John Henry
Mar. 17th, 2012 06:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
John Henry
He ran his thumb along its broad side--unvarnished wood, sturdy, made of the same stuff as his arm. The head wasn’t any iron he’d ever seen, anywhere. He saw his mother whenever he saw the hammer in his hand. “You were born with it,” she had told him, stirring something on the stove hundreds of years ago. She was wearing her yellow dress, wooden spoon in hand, stirring something warm and wet and sweet. One of her knees was bent as she shifted her weight, wide hips lazily swaying, the tan bottom of one foot lifted for him to see. “It’s your birthmark.”
He saw his mother, broad and strong, whenever he saw this tool in action. He cleaved through rock, rock, rock, until there was no rock left for him to cleave. It took fifty men just to clear away the gravelly debris he left behind. He ran from railroad to railroad, hammer in his hand, never stopping, always busy. The sun was yellow and vibrant, and everything under it could be shaped like a mountain of cream with a wooden spoon. He arrived at the next immovable thing to break, curling and uncurling his fists, the tan bottoms of his fingers lifted for him to see. “It’s your birthmark.”
He felt his heart inside him, fighting against the iron of the hammer, of his body. He moved through the walls of stone, a violent ghost, a tree root as thick around as his bicep. He had no torch or yellow lamp to show him where to go--he simply kept on forward until he reached the other side. In the dark, under a mountain, he could not think of his mother. All he could see was the dark, and the white sparks from the hammer in his hand. He saw them, and almost wished that he were holding a pot or a wooden spoon, anything but this hideous, inhuman weapon. But he didn’t, couldn’t, think this. “It’s your birthmark.”
There was nothing to be done.
He ran his thumb along its broad side--unvarnished wood, sturdy, made of the same stuff as his arm. The head wasn’t any iron he’d ever seen, anywhere. He saw his mother whenever he saw the hammer in his hand. “You were born with it,” she had told him, stirring something on the stove hundreds of years ago. She was wearing her yellow dress, wooden spoon in hand, stirring something warm and wet and sweet. One of her knees was bent as she shifted her weight, wide hips lazily swaying, the tan bottom of one foot lifted for him to see. “It’s your birthmark.”
He saw his mother, broad and strong, whenever he saw this tool in action. He cleaved through rock, rock, rock, until there was no rock left for him to cleave. It took fifty men just to clear away the gravelly debris he left behind. He ran from railroad to railroad, hammer in his hand, never stopping, always busy. The sun was yellow and vibrant, and everything under it could be shaped like a mountain of cream with a wooden spoon. He arrived at the next immovable thing to break, curling and uncurling his fists, the tan bottoms of his fingers lifted for him to see. “It’s your birthmark.”
He felt his heart inside him, fighting against the iron of the hammer, of his body. He moved through the walls of stone, a violent ghost, a tree root as thick around as his bicep. He had no torch or yellow lamp to show him where to go--he simply kept on forward until he reached the other side. In the dark, under a mountain, he could not think of his mother. All he could see was the dark, and the white sparks from the hammer in his hand. He saw them, and almost wished that he were holding a pot or a wooden spoon, anything but this hideous, inhuman weapon. But he didn’t, couldn’t, think this. “It’s your birthmark.”
There was nothing to be done.