Hard, physical work. Take up the wood, bring down the axe hard. Split the timber. Repeat. I let myself go into the repetitive work. Fill my senses with the actions and the scent of the wood. Hold my attention on the feel of my muscles, so swiftly refreshed after the un-natural ravages of the stone.
The man brings out tea and thick cut cheese and bread. I eat. Taste the cream that lies in the butter. Wipe sweat from my eyes. I work.
But there is a woman in the house. I know where she is. There are only two rooms, and I have the dog's bed in the barn. But I know where she is. Even drawn into myself as much as I can. I can see her, even with my eyes closed in the dark night, curled in the straw. A foreigner banished from the house. She will not have me over the threashold. No. She knows.
There is nothing of her that I want. A round faced peasant, gone swiftly from blossom to seed. She is everything I want, I scent her, I see her. She flickers in my sight - all she is repulses me .. then.. her used roundness is an explosion to my senses. She is as ripe and sweet as an apple.
She knows. The stone knows. I have the eyes of a wolf when I see her. And she feels those eyes on her, wordless, predatory, watching. I throw myself hard into this work, I work like a dog, I sleep in the dog's bed, I will not listen to the stone. Yet still, the wolf looks out.
The stone. Brings on one's own famine. The lack yawns in me again, just at the thought of her. Of what she could give. I try to focus on my work, but the stone opens further the gate of famine and I fall again.
I want... I need... I lack ... I am pulled by the ache in me, gut deep and bone true.
A son. my son. What any man truely needs. Blood of my blood. The continuation of my house. My right arm. My son by my side. What a man he could be! Must be, and must be brought into being... I shove the picture of the peasant woman out of my mind. My son cannot be the child of such a creature. I am no peasant. There must be another. Worthy of my line.
I see my son a-horse beside me, fully grown. Beautiful in his pride. Ah, but we are magnificant! All we survey is ours. Together nothing can stand before us. Under my tutorage he perfects all my arts. And he will be perfect... for I will give him such a heritage...
My famine-empty spirit flips like a hungry belly. I am buckled over the axe with need.
I must have my son. 'Ware the woman who stands before me.
