A New Eden

by Quent Cordair

  Making her way back out to the porch, she descended the steps, the dogs following. Beneath the silver-cupped moon there was no need for additional light. Her feet had traveled the path so many thousands of times before. Inside the barn, she patted the cowling of the old tractor as she passed. It had been a good tractor, a reliable machine, solidly built, made to last forever, not like the ones they made today. It was like Max that way. Such a good man. . . .

  In the studio, the moonlight lay in parallelograms on the west wall. Her silent children, all those formed and the few unfinished, were awake and waiting, as if for a bedtime story. All were in bronze or clay except for the three in marble, which stood out in their blue whiteness. Upon her return from Italy in her early twenties, she had carved several dozen pieces in stone. Long ago, all but these three had been sent out into the world: a young girl riding a gazelle, a young woman with the wind in her hair, an old woman with an owl on her shoulder.

  She left the lights turned off and wandered through the shadows, touching cheeks, caressing limbs. Her children, pieces of her soul. Nowhere on earth was she more at home. It was as though she could hear their voices around her: “What now, Mother? What now? Tell us one more story, please. . . . Yes, Mother, just one more . . .”

  She stopped before the workbench on the back wall, letting her gnarled hands come to rest on its empty surface, where so much creation had begun. The pain and weariness in her body seemed as much spiritual as physical. The need to rest lay heavy on her soul, a near constant these days. Who knew how long she had left? But hadn’t that always been the case? One can never be sure of how long. The doctor himself had been wrong on that score twice already, hadn’t he? And still, she lived: each day, an opportunity.

  On the shelf above the bench stood the modello, the bronze figurine, a male nude no taller than the length of a man’s forearm, an ideal not fully realized, the promise, the enigma. His face was shadowed by the night. If she brought him down, she knew he would still smell faintly of burnt wood and smoke. But she didn’t need to bring him down. She knew each of his lines, his curves, his planes by heart.

  She donned her work apron and tied it around her waist. Retrieving her old chisels and mallet from beneath the bench, she tucked the mallet’s handle in her apron belt. She tested the chisels, running her thumb over the blades. They were still sharp enough. She selected several rasps and files and slipped them into the apron pocket with the chisels.

  There was no raw or unfinished marble available in the studio. There was no unfinished stone of any kind. Shuffling to the middle of the room, she leaned her weight into the wheeled work table and rolled it slowly off the rug and to the side. With her foot, she flipped the rug’s edge up and rolled it over and away until the plank floor beneath was exposed. On the wall, next to the panel of light switches, was a framed image of Michelangelo’s David. She had taken the photo herself while studying in Florence. Tilting the photo to the side revealed two toggle switches inset in the wall, the first of which, when flipped down, initiated the whir of a small motor and winch beneath the floor and the slow raising of a hinged door. When the door reached near vertical, she flipped the first switch up and the second down, turning off the motor, turning on a light illuminating the stairway leading down.

  She reminded herself to have Max install an extension for the handrail. The first few steps, with nothing to hold on to, were too precarious for a woman of her age and condition. But she went down again tonight as she had gone down so many days and nights before, one halting, careful step at a time. Reaching her destination would take even a little longer tonight, given her slowing step. Holding the chisels would be even more painful, given her arthritis. But she could still walk, and she could still hold her chisels. She could still swing her mallet. She was still alive. To be alive meant to sculpt. To sculpt meant to be alive. Tonight, with the flame of hope and promise burning once more on the summit above, there was one more night to be alive below.

  * * *

  Paige’s plane was climbing, banking to the east, when she saw the flame on the Hill. It lit a new curiosity in her – but this time, the curiosity had to be put down, smothered, killed. She was leaving this place behind, along with pieces of her heart, along with mysteries that wanted solving, dances that wanted dancing, skies that wanted riding under, sculptures that wanted touching. A man who smelled like leather and prairie grass after a thunderstorm. A woman whose voice the angels of heaven would envy, guarded by the darker, wingless angels of earth. It was all here in this valley, a stretch of land lying between the mountains and hills like a great hall, at the head of which rose a throne – a promontory owned by a few, coveted by many, sacred to all.

  But Paige wouldn’t be back. She had far more important things to do. There were wars to be covered, conspiracies to be probed, political machinations to be dragged into the light. It was a big world, and big things, violent things, evil things, were happening on a stage that was becoming more closely interconnected and more ominously dangerous by the day.

  She wouldn’t return to Aurum Valley, she told herself, no fewer than three times after the lights in the cabin had dimmed.

  When she finally slept, it was only fitfully.

  Somewhere over the Midwest she woke with a start, thinking it was impossible that she could have been feeling the hot breath of a horse on her neck and smelling the burning of human flesh.

  The plane’s engines still hummed along quietly, evenly. The cabin was still dark. A mother quietly walked the aisle, shushing the infant in her arms. Most around her were sleeping peacefully, except for the bearded man across the aisle who had been watching her. She returned his stare. He went back to reading his Quran, whispering the words beneath his breath, rocking faintly forward and back in his seat like a branch in the wind.

  * * *

  Part III

  Coming soon!

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  About the Author

  Born in 1964 in southern Illinois, Quent Cordair was raised in an insular, fundamentalist religious sect. In his childhood, he fell in love with books at the local library, a treasured gateway to the outside world. After an enlistment in the U.S. Marines, he launched his writing career. His first short story published in 1991 by the Atlantean Press Review. Attempts to sell his second book door to door failed. To support his writing, he waited tables, worked as a security guard, stocked groceries, and stuffed envelopes on the graveyard shift at a mail-processing center. But with such employment leaving him too spiritually drained to write, he sought work more in keeping with his esthetic interests. Having taught himself to paint, he began taking portrait commissions at his easel in a local park. After exhibiting in street fairs for two years, he opened his own gallery in 1996. Today, Quent Cordair Fine Art, located in Napa, California, represents the work of some thirty Romantic Realist painters and sculptors of international renown. With the gallery now managed by his wife, Linda Cordair, the author’s attentions are focused fully on his writing. Quent Cordair’s acclaimed short stories, screenplays and novels are drawn from his lifetime of experience and interest in romance, adventure, individualism, religion, history, politics, philosophy and art. The Cordairs live in Napa with their cats, Lexie and Sadie, and their border collie, Mollie.

  Quent Cordai
r Fine Art

  The Finest Romantic Realism

  In Painting & Sculpture

  www.cordair.com

  Also by Quent Cordair

  Idolatry Part I: Genesis

  In the twilight of the Roman Empire, a sculptor struggles to keep an 800-year dream alive while honoring the love of his life and raising his adopted son. Part I of the epic five-part Idolatry series, the story of a wealthy young heir and a devout Christian girl who find themselves at the heart of a 2400-year struggle for the soul of Western Civilization. "Beautifully written, on the order of Ken Follett's Pillars of the Earth, with the historical insight of James Michener, it brings to life a time of great thought, great art, and its clash with religious fanaticism. Cordair writes with a poet's sense of scene and nuance and gives us a great deal of insight into the mind of a sculptor." ~ Alan Nitikman. Available in Kindle, paperback & audiobook editions ~ https://www.amazon.com/Genesis-Idolatry-Book-Quent-Cordair-ebook/dp/B00MUWOWDW

  The Lunch Break Collection

  In Lunch Break, a collection of short stories and poems by Quent Cordair, adventure, suspense and romance rule the day as the protagonists pursue their ends with passion and perseverance. The collection includes stories originally published in The Atlantean Press Review and ART Ideas. Available in Kindle & paperback editions ~ https://www.amazon.com/Lunch-Break-Quent-Cordair-ebook/dp/B008B0KXFI

  The Match

  In The Match, Elizabeth thinks that her boyfriend, the detective, may be ready to propose, but when conversation takes an unexpected turn, she must decide how much to reveal about a collection of books and an encounter with the law on a night when life and death hung in the balance. Available for Kindle ~ https://www.amazon.com/Match-Quent-Cordair-ebook/dp/B00CTWYBKC

  At Home with Heather James

  The sparks fly when movie star Rex Keller is the special guest on Heather James' talk show. As the handsome heartthrob and the smitten host preview the clips for the actor's new film, the heat rises, and by the end of the show, Heather is made an offer she can’t refuse. Or can she . . . ? Available for Kindle ~ https://www.amazon.com/Home-Heather-James-Quent-Cordair-ebook/dp/B008ZFYXIC

  Mujahid

  "A screenplay jihadists will hate and civilized people will love.... Set in Chicago during the holiday season, the story involves a conflict between Husam, a young Muslim man who takes Islam seriously, and his younger brother Jasim. The conflict escalates after Husam is handed a heavy bag by a bearded man and gets on a bus heading downtown.... How is the conflict resolved? In an immensely satisfying way – as fans of Cordair’s work would expect." – Daniel Wahl, The Objective Standard. Available for Kindle ~ https://www.amazon.com/Mujahid-Quent-Cordair-ebook/dp/B00R8QP8NI

  On the cover

  A New Eden

  by Bryan Larsen

  12 x 16 original oil on aluminum composite panel

  Original artwork & signed limited-edition prints available

  Please contact Quent Cordair Fine Art

  at (707) 255-2242 or art@cordair.com.

  http://www.cordair.com

  Subject to availability.

  www.quentcordair.com