Si-Si hopped impatiently. “Come on! The Festival Square is just ahead!”
“Father, I miss you,” Mayka whispered. She hadn’t expected to see his image in Skye. Why was it there?
“I miss him too,” Risa said softly. She landed on Mayka’s shoulder and then pecked at the next frame. “What’s he doing in that picture?”
The next one showed Father with a mountain-size stone dragon. He appeared to be carving it. But Father never carved mythical animals, Mayka thought. He only carved real ones. Gently, she touched the stones that made his face. She then walked to the next picture.
In it, a monstrous six-headed beast was attacking a city, and Father was riding the stone dragon, fighting against the beast. Then in the following panel, men and women were rebuilding the city. A few people were celebrating, while others were bent over and looked unhappy, tiny blue stones on their cheeks as tears. She saw graves.
And she saw Father by two of the graves, one larger and one smaller. Who died? She touched the stones that formed the smaller one.
In the last frame, he was standing beside his dragon, but the dragon lay on the ground, eyes closed. His wings were broken. Blue stones depicted tears on Father’s face.
“What does it mean?” Mayka wished she could talk to Father—ask him what happened, why the dragon had stopped, who was buried in the two graves.
Si-Si poked Mayka’s knee with her snout. “What does it matter? It’s the past. You still have a friend to find, and we still need a stonemason. Isn’t that more important than staring at some old picture? Come on, let’s go!”
Mayka shook herself. Si-Si’s right. The mystery of why Father was pictured in a mural in Skye would have to wait. Jacklo needed them now.
Following Si-Si past the mural, Mayka felt her fear for Jacklo creep back in. Risa must be even more worried, she thought. The two birds hadn’t been apart for more than a day in . . . well, years, not since the incident with Etho and the butterflies. According to family stories, Father made the pair of them at the same time: he’d carve the body of one, then the body of the other, the wings of one, then the wings of the other, the beak of one, then the beak of the other, so he’d finish them both on the same day. He finished Risa a few hours before Jacklo, a fact the bird took to heart. She was Jacklo’s older sister and had taken responsibility for him from his first flight.
Mayka hadn’t been carved yet, so she wasn’t there to witness it, but the others all had their own memories of that disastrous flight. Father had woven all their versions together to create a tale of a string of accidents that resulted in a stampede of goats and the shattering of nearly every roof tile. That roof had been made of pottery tiles. After Jacklo learned to fly, Father had replaced it with stone.
She told that story once a year, on the anniversary of Jacklo and Risa’s carving day.
As they drew closer to the Festival Square, they heard music, and Mayka felt as if the noise was enveloping her. She’d never heard musicians before. Singing, yes. She remembered Father would sing while he worked sometimes, story songs with rambling tunes as he chipped and chiseled his stone creations. She’d listened to birds sing. She’d even tried it herself a few times. But this was music.
Coming into the square, she saw the musicians on a raised platform: drummers and flutists, plus a few plucking at strings on wood instruments that looked like crescent moons. She felt the music as well as heard it, vibrating through her entire self. Each drumbeat shook her, and each chord lifted her. Closing her eyes, she let it soak into her, surrounding her and bathing her.
Then the singing began.
There were three voices, weaving together, telling a tale of stonemasons.
One stonemason was kind, and he created creatures who could care for the sick, the very young, and the very old.
One stonemason was strong, and she created creatures who could build homes, plow fields, and dig graves.
One stonemason was clever, and she created creatures who could study the stars, measure the mountains, and solve the mysteries of life and death and immortality.
Each one claimed that their creations added more to the world and were more important than the others, and so they fell to arguing, and then challenged one another to battle, with their stone creatures as soldiers. But when it came time to meet on the field, the creatures refused to fight.
Fighting would hurt the sick.
Fighting would destroy the homes.
Fighting would bring only death.
But the stonemasons—
The singing stopped abruptly, the music twanged to a halt, and a man dressed all in black began to shout at the musicians to try again, watch the timing on the third measure, and obey the intensity notations.
Si-Si bumped her head into Mayka’s knee. “Are you all right? You look transfixed.”
“It was beautiful.” She stared in awe at the musicians and wished she knew how to make such beauty. It must be so tremendous to create something out of nothing. Out of sound. Out of air. Out of movement and—
“Eh.” Si-Si sniffed. “I’ve heard better.”
“Well, I haven’t,” Mayka said, but she followed Si-Si into the square.
All around, stone donkeys, horses, and oxen were carting loads from one end of the square to the other. Stone squirrels were unloading wood, nails, hammers, and other supplies, and scampering with them to flesh-and-blood humans, who would then direct other stone creatures—beavers and badgers—to build. The sound of hammers hitting wood filled the air. Saws, chisels . . . Chisels! A stonemason’s tool!
The familiar clink made her ache inside, in the hollows of her body, and she found herself thinking about Father again. That sound used to fill their house. Clink, clink, clink. Mayka followed the noise, and the rest of the cacophony faded into the background.
She brushed past a woman who said, “Watch where you’re going! Oh my, how exquisite! Deneb, did you see that stone girl? Find out who made her.”
But Mayka didn’t slow. She kept weaving through the crowd, heading for the clink of metal on stone, until at last she saw a boy wielding a hammer and chisel. His hair was tied back with a strip of cloth, and he had the same kind of leather gloves that Father used to wear. He was trimming the stone with a point chisel, and he was focusing so hard that he was biting his lip. She watched as the hammer hit the head of the chisel, and the stone chipped, a chunk popping off and skittering across the cobbles.
Before he could line up the next tap of the chisel, Mayka stepped forward. “Excuse me,” she said, “but are you a stonemason?”
He was dressed like one, and he was working with stone. He even had a badge with an embroidered picture of a chisel and hammer. Si-Si had said stonemasons wore badges.
She startled him so much that he jumped.
“Garit, apprentice to Stonemason Siorn, at your service!” He dropped the hammer, narrowly missing his toes, and then clapped his hands together and faced Mayka and Si-Si. “How can I . . .” He trailed off and his eyes widened. Crossing the stage to her, he knelt as he reached out and touched her cheek. “Amazing!”
“Um, thanks?” She leaned backwards, so his fingers fell away. “We’re looking for our friend, a bird named Jacklo. We were hoping you could help us find him.”
He hopped off the stage and walked in a circle around her. She pivoted, watching him. “Wow!” He whistled through a gap in his teeth. “You’re fully articulated. Full motion. Can you raise your arm, please?”
People here have strange manners, she thought, but she lifted her arm, then lowered it. “He’s small, gray, and from a distance can blend with other birds. We think he’s somewhere in the Stone Quarter, possibly inside a building. But the guard won’t let us in.”
“Us?” He seemed to notice Si-Si for the first time. Squatting down in front of her, he admired her. “You’re a beauty. Who carved you?”
“Master Lison of Skye,” Si-Si said proudly. “I was inspired by—”
“The Dragons o
f the Mountains. Of course.” His attention flicked back to Mayka. “But you weren’t made by Master Lison. He didn’t carve granite. I can recognize one hundred fifty carvers by their signature style. It’s part of my training. But you . . . I don’t know who carved you, but whoever it was was clearly a master.” He contemplated her some more. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess . . . Hmm . . . It has to be someone well established, who doesn’t care what other people think. Sure, it’s not illegal to carve a human, but no one does it. No market for it. So your carver has to be someone who—”
Risa landed on Mayka’s shoulder. “We don’t have time for games! Jacklo’s missing!”
Risa was right. Mayka could tell him all about her father, if he wanted, and how Father carved them. But later! “Please, can you help us enter the Stone Quarter? Could you help us find our friend? He’s been missing since yesterday, and we’re worried.”
Now he was staring at Risa. Honestly, he’s as easily distracted as Jacklo, Mayka thought. He opened and shut his mouth several times, before pointing at Risa and saying, “Everyone says flying stone is impossible! I always thought if you could figure out the balance of weight and determine the exact right marks . . . But no one’s ever done it. I mean, there are legends saying it was done once, but there’s no record of the marks and no one has been able to do it since, and believe me, many stonemasons have tried.” Blinking, he shook his head. “My master needs to see you!”
Mayka seized on that. Yes, a master stonemason! Exactly what they needed. “Is he in the Stone Quarter?”
“Yes, of course, that’s where all the stonemasons live. It’s the law.”
“Can you take us to him?” Maybe whoever he was would listen to them and help find Jacklo—and maybe he would be willing to come recarve her friends. This could be the perfect answer to both problems!
“Sure! Oh wait, no. I’m supposed to finish this.” He frowned at the half-chiseled stone block, then looked at them, then over his shoulder at the corner, and back at the stone. Like Ilery, he seemed to wear every thought he had on his face, and right now he was clearly waffling between finishing his task and escorting them to his master.
“Take us now and finish it later,” Mayka suggested.
“But he was very insistent. It all has to be finished. The festival is in two days!”
Again with the festival! “Okay, what do you have to do to finish?” Maybe it would be quick.
“I’m to make the pedestals for his creations to stand on. He wants them visible to the audience during his demonstration.” Waving his hand, Garit indicated the area where the stone beavers were building with wood, and she realized they were making a series of benches, each higher than the next. Seats for an audience, she thought.
“So you aren’t making real carvings? No creatures? Just pedestals?” She studied the chunks of rock. She’d helped Father before, with the rough preparations, and she knew the techniques, at least the basics. She was certain she could hold a point chisel steady and wield a hammer. “What size and shape?”
He told her the dimensions, about half her height and twice her width, with a flat top. “It will take me about four more hours to complete them all.”
“I can help you halve that.” She held out her hands. “If you’ll share your tools?” Father had never liked anyone to touch his tools, except with his supervision. This boy might say no, and then she’d have to wait hours for him to help her.
“You? But . . . you can’t be a stonemason. You’re stone!”
“I’m not a stonemason,” Mayka agreed. “If I were, then I wouldn’t be here in Skye looking for one. If I were, I’d never have left home. If I were, Jacklo never would have gotten lost, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But I can make a block with right angles. Now, are you going to let me help you, or are you going to make me stand here and wait? Because on this journey I have discovered something new: impatience.”
Wide-eyed, he held out an extra hammer and chisel, but then he drew back when she reached to take them. “Be careful. If you chip yourself before my master sees you . . .”
“She’ll be careful,” Risa said. “I’ll watch her. We all take care of each other.”
We’re not taking good care of Jacklo now, Mayka thought. But she’d fix that soon. As soon as Garit led them to his master, she’d convince the stonemason to help.
She took the tools.
It felt strange to be holding a hammer and chisel. Except to clean them, she hadn’t touched Father’s tools since he died. There had been no point. The house was complete, and she was no stonemason to try to do what he did. Father often said he’d been born to the art. His mother told him that as a baby, he had preferred a hammer to a rattle. He saw a block of stone, and he saw the shape within it—his job was to set that creature free. She, on the other hand, saw stone, and it was stone. I’m no stonemason, she thought.
But I can turn a chunk of stone into a pedestal.
She heard Father’s voice, in her memory, as she stepped up to the chunk of rock. See the shape within the stone, he’d say. Parallel cuts. Angle the chisel, aim the hammer, and hit from the inside out, away from the heart of the stone. Carve around the heart. The trick was to find its weak points. Identify the impurities, the places where the stone would naturally split, and then you can cut the stone the way it wants to be cut.
She’d been the last living statue that Father had carved, but he hadn’t stopped sculpting. He’d continued to add to the house—the petal-shaped roof tiles, the kitchen table, the bathtub. He’d carved the sluice for the fish to water the goats, cutting their channels straight into the mountainside. He’d cut and piled rocks for the wall. She’d helped him, any way he needed. Carrying stone. Sharpening tools. Even roughing out the shapes, which was all she needed to do now. Carving a pedestal was no different than shaping a block for the stone wall, and it didn’t take long for her hands to remember how to hold the chisel steady and how to swing the hammer at just the right angle.
The musicians were playing again, and the drums thudded in a steady beat. She matched her strikes to the rhythm and let the melody pour over her. Dust from the stone flew in clouds, and the square looked as if she were seeing it through a fog. She struck again and again, chipping away at the block until it was roughly square, then she picked up a rasp and began to smooth away the chisel marks.
Risa perched on top of the block, watching her.
Switching to a tooth chisel, she bent over the top of the block. She chipped at the grooves, and then changed back to the rasp to smooth again. She polished with sandpaper. Stepping back, she examined it. Bit more polishing on the left . . . Kneeling, she finished the pedestal.
“Wow, nice work!” Garit said.
She beamed at the compliment, and then moved on to the next block of stone. “Tell me about the Stone Festival. Everyone seems to be talking about it.”
Garit returned to carving his pedestal. “You don’t know about the Stone Festival? It’s only the most famous and important festival in the entire valley!”
“This is my first time in the valley,” Mayka said. “We live on a mountain, and we’ve never left before. Which is why I’m so worried about my friend. He’s not used to all of this. He’s probably caught somewhere and scared.”
Risa drooped. “Terrified.”
“Your friend is stone too?”
“A stone bird. Like Risa.” Mayka suddenly realized she’d never properly introduced herself. “I’m Mayka, and these are my friends, Risa and Si-Si.”
“Siannasi Yondolada Quilasa,” the little dragon said. “Is your stonemason master any good? Because we are looking for the very best.”
“He is the very best,” Garit said automatically. “He carved the gates of Skye, or at least he would have, if his commission had been chosen. His work is seen in the most important houses and with the highest families. He’s an innovator and a genius. You’ll be awed by what he presents at the festival.”
He sounded as if
he was repeating something he’d memorized, but at least the words seemed promising. A genius would easily be able to recarve their marks. Maybe even help Si-Si.
“And the festival?” Mayka prompted.
“It’s where all the stonemasons showcase their skills. Reveal new carvings. Demonstrate new marks. And people can then choose who to hire for carvings and recarvings. It happens once a year, but this is the first time I will be attending as a full apprentice. I was just a kid last time.”
He still seemed like a kid. She guessed he was about twelve years old. He was her height, with a slight pudge to his cheeks. He was sweating through his shirt. She was glad she couldn’t sweat. It would be unpleasant to be damp all the time.
“We set up all around the square. This is my master’s stage. Other stonemasons will share it at other times, but he has it on the first afternoon. He plans to amaze everyone.”
“How?” Si-Si asked.
“Uh, well, I’m not supposed to talk about it. Surprise, you see.” Then he brightened. “But you can ask him yourself, if you want! He won’t tell you any secrets, of course, but maybe he’ll show you a hint.”
Together, they finished the rest of the pedestals, and then Mayka handed him the hammer and chisel. “All right, then,” she said. “Let’s go.”
Chapter
Twelve
Garit strode toward the entrance to the Stone Quarter. Pointing to the badge on his leather apron, he announced, “They’re with me! Bringing them in.”
Behind him, Mayka and Si-Si stuck close. Mayka tried not to look as nervous as she felt. Holding up one hand to block them, the guard squinted at Garit’s patch.
Chest puffed out, Garit said, “I’m taking them to see my master, Master Siorn—those are his colors, see? I’m his apprentice!”
The guard grunted. “Never heard of him. But you’re clear.”
Garit flushed, his cheeks and neck pinkening. Mayka stared in fascination at his slightly red ears and wondered what it would be like to change colors with your emotion. Must be a bit inconvenient.
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