#promptfun

The dust was everywhere in this land of abandoned treasures. It hung from the ceiling, floated softly through the pale sunlight, and rested its heavy hand on every occupant housed on the long counters and in the high shelves. He found the brick nestled into the welcoming folds of an old blanket, under the welcoming shade of an old parasol. His throat tightened at the sight of it. After all these years, it hadn’t changed. Every grain of its intricate and beautiful structure was perfect and immaculate, just as it had been the day he first saw it.

“So many years, my darling,” he whispered softly. Hesitantly, he reached out to lay his fingers against the rough clay. “No need to worry now,” he said as a single rebellious tear rolled down his cheek, “I’ve found you. I’m here.”

Carefully, with the gentleness of a lover, he picked up the old brick and cradled it in his scarred hands. “Now we can go home,” he said softly.

If the woman at the counter in the old antique shop was surprised to see a bent old sculptor approach her desk to buy an old brick, she gave no sign of it. He paid her what she asked without question. It was an astronomical sum for an old brick, but for the old sculptor, it was nothing. He would have given his life to possess this brick. He refused the bag the woman offered him, instead placing the brick in the inner pocket of his threadbare jacket, close to his chest.

He could feel the excitement rising in his chest as he walked down the empty streets. The last light of the red sun bathed the tired buildings in its warm light, and he quickened his pace, eyes and ears focused on the crashing waves of the sea.

“The ship is booked, my love,” he whispered to the brick as he hurried along, “and the bridge will be open, I am sure of it.”

Soon, he was aboard the ship, gazing up at the darkening sky. He placed a hand on the bulge in his jacket, his heart full. At last, when they crossed the bridge, they could be together. They would be home and safe.

The sails were full, and the wind kissed his face, but a cloud began to gather on the horizon. He felt the Captain’s arm on his shoulder.

“Sir, there’s a wicked storm brewing out there, it’d be a shame to get ourselves caught up in it, in the dark, and all. Perhaps we should go back.”

“No!” the sculptor said sharply, “No, we cannot go back.” He felt the first twinges of panic, but the Captain nodded slowly, backing away.

“If you say so, sir,” he said warily.

The clouds grew and, within moment, fat raindrops began to splatter on the deck of the ship. The wind kicked up and began to lash the waves across the deck of the ship. Lightning flashed in the blackened sky. The fear rose in the sculptor’s heart, and he clutched at his chest, holding his jacket and the brick tight to his body.

“The bridge will be open,” he whispered frantically to himself, “the bridge will be open.”

As if responding to the sculptor’s fervent injunction, the clouds at the center of the storm were split apart by a column of light. All aboard the tossed ship stared out in wonder at the beautiful spectacle at the heart of the roaring tempest. The sculptor locked his eyes on the light, staring at it with feverish intensity.

“Sir, we must turn back!” The Captain’s hand held his arm in an iron grip. “This storm will be the death of us all!”

“No!” The sculptor ripped his arm from the captain’s grip, “No we must not! I cannot go back!” Now the fear had him in its grasp. He was so close, the bridge was a mere three leagues off the bow of the pitching, rolling ship, he couldn’t turn around with his dream nearly in his grasp.

“I won’t risk the lives of my crew for the whims of some crazy old man!” the Captain shouted over the sound of the waves. His face was hard as a slab of marble. “We turn back!” He turned his back on the sculptor and began to shout at his crew. The helmsman rolled the wheel, the ship began, slowly, to turn from the column of light.

“No!” the sculptor shrieked, clutching at the rail with white knuckled hands. The panic rose. “No, I cannot go back!” He took several lurching steps back from the rail.

The Captain turned back to look at the rail in time to see the old sculptor begin to run. “Don’t!” he cried. But it was too late. A flash of lightning lit the deck, and the Captain watched in horror as the man disappeared over the rail.

The blazing column of light winked out. The Captain rushed to the rail and looked out, the words ‘man overboard’ on his lips, ready to turn around, to rescue the crazy old man.