Set In Stone

A child makes his way in the world in this thoughtful short story by Annie Harris.

Peter’s act of kindness not only helped the child, it also eased his own pain . . .

THE master mason leaned against the stone buttress. The tower of the abbey was huge against the blue sky. It was a lovely day, but Peter saw nothing of it.

He ate his bread and cheese, wrapped tightly in his unhappy thoughts until a movement caught his eye.

It was that ragged urchin again. Peter scowled.

“Be off with you! Out of my yard, or I’ll set the constable on you!”

Peter snatched up his round-headed mallet, making as if to get up, and the boy vanished, quick as an elver in the river.

He heard laughter coming from round the corner. It was the junior masons, gambling as usual. They kept away from him during their breaks these days, and he was glad.

All Peter wanted was solitude. He heard more laughter, then one of the men cursed.

Once, Peter would have scolded him sternly for daring to blaspheme in the house of God.

But now, Peter knew there was no God, for he would never have let his beloved Athelina and his young son Peterkin die of the sweating sickness, when Peter had prayed all night on his knees in front of the abbey’s high altar that they should live.

Abbot John had told him he should not question God’s will and they were in Paradise.

Peter had waited until he was back in his yard, then spat.

Now, Peter got wearily to his feet and beckoned to Simon, his deputy.

“Come to the quarry,” he said. “We’ll see if those slabs are ready to be finished. The rest of you, get back to work.”

****

That evening, the stone had been carefully unloaded and all his team had gone.

But these days Peter was never in a hurry to go home to his cottage by the river, so it was almost dark when he took his lantern, chained the yard gate and set off.

He reached the alleyway which led down to the river and turned into it. Next moment, he stumbled over something and almost fell.

Raising his lantern, he peered down and saw a huddled heap at his feet.

Peter gazed around. Was it an ambush? Welsh outlaw bands sometimes crossed the great river.

But no. When he bent down Peter saw that the huddle was the urchin who had haunted his yard for days.

Peter felt the bare arm which lay in the mud. It was icy cold. However, when Peter put his hand on the boy’s chest he could feel a faint heartbeat fluttering against the ribs.

Peter sat back on his heels. If he left the boy, he’d be dead by dawn – one less poor creature put out of his misery.

Just for a moment, he hesitated.

But then, holding the lantern in one hand, he scooped up the child, light as thistledown, and carried him to his cottage.

Setting his burden down on the wooden settle, he kicked the remains of his fire into life and threw on a couple of logs.

The noise roused the boy, and he started up in terror, like a wild animal cornered.

“It’s all right,” Peter said gruffly. “I won’t hurt you, boy. Are you hungry?” A nod.

Peter fetched a dish of potage from the shelf, poured it into a pan and set it on the fire.

He laid oatcakes on the table and cut a hunk of cheese. Master masons were well paid, and in turn Peter paid Joan, his elderly neighbour, to keep him in food.

When the potage was hot, he returned it to the dish, and fetched down the wooden spoon he had carved for Peterkin.

Lifting the boy, Peter set him at the table on what had been his son’s stool.

Averting his gaze, he bent to the fire again, and when he turned back the bowl was empty and the boy was licking it clean.

He saw Peter watching him and hastily set the bowl down, flushing slightly as if from shame.

“Thank you, sir.” The voice was faint but his accent pure.

“So you were hungry?” “Yes, sir.” The boy was crumbling oatcakes and swallowing them.

“What is your name?” “Robin, sir.”

“And where are you from?”

“From Highnam. It is a village near –”

“I know where Highnam is,” Peter said brusquely.

It had been Athelina’s childhood home.

“My father was parish clerk, but he and my mother died of the plague two summers ago.

“The parish is poor, they did not want to keep me. So . . .” The thin shoulders shrugged. “I now live in Gloucester Poorhouse.

“They think we are all ne’er-do-wells there and do not care for us properly.”

“Hmm.” Peter studied him.

He swallowed hard as he realised that the child reminded him of his son. The boy stood up shakily. “Thank you, sir, for your kindness.”

Peter grunted .

“You can stay here tonight,” he heard himself say.

“You can have this.” Peter gestured to the small wooden truckle-bed in the alcove at the side of the fire.

Picking up a sheepskin from his dresser, he gave it to the boy.

“Thank you, sir,” Robin said, smiling weakly as Peter lifted him into the bed and covered him with the sheepskin.

The mason busied himself clearing away the dishes and making the fire safe, then went through to his own bed.

As Peter took off his boots, he heard a low murmur.

Creeping to the doorway, he saw that the boy was kneeling by the bed, and he just caught his soft words:

“Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, bless this bed that I lie on.

“Please take care of my mother and father in heaven, and bless this man for his kindness.”

Peter tiptoed back to his own bed but lay awake for hours, staring into the darkness.

****

The boy was still sleeping at dawn, with his cheek cradled on his hand, when Peter got up to begin another long day.

Peter stared down at the child, his heart aching for what he had lost, then he quietly set out the remains of a wheaten loaf and a dish of honey from Joan’s hives, and left.

All day, as he worked, Peter’s mind was on the youngster, so much so that he made a rare error.

His mallet slipped off the chisel he was using to carve a delicate pattern out of the stone and it was ruined.

“Not like you, Master Peter, to make an error like that,” one of his workmen murmured.

“No, Will.” Peter grimaced. “You are right.”

“Are you unwell,

Master?”

The other under-masons clustered round him, and at the concern in their voices he almost wept.

“No – no, I am quite well,” he said hastily. “But I think I will do no more work today. My hands are not as steady as they should be.

“You may all go, too – you have worked hard.”

His team looked at each other in astonishment, then with a collective, “Thank you, Master,” they scattered like a flock of happy birds.

Peter locked the yard gate as usual and went off after them.

Would the boy have stayed?

No, he would surely have disappeared, fearful perhaps that Peter would return with the constable or, worse, the overseer of Gloucester Poorhouse.

Peter pushed open the front door of his cottage and looked around him.

The bed was empty.

He felt a surge of disappointment, but then, as he threw down his leather satchel on the table, he heard a faint noise.

He opened the back door then stood, struck still with astonishment.

Robin was kneeling on the ground. He was holding the small chisel and round-headed mallet that Peter had made for his son.

In front of the boy was a small off-cut of stone that the mason had intended to make into a slab to hold hot dishes from the fire. And Robin was chiselling. “Who did that work?”

The boy spun round, cowering as if from a blow.

“Who did that?” Peter repeated, more gently.

“I am sorry, sir. I wanted to tidy your cottage in return for your kindness and I found these things in a cupboard.”

“Have you ever used a chisel and a mallet before? Those tools there,” Peter added, as the boy looked puzzled.

“No, sir. I am sorry if I did wrong.” He was almost in tears. “I wanted to copy that flower there.”

He pointed to a muddy patch of ground where a

If he left the boy, he’d be dead by dawn

pale yellow primrose grew in defiance of Peter’s neighbour’s pig.

“I – I’ve hidden myself away in the abbey these past few days,” he went on. “It is warm there, and – I watched you at work.”

Peter took the piece of stone and stared at it.

It was incredible. Some of the leaves were misshapen where the mallet had slipped, but each delicate petal was . . . Peter shook his head in amazement. “Stand up, er – Robin.” He surveyed the boy as he scrambled to his feet. “You look tidier.”

“Yes, sir. I helped Mistress Joan with her sweeping and she gave me some of her son’s clothes.

“He is a sailor and goes on ships down the Great River as far as Bristol,” Robin added with awe.

His eyes sparkled.

“She said I was fit to scare the crows.”

“Hmm,” Peter said. “Well, come in now and rest before supper.

“And be sure and make yourself clean and tidy in the morning.”

The boy’s face clouded, his shoulders sagging.

“You are taking me back to the poorhouse.”

“No. I am taking you to see Abbot John, the master of our abbey.”

****

Peter stood in the shadow of one of the

great pillars.

He was watching a young lad, mason’s tools in his hands, kneeling over a piece of stone tracery, fine as lace, and shook his head in silent wonderment at the exquisite workmanship.

Even he, with all his years of experience, could not have produced such a thing of beauty – especially now, he thought ruefully, flexing his arthritic fingers.

His thoughts went back to five years earlier.

“What? You want to apprentice this orphan? Surely, Master Peter, you can do better,” the abbot had said.

Peter had seen the boy wince.

“Trust me, my lord,” he’d said, looking him straight in the eye, and the abbot had shrugged.

“Very well. As you will.” Never for one second had Peter regretted his decision, he thought now, looking up affectionately at the bent head, totally absorbed in his task.

But it was time to stop work for the day. He waited until Robin sat back on his heels to survey his work.

“Come down, lad. It’s too dark to see,” Peter called.

The boy climbed swiftly down the scaffolding and joined him at the base.

As they turned to go, Peter had a realisation.

“Oh, no, I must have left my chisel up there. I’ll climb up to get it.”

“No. I will go,” Robin said.

In the next moment, Robin was scrambling back up the lattice of scaffold.

He reached the swaying platform and Peter saw him pick up something.

The boy turned and brandished the tool, laughing in triumph.

With a sick horror, Peter watched the platform lurch and the young lad stagger.

And next moment, he was falling.

“Oh, God, save my precious boy!”

The words came out of their own accord and Peter closed his eyes, not wanting to see the broken body.

But then he felt a rush of air and he opened them again to see, just for a fleeting second, a pair of golden wings enfolding the youth as he landed on a pile of canvas sheets. He heard a sharp gasp. “Does he live?” the abbot’s voice said.

They knelt beside the crumpled figure.

Robin looked up, shocked but unhurt.

“It’s a miracle!” Peter blurted out. “Did you see the wings, my lord?” “Wings?”

“Yes – golden wings held him.”

“But the miracle is that he fell on that heap of sheeting. Though who put it there I do not know. One of the lay brethren, perhaps.”

“There were wings,” Peter said stubbornly. “I prayed to God to save my boy.”

The first time, he added silently, that I’ve prayed in over five years.

“Yes, well.” The abbot patted his shoulder. “Perhaps you are right.”

“If I carve this, may the stone be placed here, where it happened?”

“Of course. It can remain for all time as a reminder of this amazing event.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Peter already had the design in his mind.

He would carve Robin falling and himself looking up in horror, just before the wings cradled him.

“There were wings,” he told himself.

He put his arm round Robin’s shoulders, and they walked out of the abbey.

****

“And now I have a little mystery for you!”

The tour guide led the way down the side aisle and pointed upwards.

“This is called the Mason’s Bracket and it was carved about seven hundred years ago, when our cathedral was still an abbey.”

A dozen faces peered up at the stone carving which jutted from one of the pillars.

“It shows a man – he’s a mason, judging from the tools – looking up as another, his apprentice perhaps, seems to fall from the sky towards him.

“Does the scene commemorate an actual event? You can see the mason has his arms outstretched, but did he manage to save the lad or did he carve the stone in memory of the youth?

“We’ll never know, of course, but I like to think that the story had a happy ending.”

The End.