Vido's Stone

This first entry is a children's fable I wrote many years ago, and which won the Kay Snow (Willamette Writers) fiction contest (Children's division) in 1983  The prize was a beautiful watercolor painting based on the story, and 50 dollars.  (But it cost me $30.00 to go to their damn awards banquet.)

                                          

                                                    Vido's Stone

                                                                    by                                              

                                                             Dick Morgan

            Once not so very long ago in a small crossroad village that never seemed to change, a traveler became enchanted by a statue which adorned the village fountain.  The young man, an art student, had left the university at the strong suggestion of his mentor.  "Giovine," the old professor had said, "you are known as a painter of beautiful canvasses.  But you will never be known as an artist until you learn to see as the artist sees.  Go, and search for that vision."

          Fleeing from such terrible words, Giovine had carried his bags and his books down the main road to this particular crossing before he found that he did not know which way he should go.  Straight ahead lay the mines and the mills, but he did not fancy such hard and tedious work.  To his left, the road traveled to the monastery; while he admired the quiet devotion of the monks, he did not wish to renounce his appetite for old wines and young women.  To his right, the road led to a battlefield upon which men even younger than he fell bleeding, their lips still mouthing the oaths which brought them down.  That direction was out of the question.

          So, weary from his journey and his indecision, Giovine stopped beside the village fountain to wet his throat.  It was then that he saw the statue at the center of the fountain, a young woman pouring an endless artesian stream from a vase balanced upon her hip.  The smooth curves of her nakedness, the muscular grace of her marble limbs, the trace of a timid smile on her lips left him stunned; he stared as though he himself had turned to stone.

          Giovine had only once before seen a statue of such captivating beauty-- the huntress in the courtyard of the university.  Although similar to that masterpiece, this was even more breathtaking; the maid of the fountain was the younger sister, a flower at the moment of blossom.  Who might the maiden be?  And who could have brought forth such loveliness from the cold depths of stone?  Now, these were two questions worth investigating.

          He entered the village inn, where for the price of a glass of wine, he learned as much as he could about the statue.  No, the innkeeper said, there was no maiden around these hills which could have been the model of that work.  The innkeeper squared his stout shoulders and winked at Giovine.  Would he not know of such a beauty?  No, the statue was but a fine example of the imagination of old Vido, the sculptor.

          Giovine refilled his wine glass, and one for the innkeeper as well.  "And who is this Vido?"  he asked, but the innkeeper merely shrugged.  He did not know much about the sculptor, except that he was a genius.  Had not Giovine seen for himself the statue of the huntress, her bow drawn for the kill, that graced the courtyard of the university?   Her fierce gaze, the hair erect on the back of her neck-- did not that speak unmistakably of the magical art of Vido?  Giovine had often eaten his lunch below the taut legs of the huntress.

          Such a man could surely teach me what it is the artist sees, Giovine thought.  I may yet be called artist by those pompous old clerics at the university if I can persuade this Vido to let me watch him work.  And, too, he smiled to himself, I might glimpse the maiden whose likeness Vido has chiseled into stone.

          Giovine purchased more wine; the innkeeper seemed to reply better after draining a glassful of it.  "Where might I find this Vido that has brought such beauty to the world?"  Giovine asked.

          "Vido lives on a hill just outside the village," the innkeeper said.  "But he does not often invite the company of other men.  His habits are a mystery to the village folk.  No one has ever seen him hold a chisel, nor heard the crack of stone echo down from that hill.  Some say old Vido uses witchcraft on the stone, that some dark secret holds him apart from God-fearing men.  But, there is the hill, just to the right of the sun, and trees bloom green upon it the same as on other hills.  Judge for yourself."  No more could Giovine learn from the innkeeper that day, for the wine had taken its toll on both of them. 

          The next morning, Giovine left the inn and strode eagerly to Vido’s hill.  Before him rose tall oak trees, thick maples, and other broad-leafed trees bejeweled with autumn, their reds and golds and fragile greens dancing in the light wind. 

          Giovine hiked the gentle slope delighting in the leaves, the blue-white sky, and the silvery dew underfoot.  At the top of the hill, he found a cabin; its steep gables were covered with hand-hewn shakes, and its sides were of rough and random shingles.  All around the outside of the cabin lay great numbers of wood chips and shards of stone.

          An old man sat in a chair of woven boughs, rocking back and forth in front of the cabin door.  Giovine was surprised by the figure; the man was frail as a fallen branch, and the sparse white hair that ran around the sides of his head and under his chin resembled a dandelion about to go to seed.  A round pot belly had fallen out from beneath his peasant shirt, and his spindly arms seemed almost too weak to hold the pipe he was smoking.  But the eyes that looked back at him were like an icy brook, and seemed to Giovine to see through his clothes and his skin and into his soul.  Yes, those eyes at least would belong to Vido the sculptor.

          Giovine greeted Vido by name and bowed extravagantly as the old man sat and smoked his pipe, offering him neither hostility nor welcome.  Giovine felt awkward and embarrassed, but managed to state his purpose nonetheless.  “So you see,” he concluded, “I wish very much to watch you work.  It would help me become a better artist.”

          “Impossible,” Vido puffed around his pipestem.

          “Perhaps,” Giovine said, looking at his feet.  “But I have to give it my best effort.”

          Vido laughed.  “A noble answer, young man.  But I meant to say that it is impossible to watch me work.”

          “I am very persistent.  I have brought food in my bag, and I shall camp on your doorstep until you agree to it.”

          Vido laughed even harder.  “I do not mean that I do not give you my permission.  I meant to say…”  Vido sat silently for a moment.  “Oh, very well.  I suppose you may waste your time in whatever manner you choose.  In truth, I was thinking just now about my model, and how pleasant it would be to bring her forth once again.  You may watch, if you are so disposed, on one condition.  You must promise me that you will stay until my work is finished.”

          Giovine eagerly nodded. 

          “Swear to it; you may not leave until I put down the chisel for the last time.”

          Giovine swore on his honor that he would stay until then, even though he had no idea when then might be.

          “Let us begin at once.”  Vido stood slowly, as though he himself were a statue just come to life, and his limbs were unfamiliar to him.  “We shall need a stone,” he said, stepping into his yard.  “Find me a suitable stone about the size of your head.”

          Giovine grinned with anticipation and began a lively search of the ground all around Vido’s cabin.  Among the cedar shavings and oak twigs lay stones of all shapes and sizes and colors.  Some of these stones were round and smooth like those found in riverbeds; surely those were too common to present to a great sculptor.  Others were soft soapstones or brittle lava; Giovine thought it would not be at all proper to offer Vido a piece of stone that might crumble with the first blow of the mallet.  But among the round stones and the soft ones lay sharp-cornered shards of marble, unmistakably the shavings of Vido’s previous work.  Giovine raced to and fro in larger and larger circles around the cabin, examining the scraps of marble, reasoning that a stone once chosen would again be acceptable to Vido.  He prodded and turned stone after stone, searching for the perfect size and shape and color, while behind him, he could hear the old sculptor laughing vigorously.  Finally, Giovine came upon a lump of marble which glistened bright in the noon-day sun.  It was the proper size, and its shape although irregular, was not altogether asymmetrical.  He grinned, hoisted the heavy stone to his waist, and lugged it back to the front door where Vido stood.

          “That is a very nice stone you have there,” Vido said, smiling.  “But I have already chosen one.  A piece of granite I found just near my porch.  It will do nicely.”

          “Granite!”  Giovine exclaimed. “Granite!  Here after much effort, I have found you a beautiful portion of marble, and you choose such a common stone…” he sighed.

          “Young friend,” Vido said, “a stone is just a stone like any other, until the artist chooses it.  Your first lesson is not to search too long for the perfect one.  You’re lucky the earth had mercy on you, or you could have followed your noble tastes into the woods and gotten lost.”  Vido laughed quietly as he entered the door of the cabin.  “Well, come in now.  We mustn’t waste any more time.”

          Giovine discarded his marble globe, and it fell back among the cedar chips and river stones as he strode wearily through the door.  Inside, Giovine could see nothing to assure him this was the home of a great artist.  Vido’s old wood stove was covered with soot the same as any other stove; Vido’s bed was a linen sack stuffed with straw.  Even the windows did not admit as much light as Giovine would have judged proper for a sculptor.  There was just enough light for him to watch Vido place the granite chunk upon a workbench beneath the window nearest the sun.  Then Vido placed his pillow in a high-backed wooden chair across the room, and settle into it. Vido sat motionless and watched the sun dapple the stone with shadows as it descended through the trees.

          Giovine sat in silence on the bed of straw while Vido gazed at his stone.  When the last rays faded and only twilight filled the windows, Vido stood and stretched his back.

          “Now are you going to begin?” Giovine asked sleepily.

          “Now I am going to make some tea,” Vido answered.  “Would you like some?”

          Giovine nodded with obvious disappointment, but Vido did not seem to notice.  “You will begin to work on the stone tomorrow, then?”

          “Tomorrow I shall continue what I have already done,” Vido answered.

          Giovine scratched his head.  Had the old man hidden some movement upon the stone that he had failed to notice?  How would he learn what it is that the artist sees if the artist does not reveal that he sees anything?  Tired and confused, he unrolled his blanket in a corner and went to sleep. 

          The next morning, Giovine was awakened by the bang of pans as Vido prepared his breakfast of cooked grains and herbs.  When he was finished, he filled a bowl for each of them, and they ate quickly, while it was hot.  Then Vido sighed, “Well, it’s time for work.  I must attend to my tasks, and you must do yours.”  He smiled and pointed at the dirty bowls.

          Giovine quickly washed the dishes so that he would be able to watch Vido at work, but again Vido sat on his pillow in the chair and silently gazed at the stone.  Giovine did not disturb him, though; he remembered the fierce handsomeness of the huntress, and the breathtaking beauty of the maiden at the well.  He was determined to stay until Vido had finished what he had promised.  So he watched the old man, and sometimes napped, or read a page or two from one of his books.  But Vido only moved once the whole day, about noon; he walked to the bench, took hold of the stone and slowly turned it a quarter-turn, then sank back into his chair.

          At dusk, Vido again asked Giovine to join him for tea.  They sat in silence and sipped from their cups until dark.

          The next day went the same.  Old Vido rose from his chair only once, about noon, when he again rotated the stone exactly a quarter-turn.  But Giovine did not interrupt him, remembering the two maidens in stone.  The fourth day passed in the same manner as the third, and Vido’s only movement, except for an occasional cough, was to rotate the stone to expose its last face toward his chair.

          By this time, however, Giovine had become exceedingly bored.  He slept until slumber numbed his senses; he read until the words on the pages ran together.  He bathed and swept the floor, and even trimmed his fingernails, of which he was very proud.  But there was no more to occupy his time.  How fruitless it seemed, for Vido had not moved from his spot even to eat, and the stone still sat among the dappled shadows on the bench.

          When Vido coughed and rose from his chair for his evening tea, Giovine could restrain himself no longer.  “When will you begin to work on the stone?” he cried. 

          Vido sighed.  “Much of the work is done.  It is a shame you cannot see it.”

          “But you have not touched the stone!”

          The old man turned his gaze toward him, and Giovine felt the piercing cold of Vido’s eyes.  They probed beneath the lines of his face, beneath sinew and bone, into the nakedness of his brain, and words fell unspoken from his tongue.

          “Yes, I have,” Vido answered.  “Patience, my young, restless friend.  You must learn to view yourself as always on a path between what has been done and what yet remains to be imagined.  That is your second lesson.  Tomorrow I begin my hardest work, but you will not see it without such patience.  Now, help me with my tea; my bones ache.”

          Giovine prepared the tea as he had seen Vido brew it, steeping the herbs in hot water just so.  The tea was bitter, but Vido made no sign that he noticed.  He seemed lost in his thoughts, as though remembering something beautiful, but troubling at the same time.  Giovine thought the old man might be addled by his long days of stillness, off indeed on some mental path that circled but never ended.  Well, he would stay as he had promised, but he would have to find a way to occupy his time somehow, until Vido released him from his vow. 

          The next morning, as the sun rose through the oak trees, a shaft of light fell upon Giovine’s face and awakened him.  Drowsily, he looked about and saw that Vido was already in his chair, holding the stone in his lap.  The old sculptor sat motionless, his eyes closed, grasping the stone roughly between his palms, as though he held just a piece of stone.

          Giovine arose and washed, and vowed not to waste any more time watching Vido.  He would gather fresh herbs for Vido’s tea, and he would take his sketchbook and palette.  Was he not an artist too?  He had studied at the university, after all.  Vido’s hill might inspire more than one talent.

          Outside, Giovine was invigorated by the chill air of the thicket shadows, the soft crunch of the dew-covered leaves.  His breath came quickly, leaving tiny clouds.  The cares of the university seemed so unimportant, the crossroads so distant.  Giovine sighed, and removed his sketchbook from his pack.

          Later, when he returned to the cabin, he thought he could see the old man through the window, fast asleep in his chair.  But when he opened the door, Vido was already on his feet, walking stiff-legged toward the workbench with the stone.

          Giovine stopped still.  “Oh, Vido,” he said.  “I was painting, and I forgot to gather any herbs.  But look!  See what I have painted!”

          Vido smiled.  “I will gladly forgive your forgetfulness if you have been painting.  Eh, what is this?”

          Giovine beamed.  “It is my impression of the forest dawn.”

          Vido squinted.  “Ah, my eyes are failing along with my joints.  I cannot see the forest nor the dawn.”

          “It is a painting of my feelings about them, not of the things themselves.”

          “Oh,” Vido nodded.  “That is different!  Well, you certainly have a rich swirl of feelings.  I rather like it, I think.  But tell me, what is this large line here?”

          Giovine shrugged.  “I just felt it should go there.  It was sort of a divine inspiration, you might say.”  Giovine felt Vido watching him, but the old man said nothing.  They both drank their bitter evening tea in silence.

          The next morning, Giovine  again awoke to find Vido already up, seated in his chair with the stone in his lap.  The old sculptor sat more stiffly now, with his eyes shut tight, as though his back hurt from bending over the stone with a mallet and chisel.  Vido held the stone more gently now, as though it were a ceramic bowl.  But when Giovine examined the stone, he could not see even the slightest trace of chisel marks.  He shook his head and left the cabin to gather herbs.

          It was long past noon when he returned with his satchel full of three kinds of fresh green leaves.  He had searched long and diligently until he found just the ones he wanted—comfrey, fennel, and mint.  He thought these might help poor Vido’s worsening health.  But when he entered the cabin, Vido was moving about, stirring his own herbs in a pot on the stove. 

          “I did not know how long you would be,” Vido said apologetically.  “Who knows where your visions might lead you when I am in need of my tea?  But, I did make enough for two.  Would you like some?”

          Giovine nodded and set down his satchel.  Vido served him a steaming cup, but when he took his first sip, his face wrinkled, and his eyes began to water.  He had to spit it out.  “What is this?” he shouted.

          Old Vido shrugged.  “Wild onion, nettles, and bracken.  And a touch of skunk cabbage.  I just felt it should go in there.  It was sort of a divine inspiration, you might say.”

          “Bleah,” Giovine said. 

          “Fortunately, I have in mind just the sort of tea I want for myself before I brew it, and hardly ever have to rely on divine inspiration,” Vido added.

          Giovine went to his bedroll in the corner and lay down without speaking a word.

          The next morning, Giovine arose with the very first light, but yet again Vido had beaten him and was seated in his chair with the stone.  He watched the old man closely; Vido’s pallor was a grey as a corpse in the pre-dawn light, and his breathing uneven and noisy. Vido sat slack-mouthed and unseeing, as though in a trance.  But he held the stone gently now, as though it were a fine crystal chalice, moving only a finger now and then.

          Giovine wearied of watching the old man make so much out of a common rock.  He almost wished Vido would accidentally drop it and break it into a thousand pieces, for then he would be released from his vow.  Maybe he could awake at midnight and pretend to hear a prowler, take up a hammer, and—well, he would need some fresh morning air to think about that. 

          As Giovine reached the door, he heard a feeble voice.  “Yes, yes, I see you clearly now, dear one.”  The voice cracked and began coughing. 

          Giovine stood still.  “Who?  Who do you see?”

          Vido caught his breath.  “Stop interrupting!  I am almost finished.”

          Giovine eyed the stone, and even from across the room in the dim light he could see there was no mark at all upon the stone.  He closed the door softly so that he would not disturb Vido’s dream. 

          Giovine wandered across the hill, down the other side, then up the slope of the next one.  As the sun rose higher and his muscles warmed to his efforts, his thoughts also seemed to clear.  He was obviously never going to see Vido chip that stone into the image of anything.  Yet he had vowed to stay until Vido did.  What madness was this?  Yes, either Vido was playing an elaborate joke on him, or the old man was hopelessly mad and believed the stone was chipping itself away into some form he carried in his mind.  Giovine was angry at himself for becoming involved with such a man.  He would go back and demand a release from his silly vow at once.

          Giovine reached Vido’s cabin after the sun had set.  When he entered, the old man was still in his chair, fast asleep in the darkness, his breath shallow and labored.  Giovine shook Vido awake.  When his eyes opened, they seemed to drift down from the top of his head and finally focused, as though he had been dreaming of a far-off land.  Giovine lit an oil lamp.

          “Oh, it’s you,” Vido said, coughing. 

          “Yes, and for the last time,” Giovine said.

          Vido coughed and coughed, his face paling in the lamplight.  “Tea,” he managed to gasp between breaths.

          “I’m leaving,” Giovine said.  “I’m tired of your tricks.  I think you just wanted someone to make your tea and wash up after you, and I believe you never intended to work on that stone.”

          “It is finished,” Vido whispered.

          “Finished, you say?” Giovine shouted.  “Finished, is it?” He looked over at the stone which sat upon the workbench without a mark anywhere on its surface.  “Well, look at this, will you?  Here is the famous Vido, sculptor of the magical huntress that adorns the courtyard of the university, the sculpted form which has inspired thousands of young men to study harder, to hunt deeper for the hidden truths of the ages.  Here sits the master sculptor Vido, who fashioned the beauty of the maiden at the well, a heavenly vision which stole my breath away the moment I saw her.  And what has Vido accomplished in seven hard days of labor?  He has made a lump of granite into a lump of granite.  Well, I am very impressed.”  Giovine glared, his hands on his hips.  “Well,” he said again.

          Vido ceased his coughing and cleared his throat with great effort.  “Please, my young dissatisfied friend, stay for one more cup of tea.  Then I will release you from your vow, and you can be on your way.”

          Giovine took pity on the gaunt, poke-boned figure before him, and fixed them both a hot comfrey tea with a touch a mint that he had gathered the day before.

          “This is good,” Vido said when the tea had begun to warm him.  “It was well gathered and well brewed.  It will help me to recover from my labor.”  Giovine sipped his tea and pretended not to hear, for he was eager to be on his way.  “And just as you have planned what tea would nourish me most, and here it is, just so, I am done with my work.  And there it is.”

          Giovine glanced at the rough stone, then back at Vido, who was smiling.

          “Yes,” Vido continued, “I am the sculptor of the maiden at the well.  She was the daughter I never had, because I was too busy with my art to love any other mistress.  But still I carried her in my heart.  I watched her grow as I grew, and lo, she became the huntress who leaped forth from her marble robe into eternal vigilance.  I have lived half a century with her face in my mind, and still she ravages and tears at me when I bring her forth into the light.  Now that I am old and frail, I see that she too has weathered the passing of so much time.  How could it be otherwise?”  Vido slowly shook his head.

          “To see her age was the most difficult of all.  You have assisted me during my greatest work, and you have stayed until the last chisel mark.  I am grateful.”

          Giovine scratched his head with both hands.  “But how can I have stayed until you put down the chisel for the last time if you do not pick it up for the first time?”

          Vido laughed.  “I suppose I shall have to explain this lesson to you too.  Very well.”  He rose unsteadily from his chair and limped to the workbench, where he touched the stone with his forefinger.  “I have forced my thoughts deep within the center of this stone, and again I see her smile, yes.  Of course, there are a few wrinkles around those soft lips…”

          “I don’t see anything,” Giovine said.

          “How could you not see her if you have seen me?  I and my vision are the same.  Even now my thoughts rest within this stone, and this stone within me.  My very joints ache of it.” He sighed.  “But I suppose I must take up the chisel as I promised.”

          Vido picked up his thinnest chisel and his smallest mallet as he bent over the stone.  He placed the point slowly, ever so carefully, into a niche just to one side of the center of the top.  “Now, dear one, bring forth your smile,” he said, and smacked the chisel with a single sharp blow of the mallet.  The granite split and shattered into several large pieces, each sliding away from the perfect face of a woman full in her years, her eyes closed, her wrinkled cheeks drawn up into a smile. 

          “Ah, there you are,” Vido said, as if surprised.  Being surprised was his little joke on Giovine, who stood speechless, his mouth agape.  “You see, young friend, it is not what the artist see that is important, but how clearly.”  Vido smiled.  “Well, on your way now.  Were you not in the middle of some sort of journey?”

          “No, not until now,” Giovine answered quietly.

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