The Stone Mason
by Scott Cafarella
The thaw of spring seemed to come overnight. The long cold winter that
plagued upstate New York was finally gone. The air had a vibrant energy
that flowed through all those who had been hibernating. The mason
packed up his old Ford pickup. The sound of the tools clanking in the
bed of the truck brought a smile to his face. Winters had grown very
hard since his wife had passed four years earlier. Now in his
mid-sixties and his kids on the other side of the country, all he had
was the work season.
The sun had barely set as he made his way down the road surrounded by
grey muddied fields with random hints of green. His body ached from the
long layoff. Years of hard work had also caught up with him. Yet the
first warmth of the season seemed to grease his bones. His leather-like
hands seemed looser. His ailing hip more flexible. His broken heart
beating just a bit faster.
He pulled into the estate, its long driveway passing two large ponds
lined with stone walls that snaked around the whole property. A few
guest cottages were in the distance, their veneer matching the walls.
The estate sat up on top of the hill like the rightful king. A modest
stone castle with chimneys on each corner peeking into the sky like
crowns. Hedges and trees uniformly shaped the yard with a large gazebo
and picnic area. A third pond sat behind it with a newly built dock and
boat house. A separate garage larger than most homes sat detached to
the side with a long spiral staircase that led to what seemed a large
apartment on top. An old pickup sat in front of the greenhouse one
hundred yards from the estate. A groundskeeper was hammering away
repairing a door.
The mason drove another three hundred yards past the estate to the
section of the wall that needed repair. It lined the edge of the forest
which was barren allowing views deep into its core. He drove the pickup
as far as he could off the gravel road before the mud was just too
much. He slowly walked over to the wall, the section which was about
fifty feet in length had toppled over leaving only a pile of stones in
mortar. It seemed odd that the wall had collapsed considering the rest
of the wall, which was all throughout the property, was unscathed.
It would be a lot of work for him by himself, but he didn’t mind. He
loved the scenery and seclusion and he didn’t need to make a killing
moneywise. He was there for the craft, the craft that had been his
friend for almost fifty years.
He began to pull the loose stones to the side. His lump hammer breaking
the larger pieces still mortared together. The sun was fully out, and
he could almost hear the wild around him coming to life as if the trees
where letting out a breath that they had held for a good five months.
He worked with a hurried passion as if building stamina with every
stone he tossed. In the distance the groundkeeper slowly drove by and
tipped his large straw hat. The mason waved and then quickly went back
to his mission.
His mind was still on his Julia. She loved the spring partly due to
finally getting him out of the house but also for the possibilities of
the upcoming summer. You don’t realize at the time how special those
summers are, they seem to fly by faster than a waking thought till they
are just memories of another life. A life when your bones didn’t ache,
a life when the love of your life was more than just a scent from a
familiar breeze in a rare moment on an even more rare perfect day. A
life when your children were young, and you were still able to shield
them from all the heaviness that life would bring. A life when you
walked tall and your mind was sharp, and tomorrow was just another
challenge. Yet on those rare days with that rare breeze he could almost
hear the children laugh, see his wife’s smile and just for a moment he
could stand tall and remember how it felt to be king.
A much needed sweat began to trickle thru his shirt. His stamina was
nowhere close to where it needed to be. It would slowly build
throughout the season, never coming close to the days of his prime but
what he lacked in that category he partially made up with knowledge and
tricks to cut down on wasted moves. Every swing of the hammer or swipe
of the trowel was carefully planned and executed. He would roll the
heavier stones to the side instead of trying to lift them. The fear
that any stone could be the one to finally break him, put an end to his
last grip on an old life. His hands like leather, tattooed with scars
and wrinkles, the rest of his body not much different than the stone
wall in front of him. Old bones held together by cracking mortar
joints, ready to collapse with no mason to put them back together.
By lunch the sun was fully smiling with a steady spring breeze. He sat
on a large fallen stone and took bites out of his cheese sandwich. The
estate remained quiet as he looked down upon the pond where ripples in
the water slightly shattered the mirror to the sky. The first day was
always the most nostalgic, you noticed things that would be washed away
as each day went by and you fell into the mode of just getting through.
But on that first one you are always reminded of why you come back year
after year. You are reminded of that special connection that you share
with your oldest friend.
As he wrapped up the remainder of his lunch, a few bites of his
sandwich that he would finish on the way home, the caretaker once again
drove by. This time the old pickup was moving extra slow and his large
straw hat was facing directly forward. No glance or wave in the masons’
direction. Instead of turning with the dirt road which winded to the
left and down a hill, the truck continued straight toward the tree line
that guarded the forest.
The mason, now intrigued, continued to watch as the truck came to a
stop. Its front-end was only a few feet from the tree. The caretaker
slowly got out and stood staring straight ahead as if mesmerized. Then
slowly walked forward disappearing as if swallowed. The mason almost
expected to hear a scream but there was only silence, the same eerie
quiet that had been there all morning as if this small part of the
world was holding its breath.
He watched for a few minutes longer hoping the caretaker would reappear
out of the woods, but knew deep inside the way he entered was a one-way
trip. The mason shook his head and laughed at himself for thinking such
things. When did he develop such a crazy imagination? He let out
another chuckle, picked up his hammer and walked back to the wall. Yet
something felt a bit off as if he was being watched, not by someone or
something but instead by all things. Every branch or log or even the
stones before him, even the inviting breeze seemed to have a pair of
eyes and maybe even a slight whisper.
He continued to take down the section of wall moving faster than he had
in years. His hammer banging away at the crumbling mortar, the stones
popping off with ease. Even the heavier ones didn’t give him any
trouble as he piled them off to the side. He quickly glanced down where
the caretaker had entered the woods. Nothing had changed. The old
pickup sat there idle with the drivers’ side door open. Almost as if it
had been there for a very long time like so many abandoned hunks of
metal stranded in junkyards. A part of him wanted to go down there and
explore but he was in such a rhythm with the job at hand. The only
sound was his grunts, the only movement was the shadow from his
The stones were coming off easier with every swing. Almost as if he was
reversing time, when he was a young bull with the desire to succeed as
his backbone. He was close to the last few rows of stone. A sadness
crept in at the thought of being finished.
He came to a quick stop as the final stone at the bottom was unlike any
he had ever seen. It was four feet long with a smooth surface that
seemed impossible. Not a scratch or bump or crevice. It seemed to
sparkle under the sun revealing so many colors that it might as well be
all of them. There was also an energy that came out of it. Drawing him
to it, relaxing him to an almost sleepy state. He so desperately wanted
to touch it. All other things had gone away. He no longer even thought
of the caretaker as he slowly took a step toward the magnificent stone.
The energy was growing as the colors kept changing, to a point where it
was as if he was floating in space completely focused on the alien
particle in front of him, exploding blends too bright for most eyes but
He reached out to touch it, it seemed too far as if trying to touch the
sun or moon or an aging past. Yet somehow his hand landed on the stone
releasing all the energy that had surrounded him these last few moments
into his fingertips. Its power was magnificent and soothing and he
closed his eyes and floated to wherever it wanted to take him. He had
given it full acceptance and submission. It was like a portal into the
unknown yet familiar. Sensations so unbelievable but yet somewhere,
sometime previously witnessed. Like an exaggerated combination of all
that he had ever felt.
Then suddenly his eyes opened and once again he was standing in front
of the stone wall. The sun had returned, and the magical stone gone,
but where it laid now started a stone path into the forest. The stones
were smaller versions of the one he had just admired. Their colors
slightly dulled but still sparkling as the sun light bounced off them
from the opening in the forest above.
There was no fear or hesitation as he took the first step, only comfort
and belonging. As soon as his foot landed on the first stone the
landscape changed. The forest had gone and was replaced by a familiar
street where the homes and yards brought a warm memory from his
childhood. The home stood before him where he had grown up. Where he
had watched his grandfather build brick by brick. Where he had first
inhaled the smell of the mortar, a mix of sweet and sour and dusty clay
and knowing he always wanted to be around it. His grandfathers peppered
full head of hair and rare quick smile that only he could see. The way
he danced on the wall like on a stage to the orchestra of the trowel to
bricks tapping and slicing.
As he walked farther, he came to his first job. A home on a mountain
working next to his grandfather feeding him stones as he placed each
one as if it was meant to be. His grandfather older but still strong.
His body like a piece of leather, nicks and tears but never broken,
very few words but yet that rare smile.
A little farther he saw his first job on his own. A stone mailbox that
he created from a stone wall that the owners told him was built in the
civil war. He remembered feeling proud of what he had created. He knew
that every stone he pulled had its own history which in turn helped
create his future.
Then he came to the job he had worked on when his son was born. An old
church in the middle of a new city. Each stone had been a piece of art
as if placed by magicians. He took so much pride in being able to
repair some small sections where the stones had succumbed to the
endless winters it endured. The feeling of purpose knowing that he had
brought a life into the world.
Then back to his own home that he had built brick by brick, stone by
stone like his grandfather before him. During that period his daughter
would be born and all the memories of his kids growing would be stored
inside the walls of his greatest work of art. A house truly alive with
all the souls he had ever loved. The house seems to stare back at him
as if a final nod goodbye.
He walked farther thinking of his children and how well they have done.
They had their own families and memories and eventually their own road
paved before them full of the marks they had left.
There was one more sight to see and she stood only feet away. As
beautiful as he remembered with that same smile that had thawed him
throughout their life together. She was always able to shine on the
darkest days but never as much as right there and then, where her light
would be his new road. Her hand reached for him and he took it and let
out a breath that he had been holding for so long. “Welcome home,” she
said as they began to walk together. He had forgotten how much her
touch warmed him, took away all the anxiety that weighed him down. He
was surprised he had lasted this long without it.
Up ahead he could see the road coming to an end. People gathered and
one of them stood out with a large straw hat. They were all awaiting
something, as was he. He squeezed his wife’s hand a little harder and
they picked up the pace as they entered the next phase with the
memories of the kids and the stone mason once again felt like a king.
The stone masons’ son and daughter packed up the last few things of
their fathers’ in the house. They walked out to the garage where they
both started to cry as they saw all his tools still hanging on the
walls. He had passed in his sleep in the middle of winter. They had
wished he was able to see one more spring, to pack his tools into the
old truck one more time. They knew how much he loved that. They stood
there for a long time turning from sad to happy because deep down they
both new that he was with Mom.
This story is dedicated to my great grandfather who passed down to me
his trade. I know he is in a good place with my grandmother and I’ll
bet he is still dancing on those walls.
© 2019 Scott Cafarella
Bio: Scott Cafarella is a masonry contractor who has been writing
his whole life. He just started submitting his work. His novella "Next
Moon" Was Published in Aphelion's June 2019 issue.
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