Scene

‘Grotesque’ Character Scene
Ken Chandler
Copyright © 2008


The chisel bit into the stone with a grating sound, the craftsman ignored it, focusing his eye, his mind and his sinew on the curve of the stone he was following. He blew away dust and bits of granite, then sat back from his work and eyed the effect of the cut he’d just made. He leaned forward and smoothed a rough spot with his thumb, the blue-gray of his skin a stark contrast against the warm ochre of the stone before him. He smiled at his handiwork. Visions of his mother strolled leisurely across his mind as he gazed at the stone figure before him. The curve of her chin, the softness in her eyes, her cockeyed smile that she always wore when she was being mischievous; all this was beginning to emerge from the hardened stone. He’d chosen this particular stone for the warm tones of color that ran through it. He’d walked the 8 miles to the granite quarry Master Pan had told him about. Once there, he’d hand selected the 10 ton block after throwing away a dozen pieces master sculptors would have fought over. He’d meticulously cut it away from the wall, and carried it on his back to the workshop; only stopping after five miles to eat and nap before continuing up the winding path to the mountainside fortress which was his home.

He leaned in close, only inches from the granite block, bits of stone fell away as the chisel again scored the stone, piercing the surface as if it were clay under his touch. Grains of mineral rained onto the stone floor of the workshop as Grotesque followed the curve of a cluster of sculpted hairs. He worked alone, which he’d come to expect, and prefer; the other students ears were much more sensitive to the scraping sounds metal on stone. Grotesque found that he preferred the solitude while he worked. This was where he found peace, in stone, in working with his hands and his mind. Outside in the Northeastern Court he could hear several of the other students sparring with staffs. The clack clack of wood hitting wood reverberated through the complex. He longed to be out there, exercising his muscles, which ached from being dormant too long. Sculpting honed his control, but he needed to push the limits of his strength, push it until he felt exhausted with fatigue. It had been such a long since he’d simply cut loose and pushed his body until it cried out in relief at having gone as far as it could go.

He put down his sculpting tools, stood his full 6’-5”, and stretched. He ran strong fingers through his course black hair and walked out into the courtyard. The moment he reached the edge of the court, all sparring stopped and he was greeted with respectful bows from all of his colleagues. He bowed respectfully to them, and said, “Please, continue.” They walked to their respective spots, and continued their practice, gracefully dodging, leaping , and somersaulting. All the while their 2 meter long staffs slashing the air at and around their partners. One of the young men approached Grotesque with two staves in hand. “You should practice too,” he said, extending a staff to Grotesque and smiling. “You’ll grow flabby spending so much time sculpting.” He poked Grotesque gently in the stomach with the staff.
Grotesque smiled back, “I can’t take the risk, I might kill you by accident Jo-Jah, but you know that already.”
“Are you threatening me?” Jo-Jah said in a mock-serious voice. He spun and crouched into a fighting stance, both staffs ready to strike. “Now I must defend my honor by cutting you into a million pieces and throwing you to the Gulls.”
“Don’t be an idiot Jo-Jah,” Ko-Lim, a taller boy, said through his laughter, “Grotesque would take you apart with both hands and feet tied behind his back.”
“That is, if we could find chains strong enough to keep him bound.” Sam chuckled.
The other boys laughed.
Grotesque smiled appreciatively.
Jo-Jah, still smiling himself, said, “You asked for it.” then adopting a serious expression, sprang into the air, several feet above the ground bringing both staves down on Grotesque one after the other so quickly that he almost didn’t have time to throw up his arm to protect himself. The two staves made cracking sounds as they came in contact with his steely forearm. Grotesque showed no signs of injury. Instead his expression turned stern.
The boys who had moments before been standing close by, scattered, some into nearby trees, others behind a sturdy-looking column or statue.

“Jo-Jah, no!” Grotesque scolded, “You know why I can’t!” He watched Jo-Jah move swiftly into a position on his left, and turned reluctantly to keep him in sight.
“Enough excuses scoundrel,” Jo-Jah said, “Fight for your honor!” he swung a single staff around and struck him across the back of his thigh, then vaulted to the right using the second staff. He struck again, this time hitting Grotesque across the middle of his back. Then he retreated, circling Grotesque from a distance, one staff horizontal to the ground, an extension of his outstretched arm, the other staff behind his back and pointing skyward. “Now do you see that you cannot win, Grotesque-San?”

Grotesque had grown accustomed to Jo-Jah’s sense of humor, and his fighting style, and though he had never fought with him hand to hand, he had watched him spar with others. Jo-Jah was cocky, and quick, but not quick enough.
He’d leaped into the air again, but Grotesque, who was much faster and stronger, launched himself forward and with an arm outstretched swept Jo-Jah’s legs from under him, Jo-Jah’s upper body spun toward the ground, head first. Grotesque grabbed the tunic of the young fighter stopping his fall an inch above the ground. He held him there a moment before slapping him soundly to the stone floor, winding him slightly.
Grotesque leaned in close to his ear, and said, “I didn’t want to hurt you, Jo-Jah,” before walking away toward the baths.