His eyes must shimmer with unmatched intelligence.
Mason beheld the pre-dawn vista: Badlands to infinity.
BADLANDS BY GEORGE WEHRFRITZ 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 136
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Mason uncoiled as best he could high up a Dakotan ridgeline on scaffolding fastened to the rock wall with bolts the size of cars. Another double shift. Another night for meagre compensation beyond the dignity of patriotic service, logged under phosphorescent lighting commandeered from a prison yard.
“Three hots and a cot,” chain-gang pragmatists once muttered, though survivors were lucky to grab two colds and a board. Even so, many transformed into zealots.
“Pyramids,” his professor once said, “don’t rise without loyalty to pharaohs.”
Why Mason was pressed is no mystery. Long ago, his restoration of a toppled Charlottesville landmark grabbed their attention even though he’d pitched in to hone skills, not grievance.
“Less said the better,” Mason’s mentor advised.
Wise man. A sculptor’s sculptor inclined to impart the esoteric skills vital to this, their grandest challenge. Generous to the moment he’d lost favor and toppled from the very scaffolding where Mason stood stiffly on thin boards, another “elite expert” vanquished.
Mason beheld the pre-dawn vista: Badlands to infinity, yesterday’s heat still shimmering as a desiccating breeze rippled huge tarps printed in red, white, and blue.