Well, I thought I was going to maybe do a picture for Mikkel's b-day, but this popped out instead. A bit of angst, though.
Mikkel grimaced as he laid the fresh cowpat onto one side of the pile. He gave it a rough shaping with the shovel, before adding a sprinkling of dust and small pieces of straw from the bottom of his wheelbarrow. With the hand trowel, he smoothed the edges of the pat to blend with the contour he was creating. Then he poked the trowel into the holes he was slowly enlarging through the more dry parts of the pile.
Stepping back to scrutinise his work, he adjusted the crude headband he was using to keep the sun and sweat out of his eyes. Taking advantage of the still-lengthening days, the lump of straw and cow manure was drying reasonably quickly. He could expect to have the emerging sculpture largely roughed-out within the next few weeks. Whether he'd have time to refine it was still unclear.
------
"Hey, that's coming along!"
Mikkel looked up with a start, but relaxed as he saw his sister Mette approaching, smiling under her broad-brimmed hat as she made her way across the paddock. "Hrm, I suppose so. We'll see," he swatted at the flies gathering on glistening surface of the more freshly applied areas of the sculpture. A small chunk fell from the surface Mikkel had been smoothing as the trowel grazed it. "Perhaps I shall feed the girls some stones, to ensure a firmer material?"
"I wouldn't," Mette laughed, "actually, please don't. I don't want to blunt my arrowheads." She gestured across the paddock to another misshapen pile of manure and straw, surrounded by broken chunks.
Mikkel sighed, "I never got to finish that one, and now I never will. You know, you could set up a different target for archery practice, you don't have to use my sculptures. It's not as though we have a shortage of hay bales for you to shoot at."
"This is more of a challenge.
You may have difficulty hitting something the size of a hay bale, dear brother, but the rest of us don't have that problem." Seeing Mikkel wince, she cooed, "Sorry, but it's true. Anyway. What is this one going to be? One I've heard of?"
"Not likely, knowing your penchant for scholarship."
Mette dramatically clutched her chest as though mortally wounded. "What? After I looked up who Henrik Moore was and everything? That was your best one, even if it didn't look anything like a woman. I shot a rabbit right through that hole in her head."
"
Henry Moore. Your heart's on the other side, Mette," Mikkel chuckled. She hurriedly switched her hand. "And, this one is going to be Rodin's 'The Thinker' - at least, assuming I get to finish it. Hopefully, I won't."
Mette shrugged. "Nope, never heard of it. I thought it was another one of those
Henry ones." She cocked her head to the side. “Or maybe a troll.”
"I haven't put in any sort of detail yet. There's only so much I can do with..." His hands fell to his sides as he frowned at Mette. "Still no messages for me?”
Mette shook her head. “Maybe after Midsummer, yeah?”
Mikkel did not reply. He crossed his arms and stared intently at the sculpture in progress.
-----
Mille marched through the paddock, lifting her leg high with each step through the high grass, not bothering to follow the wheelbarrow track ahead of her. “Mikkel!,” she called, “Hoy,
Mikkel!” Her brother was facing away from her and did not acknowledge her call. Mille swung her basket savagely in front of her as she advanced, scything the grass and raising clouds of gnats and flies to impede her progress.
Mette followed serenely behind Mille, walking in the wheelbarrow rut. “It doesn’t do any good, Mille, he won’t even know you’re there until you’re right there in front of him.”
“I. Don’t. Care!” Mille punctuated each word with a swipe of her basket.
“Then it’s just as well we haven’t gathered the berries yet, or they’d be fly fodder now.”
They reached Mikkel, his broad back still turned away from them as he sat hunched on a tree stump. Facing him was a large dusty grey figure nearly as large as he was. Mille’s mouth dropped open as she realised both Mikkel and the figure were in roughly the same pose, hunched over with one elbow on his knee, supporting his head as he stared. Mille tried to follow his gaze, but could see nothing but trampled grass and small blobs of the same grey material scattered on the ground.
“Hey, Mikkel,” Mette called out, “I found that book you had the statue in. It kinda looks like your one.” Mikkel grunted but did not look up. “That’s a lot of cow pats right there.”
Mille wrinkled her nose. “Listen Mikkel, we’re going down to get some berries, okay? Do you want to come with us?” Mikkel grunted again. “For your birthday cake?,” Mille tried again, with no response. The sisters exchanged a look.
Mette walked over to the statue and bent over to look at its face. “Good thing it’s been a dry summer.” Peering more closely, “You know, it does kind of look like you.” She picked up some yellowed stalks of grass and held them on either side of the figure’s head. “There, sideburns like yours. Now you’re tw-“ She gasped and dropped the grass suddenly. “Oh, Mikkel! Oh look, I’m sorry, that was thoughtless of me!” She looked to Mille for support, but her sister was cringing, with a stricken expression.
Mikkel’s expression betrayed no emotion as he got up and brushed bits of grass off his pants. “Did anything come for me in today’s post?,” he asked dispassionately. striding away from the statue.
Mette smacked her forehead. “Yes!” Mikkel turned sharply back toward her. “Sorry, I forgot, yes, a letter did come in, Ole brought it right over. It’s from Norway. Was…that the one you were waiting for?”
“We’ll see,” Mikkel said as he strode away toward the Madsen farmhouse.
“Crap, and double crap,” Mille said, watching him go. “Right. Mette, come on, let’s go get the berries, anyway.” She put her arm around her stricken sister and led her away from the scene. “It’s still Mikkel’s birthday.”
The flies landed on The Thinker again as they walked away.
