Flash Fiction - Lost Art

LOST ART

“How do you get all the way up there, Father?”  Tin asked.

“We use planks and ropes through a pulley system that reduces the effort needed to lift me to the head.”

“When I have my fifteenth birthday, will you teach me to be an eye carver too?”

“You must learn.  I am the last with knowledge of facial features.  Now that the Hebrews are gone and with them so much of the knowledge of construction techniques we are likely not to see the likes of this magnitude again.  It is incumbent on us to maintain what they have done.”

“How are the ropes put up there?”  Tin craned his neck up at the figure standing twenty stories tall to the left of the Gold leafed door frame. 

His father pointed.  “You can’t see them until you get close; the Hebrews embedded hooks in the rock wall every twenty meters.  There are small hand and footholds carved into the figure's body that is impossible to see from the ground.  Climbers take a small lineup to drape over a hook.  Other workers pull the line tied to the larger rope up to the hook. The pulley is attached to the hook, and the larger rope is strung through it.”  He sighed.  “There is a problem, though.”

“What is that, Father?”

“The hooks have been coming loose. So, we tie to two hooks to suspend the planks between.  Still, it is dangerous.”

“Can’t we fix the hooks?”

“We’ve tried.  We can’t figure out how the Hebrews put the hooks in and made them stay.”  He beckoned to the hoisting team.  “Are we ready?”

“Yes, Carver,” The nearest man of ten men nodded, grasping the rope descended from the figure.  “You may mount the plank.”

“Me too, Father?”

“No, Tin.  Another year you may join me.”  He pulled his wooden box of hammers and chisels along with a bucket of mortar onto the board and stepped on holding the rope on one side.”

Tin watched as the twenty men, ten on each side, pulled raising his father up the side of the figure's skirt.  One man off to the side was calling cadence. 

“Now PULL, Now PULL,” the man’s base voice called.  His father rose in jerks until he was but a speck.

Suddenly, all ten men fell backward as the rope went slack.

Tin saw the end of the plank drop and pointed.  “My father,” He cried.

The first thing to hit the ground was his father’s box of tools, exploding and scattering its contents.  Immediately following was the bucket of mortar which sprayed all around with the gray-brown prepared mud. 

Tin looked up to see his father dangling from the end of the plank.  The men on the other side started to lower him. 

“Easy,” Tin called out.  “Don’t drop him.”

When they were twenty-five meters, the remaining men fell back as the others had.  Tin’s father hit the ground with a dull thud.  Tin sprinted over to him.  His father's eyes were closed, and blood ran from his mouth and ears.

“Father, Father,” Tin raised his father’s head into his lap.  “Father, open your eyes.  Speak to me.”

“Oh, ah… Tin?”  A weak voice came forth.

“Father.”

“I’m sorry, Tin.  I won’t be able to teach you after all.  Another Hebrew secret will go to the grave with me.  So sorry. So…”  He went quiet.

Tin looked at the man leaning over them.  The man shook his head gently.

Tin hugged his father and told him, “It won’t be lost Father, I will figure it out.  I swear to you I will.”