The midday heat pressed down on the workshop roof. The air did not stir through the low door. A heavy smell of linseed oil and resin hung in the room. Sawdust hung in the sunbeams that cut through the cracks in the brick.
sat on a low palm-wood stool, knees bent. A gray stone mortar rested between his thighs. He held a pestle of black basalt. His fingers gripped the rough stone. At the bottom of the mortar, a piece of raw lapis lazuli resisted the blows. The blue stone came from the mountains in the east. It was hard.
The pestle came down with a sharp sound. Clack. Clack. The stone broke into bright chips, then fine grains, then a powder of deep blue. The dust rose. It settled on 's lashes. It stained the skin of his palms and beneath his nails. The blue powder was used to paint the headdresses of idols and the eyes of Sîn's statues.
Three paces from him, worked at his bench. His bare feet were buried in cedar shavings. Red sawdust covered his ankles and clung to the sweat on his legs. His arms were thick, veins standing out under the strain. He held a heavy wooden mallet and a blackened bronze chisel.
struck. The chisel bit into the cedar wood. A long shaving curled up and fell to the floor.
Tack. Tack. Tack.
The mallet struck the measure. It was the same rhythm every day, from morning until sunset. The cedar wood came from the forests of Lebanon. It was red, and smelled of strong sap.
stopped. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. His eyes stayed fixed on the block of wood. The statue's arms were not yet visible. The cedar remained a raw mass, but the shape of a torso was emerging under the blows.
"The chisel must follow the grain of the wood," said . "Cut against the vein, and the cedar splits. The statue is lost."
He did not look at . His fingers ran over the rough surface of the block.
"A cedar god lasts longer than a man," went on. "Worms don't eat it if the oil is good. Kings pass, but the cedar remains in the temple. It is a noble trade."
stopped turning his pestle. His fingers tightened on the stone.
"The stone is hard," said .
"The blue must be fine as flour," said . "The priests do not want grains on the idol's eyelids. Keep working."
The pestle resumed its course in the stone mortar. Clack. Clack.
The clay was stored in great fired-clay jars, in the coolest corner of the workshop. plunged his arms in up to the elbows in the gray mass. The mud clung to his skin, cold and heavy. A forgotten air bubble could make a figurine burst in the kiln.
On brick shelves, dozens of figurines dried. Sîn, said to be the Moon-god of Ur. Short arms pressed against the body, a headdress in the shape of a crescent moon. Their eyes were simple holes made with a reed straw.
came over to the shelves. He picked up a figurine of clay, still damp. He wanted to inspect it before firing.
His thick fingers handled the statue. One motion, too quick, crushed the figurine's nose. The soft clay gave way. A crack opened from the temple to the base of the neck.
grunted. He threw the figurine into the large jar of raw clay. Gray mud splashed onto the workshop floor. The crushed nose vanished into the shapeless mass.
"The clay was too dry," said . "The earth from that canal is worthless this year."
He picked up another figurine and began smoothing its back with a damp thumb.
looked at the jar. The ruined figurine was now just a lump of gray mud among the others. It had lost its shape in a single second.
"Why do we shape their eyes?" said .
stopped. He turned the figurine toward the light. The empty sockets stared up at the ceiling.
"Look at the eyes," he said. "You see the depth? I spent three days on those sockets. The faithful kneel before that gaze."
He picked up the rasp again. The bronze scraped against the dry clay.
"Your grandfather carved the same eyes. The whole city knows it."
"Do they see?" said .
set the figurine on the bench. He picked up the bronze rasp again. The grinding sound filled the workshop.
looked at the blue dust drying on his fingers.
Late afternoon brought a breeze off the plain. The heat withdrew from the workshop bricks.
In the inner courtyard of the house, the hearth fire glowed. knelt before the clay oven. A white, acrid smoke of dried cow dung rose into the clear sky. set flat barley cakes against the oven's hot walls. Her hands moved quickly, so as not to burn her skin.
The latch of the wooden door creaked.
came into the courtyard. He carried a large basket of woven reeds on his shoulder. He was younger than , but his body was already sturdy. His eyes were bright, quick-moving. He set the basket down by the well. The reeds were fresh, cut along the river.
followed him. She walked without a sound, her sandals barely stirring the dust of the courtyard. Her dark hair was held back by a red wool cord — the one 's mother had tied on the day had sealed their union before the elders of the quarter. She carried a clay pitcher on her hip. She came toward the hearth without a word.
She saw the blue powder on the collar of 's tunic. She looked away.
sat down on a palm-wood beam that served as a bench. He watched come out of the workshop. His eyes settled on his cousin's blue hands.
did not touch the clay figurines drying on the courtyard's low wall. He kept his hands resting on his knees.
set her pitcher down near the oven. She sat beside .
's fingers slid along her copper bracelet. The metal made a small, sharp sound against her wrist.
"The well water is low," said .
"It drops every summer," said .
took a hot barley cake from the oven. The smell of toasted bread filled the courtyard. She broke the cake into four equal pieces. She handed out the bread.
They ate without speaking. The bread was warm, marked with ash from the hearth.
looked at the closed door of 's workshop. The sound of the mallet had stopped, but cedar dust still drifted beneath the low door.
"I saw the priests on the road to Ur," said . "They had three carts. They're stopping at every workshop."
looked at . Her large dark eyes were calm. She asked no question.
set his fingertips on the dry earth of the courtyard. The ground was warm, rough.
"They're coming for the moon idols," said .
did not answer. She took a sip of water from the pitcher. Silence returned to the courtyard, long and dense. It was a silence that set them apart from the noise of the alley and the distant songs of the city.
The sun touched the horizon, becoming a red ball behind the dust of the plain.
The sound of hooves rang out in the narrow alley of Hurmuzjard. Two donkeys stopped before the door of the house. The priests' voices were loud, used to command.
The door of 's workshop opened.
Two men came in. They wore long white wool tunics that trailed in the sawdust on the floor. Their heads were entirely shaved, gleaming under the lamplight. They smelled of nard and the rancid sheep fat used for ritual anointing. Their necks were thick.
bowed very low. His forehead nearly touched the wood of the bench.
"The statues are ready," said .
His voice was low.
The first priest approached the great cedar idol. A finger ran over the statue's polished torso. The moon headdress was checked. The eye sockets gleamed under the oil, blue, deep. His lips murmured a formula did not understand.
"The wood is good," said the priest. "But the headdress is too narrow. Sîn's moon must be wide, so the people can see it from the canal."
"I followed the temple's measurements," said .
A small clay statue was taken from the shelf, turned in a greasy hand.
"The city needs more figurines for the harvest feast," said the priest. "The king wants every house to have its Sîn before the new moon. , you must work faster."
The figurine went back onto the bench. A piece of silver came out of the purse. The silver was raw, cut with a chisel into the shape of a crescent. The metal made a sharp sound against the wood.
stood in the shadow of the storeroom, near the clay jars. His arms hung at his sides, still. He watched the priests' shaved skulls. He watched their white tunics, stained with red sawdust.
The priests began wrapping the statues in dry straw. They set them into large woven reed baskets. They lifted the baskets and left the workshop.
followed them to the threshold. He bowed again.
The sound of the donkeys' hooves faded along the canal path.
came back into the workshop. He picked up the silver coin from the bench. His fingers tightened around the metal. He blew out the sesame-oil lamp. The coin fell back into darkness.
came up to the bench. He set his hand on the spot where the cedar statue had spent the day. The wood was no longer there. All that remained was a ring of blue dust and a greasy trace of linseed oil on the worktable.
The cedar had died before becoming a god.