy coal into the smith’s bloomery.
After only two shovels full, the cascading sounds of tumbling chunks and hissing combustion asked the familiar question.
“What are you afraid of?
The pinging clank of the blacksmith’s hammer staggered the inquiry, turning this cacophony into a round. The forge became an amphitheater of inquisition. The stonebreaker had no reserve remaining. His grip gave, and the shovel’s edge scraped the stone floor, squealing its protest.
The smith’s searing tongs drove him to the forge overseer.
The stonebreaker did not resist as his flesh withered and hissed. His silence remained.
His body refused to collapse.
The overseer, enraged by this insubordination, condemned the stonebreaker to death by carrion immuration.
The stonebreaker gave no response to this order and instead took comfort in the searing distractions left by the tongs.
The camp’s Marrow-wise matron was in attendance during this scene.
She offered an alternative solution.
She approached the stonebreaker and, with a clawing pinch, she had taken a large chunk of his hair in her hand. She tugged his face down to hers, met his eyes with her own. After a moment of inspection, she gave two possible solutions.
“First, we will remove his ears. The sounds of the labor might be triggering his stillwake. If that is not a salve, then I will remove a portion of his skull. He seems to have weak spots near his crown. Attempt the first, and we respond depending on the results.”
The stonebreaker’s ears were removed with a long, sharp blade.
A heated metal rod was pressed against the wounds on both sides of his head.
As the wet blood hit the heated metal, the stonebreaker heard loud hissing pops.
A sharp pain rang deeply, but the sounds of labor were no more.
When able, the stonebreaker, with the hope of relief, unclenched his jaw and relaxed.
He was handed his pickaxe and directed to his site. The problem was not remedied, and with each swing, the voice and that vicious query returned.
He again dropped his tool. He immediately presented himself before the Marrow-wise.
She bade him sit in front of her, and she unfurled a long leather roll. Her implements fell to the ground.
She began her work with the plausible deniability of healing and a compulsion to violate.
She used the shell razor to scrape away a section of his hair. He could feel it working against his skin, but no sound or question followed.
The patch of skin she worked on was hot and raw.
She picked up her thick, blunt chisel and a small curved hammer.
Placing the thinner edge of the chisel against his shorn flesh…
a precision blow.
The hammer struck home.
A clink and a crack erupted through the Marrow-wise’s abode.
The stonebreaker felt the familiar inquisition return, rippling throughout his body.
A second blow followed.
He was cured.
He would never again suffer internal examination.
The stonebreaker could swing his pick without trepidation.
His diligence had grown.
The overseers noticed and would allow him to work for long stretches without rest, a break, or food.
It became a game for them; they would wager on how long he could go before collapsing.
The stonebreaker was quite content.
No longer was he hounded by questions, doubts, or vexation.
The Marrow-wise was praised for her skill and utility. Her needs reflected the overseers’ desires.
Originally published in Whisper Publications