Page 22 of Dark Island: Rescue
Esag picked up his carving knife, the blade sharp enough to split a hair, and began with broad strokes, removing the excess wood to reveal the basic shape of a head and shoulders. This part was mechanical, almost meditative. His hands knew the motions without conscious thought—angle the blade just so, apply pressure here, ease off there.
His tiny workshop was filled with the softwhisper of steel through wood and the occasional gentle tap of his mallet.
As the form emerged, Esag's mind wandered to that first time he'd seen Gulan. When she'd looked up and met his eyes, she'd blushed and looked away, but not before he'd seen something in her expression that had stopped him in his tracks. Interest. Attraction. Possibility.
She'd been nothing like Ashegan, his intended. Where Ashegan looked delicate but had the character of a viper, Gulan was tall and strong, with broad shoulders and capable hands, and the sweetest of characters.
The knife slipped, and Esag cursed under his breath. He needed to focus. He was carving a figurine of Wonder, not Gulan. Wonder was confident, optimistic, radiating strength and warmth. The woman who'd emerged from stasis had become someone new, and she'd found her truelove mate in Anandur.
He switched to a finer blade and began working on the facial features. The brow first—strong and expressive. He remembered how she'd raise one eyebrow when skeptical, how both would draw together when she was concerned. The knife moved in precise, controlled strokes, each one removing just enough wood to suggest the bone structure beneath the skin.
The nose came next. Straight, proportionate, strong. He'd kissed that nose once, five thousand years ago, when she was still Gulan.
What a fool he'd been.
The mouth was trickier. Wonder smiled often now, laughing with customers at the café, teasing Anandurand even Brundar, whom not many dared to tease. But the mouth taking shape under his knife wasn't smiling. The lips were pressed together with something that looked like determination. Or maybe longing?
That wasn't right. He tried to adjust the angle of the lower lip to create the suggestion of a smile, but it made the expression look forced, unnatural. After several attempts to correct it, he realized he'd removed too much material. The proportion was ruined.
With a frustrated sigh, Esag set the damaged figurine aside. He'd have to start over. It happened sometimes. The wood had its own ideas about what it wanted to become, and fighting against that natural inclination only resulted in failure.
He selected another piece of olive wood, this one with a slightly redder undertone. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he'd been working with the wrong material.
The second attempt went faster. His hands knew the proportions now, knew where to remove material and where to leave it. The basic form emerged quickly, and soon he was back to working on the face.
This time, he started with the eyes. Wonder's eyes were distinctive—emerald, but the painting would come later. Right now, he just needed to carve the subtle depressions that would suggest eye sockets, but as he created the delicate curves of eyelids, something felt off again.
The eyes taking shape weren't quite right. They seemed rounder somehow, more vulnerable, but not in the way that Gulan's had been when he'd broken herheart. When he stepped back to examine the face as a whole, he realized the entire bone structure was wrong. The jawline was too delicate, the cheekbones not quite prominent enough. This wasn't Wonder's face.
Esag set down his knife and rubbed his eyes. Perhaps he needed a break. Perhaps his memories of Wonder were getting confused with memories of Gulan, and they weren't the same. Or maybe he'd been working on figurines for too long and needed a rest from it.
Perhaps he should ask Anandur for Wonder's photograph.
In five thousand years of carving, he'd never needed a portrait to capture someone he knew well. His memory had always been sufficient, his hands always able to translate what his mind saw into wood.
He couldn't bring himself to admit defeat and ask Anandur to supply a photo of Wonder.
Stupid, stubborn pride. But he couldn't admit to another failure.
With a sigh, Esag selected a third piece of wood. This one was lighter, almost white, with a grain so fine it was barely visible. Perhaps the third time was the charm.
He worked more slowly this time, more carefully. Every stroke of his knife was deliberate, precise. He thought about Wonder as she was now. The way she managed the café with easy confidence. The way she laughed. The way she looked at Anandur, with a love so obvious it made Esag's chest ache with ugly envy.
He wished her and Anandur all the best, and he didn't begrudge their happiness, but he wanted whatthey had and knew he would never get it because he didn't deserve it.
The figurine was taking shape beautifully. The proportions were perfect, the features delicate yet strong. But as he worked on the expression, that same strange determination crept back in. The set of the mouth, the slight furrow between the brows. Was he projecting his own emotions onto the figurine?
He was just beginning to work on the hair when the vision hit him.
It came without warning, as they always did. One moment, he was carefully carving delicate strokes to suggest hair texture, and the next, the workshop disappeared entirely, and his knife clattered to the floor.
She stood before him, so clear he could have reached out and touched her. A woman who looked like Wonder but wasn't. The resemblance was strong—same basic bone structure, same rich dark hair, same stubborn bearing, but everything was just slightly different.
The eyes were blue, not green. A clear, startling blue like a winter sky. The frame was smaller, more delicate, though he could sense the same strength of character. Her hair was the same shade as Wonder's, nearly black with reddish undertones, and it fell past her shoulders in gentle curves.
Her belly was slightly rounded, but the only reason he knew she was pregnant was the hand resting protectively over the swell. She wore a loose silk gown, the type Annani favored, but the cut was different. The dress was designed to conceal her condition. Most striking was her face, though, which was a study in conflictingemotions. Fear, determination, hope, and desperation all warred in those blue eyes.
She was looking directly at him as if she could see him. Not through him, the way people in visions usually did, not past him as if he were a ghost observing from another plane. She was looking right into his eyes with an intensity that made him want to take a step back.
