"Esther M. Friesner - Hallowmass" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friesner Esther M)

the steel-edged cutting tool to its task. The tapping blows and the chinking
sound of the stone's thousand small surrenders underlay his words in a smooth,
steady rhythm. "What do you think of my Saint Clement?" He lowered the hammer
and gestured at a protruding lump of rock with the chisel. "Here's the anchor
that dragged him to a glorious martyr's death. I would have given him a
stonecutter's tools, but my lord bishop would discover my vanity all the earlier
then." His hearty laugh was for himself and for all the petty conceits of a
fragile world.

The widow crept nearer, but she could see neither the offered anchor nor the
stonecutter's point. His smile did not mock her when she confessed herself
either bewildered by the light or merely bewitched by her own ignorance.

"You will see the anchor in time," Master Giles said kindly, setting his tools
down on the worktable and taking her plump hand in his calloused palm. "The
saint is still being born. You see, my lord bishop has brought me here for the
cathedral's sake. I am to adorn the south porch below the great rose window with
twelve figures in stone, and since Master Martin whose province is the north
porch has already laid claim to the Twelve Apostles, I have a free hand in the
choice of my saints. I thought to begin well by invoking the protection of Saint
Clement. He has always been a friend to those of my trade. The Emperor Trajan
tore him from the papal throne and sent him as a slave to the marble quarries of
Russia, but even there he made conversions and worked miracles. Once, they say,
his faith called forth water from a rock for the sake of his fellow-slaves'
thirst. Soon after, he was flung into a great sea, the anchor around his neck.
The angels themselves built him a stone tomb beneath the waves. That is beyond
me, so I do this, to his glory."

The widow Agnes bobbed her head. She loved the tales of saints' lives, for she
was a devout woman--all the more so since her husband had gone to sleep in a
churchyard bed. He took with him to eternal rest the staff with which he used to
beat his bride, but he forbore to fetch away his money. If this was not proof of
divine grace, it would do for the widow Agnes. "Which saints will you choose for
the other--" She did a quick tally"--eleven?"

"I don't know," said Master Giles. "Saint Barbara, perhaps, to keep the peril of
fire far from the holy place, and Saint George to aid the farmer and protect
good horses. Who can say?" His smile was whiter than the fresh-cut stone as he
glimpsed Belle's pointed face staring boldly out at him from behind the widow's
skirts. "I might even carve a likeness of Saint Anthony to mind the fortunes of
some small animals in need of watching."

The widow Agnes laughed out loud and told him he was a sorry rogue, and that she
would warn my lord bishop of the jackanapes he'd hired for the adornment of the
south porch. Then she brought Master Giles the good wine from the cellar and
when the sun's setting cheated the eyes of gossips everywhere, she took him to
her bed.

The years ran and the cathedral grew. The shapes of saints blossomed in the
widow's yard and were duly bundled away to their places in the niches of the