Slowly, tentatively, Syracuse laboured up the long steep stairs that led to the attic workshop. Although she had climbed them many times over the past few years, and the narrow, plunging steps had turned from a source of anxiety into a routine – even a source of comfort – today she felt the flutter of nerves again. In white-knuckled fingers she gripped a small, warm glass dome, so tightly that her hands shook. With a start, realizing this, she took a deep breath and relaxed her fingers, slowly, one by one, before she continued. The last thing she needed was to crack this delicate glass here on the stairs.
At last she came out onto the upper landing. Evening light blazed here through tall, arched windows, curtains fluttering in the breeze. Far below, she glimpsed the distant rusty red sand, crawling with heavy clouds.
Usually she would knock on the heavy door of the attic for admittance, but today, it had been left open. With a start she glimpsed Calabash’s head, his bald spot glowing like a beacon in the sunset, mantled in a cloak of thin white fuzz. Likely having heard her slow ascent, he was already sliding his work away, clearing his desk to receive her. He smiled, and gestured at the chair that stood across from him. So frequently had she occupied it over the years, but today, she and the chair met each other like strangers. Syracuse sat.
Calabash at his throne was an intimidating sight. His lenses, red in the evening light, obscured his kind old eyes and made him seem remote and strange. The high dark back of his heavy chair rose behind him like a wall, contrasting with the white of his longcoat. Behind him, shelf upon shelf stretched to the very ceiling. Upon them stood glass domes of every size, reflecting and distorting the sunlight, throwing dapples across the room. The contents of the domes moved faintly – too subtly to see from this distance – but the motion subtly changed the way the right refracted, so the sunspots moved and danced in her eyes. The activity she knew to be within the jars created a subconscious sense of skittering in the shadows. She started when she felt a gentle touch and, looking down, she saw Calabash’s hand on her arm, his fingers gently prising at the knuckles that were standing out white again, endangering the glassware.
“Syracuse, Syracuse,” chided the old man. “I haven’t seen you like this since your first week. What have I done to make you so terrified? Are you worried I might throw you out on the street?”
“Sorry sir, I…”
She wasn’t quite sure what she was going say, but the old man waved airily. “Syracuse, you are a talented sculptor, and a good apprentice. I highly doubt your piece is so terrible as all this, but truly, even if it is, even if’s the most horrid lump I’d ever seen, the worst you have to fear is some extra homework. I know what you’re capable of. You can try again. But, I suspect it isn’t as bad as all that. Now let’s have a look, before you crack that poor glass.”
Gently, she placed her glass dome on the table, and moved her fingers into her lap, twisting them around each other where their tension could do no damage. She didn’t seriously believe that she might be thrown out of her apprenticeship, but it was still nerve-wracking to bring her first masterwork like this before Calabash. Her respect, even awe, for the old man was bottomless, and she did not want to disappoint him. The idea of him sitting there, judging her, and deciding she had not lived up to her potential, to his teachings, was more than she could bear.
Between them, a small bluish sphere spun, suspended in glass. Calabash leaned forward with interest, studying it through his lenses. They no longer caught the sun at this angle, and she could see his eyes through them now, huge, bulbous, pale and somewhat veined. Through the magnification of those lenses, she knew, he could see every detail, study every chiselstroke. He waited patiently for the small ball to spin under his appraising eye, until it had made a full revolution.
“What a unique piece,” he said, with some delight. “May I inspect it more closely?”
Syracuse nodded – of course! – and Calabash removed the glass dome, setting it aside on tabletop. The sphere wobbled slightly, disturbed by air currents. With the utmost care, he reached out and placed his fingers around the ball, slowly stopping its rotation until he held it in his grip, still quivering. Carefully he brought to his eyes, switching on a lamp attached to his lenses, so it was bathed in brilliant radiance.
“Tell me more about the artist’s vision, if you will, Syracuse. What have you named this piece?”
“Change, sir.”
“Change.” The old man smiled. “Please, take me through it. I see, for instance, most of the piece is water. What led you to this choice?”
Syracuse ran over the conversations she’d practiced with herself in her mirror. This was the question she’d expected first, and she’d practiced it often. Regaining some confidence, she said, “well, sir, I had three reasons. Firstly, and most importantly, I thought it would be beautiful. The atmosphere is relatively thick, and creates a moderate wind. This blows the water into pleasing waves, the facets of which reflect the sun most intriguingly. I find it never looks quite the same twice.”
The old man nodded. “The facets are quite marvellous. It gleams like a jewel in the sun. And the second?”
“Well, I have given Change a relatively large moon, and it is tidally locked. The gravity it exerts causes a noticeable tide where the water meets the land. In most places, the range is about three feet, but I’ve been able to make some unique geology where the water rises much more at high tide. It is easy to show change in water, but using this interplay, I was trying to create change in the land as well. This way, even the land ebbs and flows.”
The old man nodded. “And to a critic who might suggest you’ve covered it with all this water simply so that you didn’t have to carve as much of it, and so it would cover up any mistakes…?”
Syracuse felt her face flushing with indignation. “Sir! No! That is not the case at all! If you look below the water you will see that I have carved every inch of it with all my skill – and that the land rides on plates that create unique underwater mountains in the seams – the trenches – most carefully designed --”
She heard the old man chuckling, and stopped, deflating slightly. “Yes, yes,” he said, “the craftsmanship is evident everywhere of course, including underwater. And what creatures I can see in there!” He shook his head. “Ah, but I certainly managed to get a rise out of you. Higher than your tides! You will always have critics, Syracuse. You will need to learn to keep your head. That, I think, will come with time, and with pride and confidence in your work.”
Syracuse hung her head, but she couldn’t entirely suppress a smile. She felt somewhat ashamed about her indignation, but pleased as well, that the old man had noticed her careful work.
“Tell me more about those creatures I can see in there,” he prompted.
“Well, sir, that’s the third reason for the water. It made it easy to create the kind of creatures I was hoping for.”
“Carbon-based creatures, unless I miss my guess?”
“Yes, sir. They were somewhat hard to evolve. The water helped me create the perfect conditions for the first cells to form. The heat capacity of the water made it easy to maintain a conducive temperature, and by dissolving the minerals of the land, it created a soup of organic compounds, ripe for combining. The water provided protection from the sun as well, creating a relatively stable environment. Ironic, I suppose, given the title of the piece is Change, but it was necessary to have a stable foundation to build from.”
“And why carbon?”
“Well, it allowed me to create quickly-adapting creatures. This was necessary for Change, given how quickly conditions can vary. And, it allowed me to make best use of the materials and conditions. I have been working a lot with silicon and sulfur under your guidance, sir, but the temperatures and pressures I was creating in Change wouldn’t accommodate something like that.”
The old man nodded. “Yes, I’ve made a carbon-based piece here or there in my career, but it’s certainly not my specialty. I find it so much more gratifying to work with silicon. It’s much firmer and I find it maintains the efforts of my sculpting.” He smiled again. “I’ve always been rather… vain… about my skill with the chisel, I suppose.”
“You have every right to be, sir!” Syracuse put in, gushing. “I could never imagine myself being able to carve anything like so skillfully!”
The old man waved her words away again. “Hush, hush, my head is big enough head as it is! Although, perhaps if it gets bigger, I could reattach some of my hair with gravity…”
She laughed, and the old man laughed with her. She realized her nerves had fully calmed. She sat easily now, as if it were any other lesson and not a master evaluating the first masterwork of his apprentice. Idly, lost in thought, Calabash brushed a finger against the desert and rubbed the gritty sand between his fingers, smiling at the feel of his familiar silicon.
“What would you change about it, if you were to keep going?” he asked.
“Well, sir, the creatures on it are still very primitive, and they live mostly in the sea. I want to experiment with the atmosphere a bit, and see if I can find a way to make it more accommodating of different kinds of life. As you can see, there are already some simple mosses on the land. I think, with time and the right conditions, they could process the land into a softer and more malleable form, enough that larger, more complex life forms might evolve…”
She realized the old man was looking at her in some surprise, and paused. But he simply shook his head, his smile returning. “You are a uniquely minded artist, Syracuse. I would have expected something about what areas of land you felt might have been better sculpted, perhaps something about pleasing mountain shapes or a unique cave system. I suppose this is how I myself would be likely to think about my work. But here you are, considering how to create the conditions for the piece to alter itself.”
“Sorry sir, I…”
“No, no!” he waved again. “You’ve done well. In a way you are thinking more like a scientist, not like an artist. Surprising, for my own apprentice to develop such skills. But I suppose your true nature will out, regardless of your teaching.”
“I was inspired by some of your earlier works, sir, and I’ve been experimenting with ingredients in my free time. I have a friend who’s apprenticing as a scientist… he and I have been working on some theories together…”
Syracuse watched the old man place the ball carefully back onto its platform, and, with the gentlest fingertip-touch, set it spinning again. The sun had set by now, and the room was lit only by lamps and by the purpling glow of twilight. The harsh overhead lamplight made him seem smaller, more wizened.
“I am proud of you, Syracuse,” he said. “This is a splendid masterwork. May I add it to my collection? I would be most pleased to have it.”
“Of course, sir!” she said, jumping up. “Thank you so much! You can certainly have it. I’m already thinking of a better one. I think, with more surface area to work with and higher gravity, I could…”
She prattled on this way as she followed him to the shelves at the back of the room. He reverently placed it on a side shelf, nearly at eye level, where it would be well-placed to catch the glow of the sun tomorrow morning. There were other student works there – masterworks by previous apprentices – and she felt a warm glow in her chest, seeing it there alongside others she had long admired.
Calabash led her back towards the workroom door. “Let us speak again tomorrow,” he said. “These old bones need rest. You, too, should rest easy tonight. You’ve had many long nights of hard work. Or, go and celebrate with your friends, if you feel up for it.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” she gushed, turning towards the landing. Then, suddenly, she turned back and embraced the old man tightly around the middle. He wheezed and gently patted her hair. “Thank you so much for everything, sir.” Releasing him, her feet already flying down the stairs, she gave him a final wave and soon disappeared from view.
Sighing, the old man returned to his study and stood before his shelves. All around him, creations of every size and shape spun, wobbled, even orbited in the larger domes. He looked over his own works in the centre shelves – exquisite carvings, he knew, perfect arrangements, wonderful balance of elements. In every piece, unrivalled craftsmanship. Syracuse’s piece did not have this level of skill, but it had a unique soul and energy. Fondly, he placed his hand upon it, feeling the warmth through the glass.
Change.
He smiled, closed the curtains against the darkening sky, and headed to bed.
[1/2]
Slowly, tentatively, Syracuse laboured up the long steep stairs that led to the attic workshop. Although she had climbed them many times over the past few years, and the narrow, plunging steps had turned from a source of anxiety into a routine – even a source of comfort – today she felt the flutter of nerves again. In white-knuckled fingers she gripped a small, warm glass dome, so tightly that her hands shook. With a start, realizing this, she took a deep breath and relaxed her fingers, slowly, one by one, before she continued. The last thing she needed was to crack this delicate glass here on the stairs.
At last she came out onto the upper landing. Evening light blazed here through tall, arched windows, curtains fluttering in the breeze. Far below, she glimpsed the distant rusty red sand, crawling with heavy clouds.
Usually she would knock on the heavy door of the attic for admittance, but today, it had been left open. With a start she glimpsed Calabash’s head, his bald spot glowing like a beacon in the sunset, mantled in a cloak of thin white fuzz. Likely having heard her slow ascent, he was already sliding his work away, clearing his desk to receive her. He smiled, and gestured at the chair that stood across from him. So frequently had she occupied it over the years, but today, she and the chair met each other like strangers. Syracuse sat.
Calabash at his throne was an intimidating sight. His lenses, red in the evening light, obscured his kind old eyes and made him seem remote and strange. The high dark back of his heavy chair rose behind him like a wall, contrasting with the white of his longcoat. Behind him, shelf upon shelf stretched to the very ceiling. Upon them stood glass domes of every size, reflecting and distorting the sunlight, throwing dapples across the room. The contents of the domes moved faintly – too subtly to see from this distance – but the motion subtly changed the way the right refracted, so the sunspots moved and danced in her eyes. The activity she knew to be within the jars created a subconscious sense of skittering in the shadows. She started when she felt a gentle touch and, looking down, she saw Calabash’s hand on her arm, his fingers gently prising at the knuckles that were standing out white again, endangering the glassware.
“Syracuse, Syracuse,” chided the old man. “I haven’t seen you like this since your first week. What have I done to make you so terrified? Are you worried I might throw you out on the street?”
“Sorry sir, I…”
She wasn’t quite sure what she was going say, but the old man waved airily. “Syracuse, you are a talented sculptor, and a good apprentice. I highly doubt your piece is so terrible as all this, but truly, even if it is, even if’s the most horrid lump I’d ever seen, the worst you have to fear is some extra homework. I know what you’re capable of. You can try again. But, I suspect it isn’t as bad as all that. Now let’s have a look, before you crack that poor glass.”
Gently, she placed her glass dome on the table, and moved her fingers into her lap, twisting them around each other where their tension could do no damage. She didn’t seriously believe that she might be thrown out of her apprenticeship, but it was still nerve-wracking to bring her first masterwork like this before Calabash. Her respect, even awe, for the old man was bottomless, and she did not want to disappoint him. The idea of him sitting there, judging her, and deciding she had not lived up to her potential, to his teachings, was more than she could bear.
Between them, a small bluish sphere spun, suspended in glass. Calabash leaned forward with interest, studying it through his lenses. They no longer caught the sun at this angle, and she could see his eyes through them now, huge, bulbous, pale and somewhat veined. Through the magnification of those lenses, she knew, he could see every detail, study every chiselstroke. He waited patiently for the small ball to spin under his appraising eye, until it had made a full revolution.
“What a unique piece,” he said, with some delight. “May I inspect it more closely?”
Syracuse nodded – of course! – and Calabash removed the glass dome, setting it aside on tabletop. The sphere wobbled slightly, disturbed by air currents. With the utmost care, he reached out and placed his fingers around the ball, slowly stopping its rotation until he held it in his grip, still quivering. Carefully he brought to his eyes, switching on a lamp attached to his lenses, so it was bathed in brilliant radiance.
“Tell me more about the artist’s vision, if you will, Syracuse. What have you named this piece?”
“Change, sir.”
“Change.” The old man smiled. “Please, take me through it. I see, for instance, most of the piece is water. What led you to this choice?”
Syracuse ran over the conversations she’d practiced with herself in her mirror. This was the question she’d expected first, and she’d practiced it often. Regaining some confidence, she said, “well, sir, I had three reasons. Firstly, and most importantly, I thought it would be beautiful. The atmosphere is relatively thick, and creates a moderate wind. This blows the water into pleasing waves, the facets of which reflect the sun most intriguingly. I find it never looks quite the same twice.”
The old man nodded. “The facets are quite marvellous. It gleams like a jewel in the sun. And the second?”
“Well, I have given Change a relatively large moon, and it is tidally locked. The gravity it exerts causes a noticeable tide where the water meets the land. In most places, the range is about three feet, but I’ve been able to make some unique geology where the water rises much more at high tide. It is easy to show change in water, but using this interplay, I was trying to create change in the land as well. This way, even the land ebbs and flows.”
The old man nodded. “And to a critic who might suggest you’ve covered it with all this water simply so that you didn’t have to carve as much of it, and so it would cover up any mistakes…?”
Syracuse felt her face flushing with indignation. “Sir! No! That is not the case at all! If you look below the water you will see that I have carved every inch of it with all my skill – and that the land rides on plates that create unique underwater mountains in the seams – the trenches – most carefully designed --”
She heard the old man chuckling, and stopped, deflating slightly. “Yes, yes,” he said, “the craftsmanship is evident everywhere of course, including underwater. And what creatures I can see in there!” He shook his head. “Ah, but I certainly managed to get a rise out of you. Higher than your tides! You will always have critics, Syracuse. You will need to learn to keep your head. That, I think, will come with time, and with pride and confidence in your work.”
Syracuse hung her head, but she couldn’t entirely suppress a smile. She felt somewhat ashamed about her indignation, but pleased as well, that the old man had noticed her careful work.
“Tell me more about those creatures I can see in there,” he prompted.
“Well, sir, that’s the third reason for the water. It made it easy to create the kind of creatures I was hoping for.”
“Carbon-based creatures, unless I miss my guess?”
“Yes, sir. They were somewhat hard to evolve. The water helped me create the perfect conditions for the first cells to form. The heat capacity of the water made it easy to maintain a conducive temperature, and by dissolving the minerals of the land, it created a soup of organic compounds, ripe for combining. The water provided protection from the sun as well, creating a relatively stable environment. Ironic, I suppose, given the title of the piece is Change, but it was necessary to have a stable foundation to build from.”
“And why carbon?”
“Well, it allowed me to create quickly-adapting creatures. This was necessary for Change, given how quickly conditions can vary. And, it allowed me to make best use of the materials and conditions. I have been working a lot with silicon and sulfur under your guidance, sir, but the temperatures and pressures I was creating in Change wouldn’t accommodate something like that.”
The old man nodded. “Yes, I’ve made a carbon-based piece here or there in my career, but it’s certainly not my specialty. I find it so much more gratifying to work with silicon. It’s much firmer and I find it maintains the efforts of my sculpting.” He smiled again. “I’ve always been rather… vain… about my skill with the chisel, I suppose.”
“You have every right to be, sir!” Syracuse put in, gushing. “I could never imagine myself being able to carve anything like so skillfully!”
The old man waved her words away again. “Hush, hush, my head is big enough head as it is! Although, perhaps if it gets bigger, I could reattach some of my hair with gravity…”
She laughed, and the old man laughed with her. She realized her nerves had fully calmed. She sat easily now, as if it were any other lesson and not a master evaluating the first masterwork of his apprentice. Idly, lost in thought, Calabash brushed a finger against the desert and rubbed the gritty sand between his fingers, smiling at the feel of his familiar silicon.
“What would you change about it, if you were to keep going?” he asked.
[2/2]
“Well, sir, the creatures on it are still very primitive, and they live mostly in the sea. I want to experiment with the atmosphere a bit, and see if I can find a way to make it more accommodating of different kinds of life. As you can see, there are already some simple mosses on the land. I think, with time and the right conditions, they could process the land into a softer and more malleable form, enough that larger, more complex life forms might evolve…”
She realized the old man was looking at her in some surprise, and paused. But he simply shook his head, his smile returning. “You are a uniquely minded artist, Syracuse. I would have expected something about what areas of land you felt might have been better sculpted, perhaps something about pleasing mountain shapes or a unique cave system. I suppose this is how I myself would be likely to think about my work. But here you are, considering how to create the conditions for the piece to alter itself.”
“Sorry sir, I…”
“No, no!” he waved again. “You’ve done well. In a way you are thinking more like a scientist, not like an artist. Surprising, for my own apprentice to develop such skills. But I suppose your true nature will out, regardless of your teaching.”
“I was inspired by some of your earlier works, sir, and I’ve been experimenting with ingredients in my free time. I have a friend who’s apprenticing as a scientist… he and I have been working on some theories together…”
Syracuse watched the old man place the ball carefully back onto its platform, and, with the gentlest fingertip-touch, set it spinning again. The sun had set by now, and the room was lit only by lamps and by the purpling glow of twilight. The harsh overhead lamplight made him seem smaller, more wizened.
“I am proud of you, Syracuse,” he said. “This is a splendid masterwork. May I add it to my collection? I would be most pleased to have it.”
“Of course, sir!” she said, jumping up. “Thank you so much! You can certainly have it. I’m already thinking of a better one. I think, with more surface area to work with and higher gravity, I could…”
She prattled on this way as she followed him to the shelves at the back of the room. He reverently placed it on a side shelf, nearly at eye level, where it would be well-placed to catch the glow of the sun tomorrow morning. There were other student works there – masterworks by previous apprentices – and she felt a warm glow in her chest, seeing it there alongside others she had long admired.
Calabash led her back towards the workroom door. “Let us speak again tomorrow,” he said. “These old bones need rest. You, too, should rest easy tonight. You’ve had many long nights of hard work. Or, go and celebrate with your friends, if you feel up for it.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” she gushed, turning towards the landing. Then, suddenly, she turned back and embraced the old man tightly around the middle. He wheezed and gently patted her hair. “Thank you so much for everything, sir.” Releasing him, her feet already flying down the stairs, she gave him a final wave and soon disappeared from view.
Sighing, the old man returned to his study and stood before his shelves. All around him, creations of every size and shape spun, wobbled, even orbited in the larger domes. He looked over his own works in the centre shelves – exquisite carvings, he knew, perfect arrangements, wonderful balance of elements. In every piece, unrivalled craftsmanship. Syracuse’s piece did not have this level of skill, but it had a unique soul and energy. Fondly, he placed his hand upon it, feeling the warmth through the glass.
Change.
He smiled, closed the curtains against the darkening sky, and headed to bed.