The Last Stone

By Diane Marie Taylor

Pekelo began the long climb to the surface, carefully placing his small, bare bony feet on one stone step after another, his arthritic knees complaining at each bend. The knee pain would ease up once he got to the top and rested. He shouldn’t complain. This climb was easier than the last because he’d left his heavy tool bag at home beneath his cot. He wouldn’t be carving this trip; the grooves had already been cut. Even without the tool bag’s weight, he dare not linger; there was no place to sit on the narrow stairs unless he twisted his body around to sit on one of the stone steps. At his age, the turn might make him dizzy and he might not be able to turn back again, so he kept stepping higher and higher, now and again, his breath coming in short bursts.

Ah, the last turn, the last set of steps, but the most difficult of all because they were worn down by sand. Here he had to reach out and support himself against the dark pink stone of the walls, smoothed by wind. His small, skinny arms barely spanned the opening as he placed his palms flat against the sides. The smooth feel of the wind-polished walls of his beloved passage made him tremble. In spite of it he moved himself slowly forward to the top, deliberately keeping his pace slow so as to experience every step forward as if it were his last. It was his last trip to the monument. No one would ever follow him up these stairs.

The others had given up carving the mountain shrine long ago. “What’s the bother?” they asked; although, in the beginning, the whole group had believed in the monument, had taken turns carving and moving the stones of the mountain.

Panting, he finally reached the surface and immediately put a new air cartridge in his mask and sat down to rest. Next would be the long climb up the small mountain to where he wanted to complete the work. He was an expert and refused to let one small rock remain unfinished or out of place. He’d tossed and turned in his sleep thinking about the last boulder. Anyone else might have let it go, but hot Pekelo. No, this last monument to his people had to be perfect.

He pulled out his flask of water, took a long sip, and looked across the bare and empty horizon. He could remember back when he was still a young boy, too young to carry large bundles down to the cave, when the green leaves of their beloved toka tuber still stirred in the wind, the last of it now stored in the ship along with bags of seeds. That was a long time ago and now nothing green grew on the barren land as far as the eye could see. He remembered when his parents finally gave him a toka tuber to carry; he’d played and tossed it around as if it had no worth. He’d been too young to understand that his race was dying, and that his world was already dead.

Tomorrow they would leave their world forever, never to return. The probes they’d sent to the new world showed much of the land to be soggy, green with foliage, and sprinkled with small groups of savage people. Not wanting to make contact, they’d chosen a large desert surrounded by mountains in which to land, surmising that they would be left alone for many long years. That is if they survived the trip. They only thing they’d even sent through space before was a few probes, so nothing was certain except that they would forget most of their technology in the next few generations because there would be too few of them left to keep it going. Pekelo berated himself for calling the people savages; we will join their like before too long.

Pekelo sighed rubbing his neck where the mask strap chaffed his skin and rose up for the last climb. He was very old and wasn’t sure if he’d still be alive when they arrived on the new planet.

He spoke out loud into the breeze, “I am alive now. I will finish this last great monument.” Just in case we make it, he said to himself, just in case we succeed on the new earth.

He lifted his face to the sky and looked to the top of the small mountain where he must go to finish the job. Truth be told, the job was complete except for his own peculiar need to fuss, but he refused to leave even the smallest part undone.

So Pekelo climbed up the top of the mountain. This climb was easier, even without carved stairs. The meandering path upward had worn just right through the many years of trampled feet. Years ago there had been a tree with a small branch hanging over the path at this spot. Gone now. Like everything else on their dying world, it had shriveled up and died. Gone, all gone.

When he got to the very top, he stood for a short moment, sadly surveying the landscape from the high view. This high up, it took all his effort to breathe even wearing the air mask because the air had become so thin. He’d brought extra reserves of air in his belt in case they were needed. As he looked over the land from his high perch, he saddened and felt a bolt of shame run up and down his spine. His grandfather’s generation had put the final seal on the death throws of their planet in an attempt to control and fix the wild weather. Constant wars had destroyed much of the land, animals and fauna and finally changed the planet so drastically that it would never recover. That was generations ago. Now, the people’s only hope was that the next generation would eventually forget their shame and adapt to their new earth with happiness and joy.

Stepping over to the boulder he wanted to move, he sat and rested again, contemplating his last real task on his home planet. Truth be told, it had been difficult to plan such a giant and odd monument. Close up it looked like a jumble of large boulders thrown together by a gusty wind. He’d planned it to look that way, meticulously drew up plans to insure it looked right from a great distance. His monument wasn’t for those few stragglers who refuse to leave.

“This monument is my greatest work, a work meant for future generations, a work they will view some day, long years from now.”

Enthused now by his own dream, Pekelo walked to where the large boulder stood asunder at the edge of the grooves he’d already carved into the rock. Just a small nudge was all that would be needed. As he focused upon one spot at the boulder’s bottom, his eyes stiff and unblinking, his vision blurred with effort as his mind burned into the exact right spot on the large rock. He held this stance for long minutes until the rock began to wobble and crunch upon the sand of the mountain. His concentration had to be perfect to move the rock into the exact place next to the other large boulders. He didn’t want the boulder to move too far to the left, so, bit by bit, his mind pressed upon the boulder. Sweat trickled down the side of his face as he made one last effort and the large rock settled into place in perfect alignment against the other boulders that lined the right eye of the monument.

If he’d done it correctly, from space, it would give the impression that a single tear had fallen from the right eye. His head ached severely from the effort, but he believed the job was now finished and he could rest easy.

Relief sagged him to his knees and then to the ground. He knew he’d done well, even though he was unable to see the total work from this close up. No matter. All along he believed that his idea would work, that his design would also weather well. Let the sands blow and scour its surface, this monument will stand forever. He knew that his last and greatest carving would watch over them through eons of time.

The yellow day began to give way to dark blue at the horizon and Pekelo rose up to climb back down the mountain, filled with pride in his accomplishment. The climb down was much easer then expected and he reached the floor of the cavern quickly, though on weak, shaky legs. He walked immediately to his abode and into the oval opening he’d carved with leaves from the toka tuber. He lay down. Let the others hurry and bustle with the final packing. His work was done and he would sleep.

The next morning, Pekelo awoke with his oldest daughter, Lakela, shaking his shoulder.

“It is time to leave. Hurry.” She said.

Rising, he blinked and quickly gathered up his small bundle of cloths and the fiber bag that held his precious tools. Perhaps he would find a rock to carve on the new world. He followed the others as they climbed up a tall ladder into a huge, narrow ship, made of metal but resembling a sail boat without sails, at least, sail less until they entered space. The ship had the capacity to hold thousands of sleeping people along with food, seeds, and other needed equipment for their new life.

The leader put out one last call, vibrating the stone bell with a mallet to alert everyone that it was time to leave. They waited for a small while, but no one else showed up. Some groups had decided to stay behind and die on their home world. It was their choice and Pekelo wondered if he’d made the right one.

The ship lifted off with rockets blazing. Before the ship reverted to automatic pilot and the people took the pill that would send them into a deep, yearlong sleep, the ship’s captain called Pekelo up to the bridge.

“We will be flying over your monument in just a few minutes,” he said. “A work that took you fifty years to complete. I thought you’d want to see it.”

Grateful for the privilege, Pekelo squeezed past the pilot to stand at the thick glass that enclosed the only small window on the ship. He watched as earth slowly turned below them in the dark velvet sky, backlit with bright stars. He old eyes could see the hills and mountains as the world turned round, or was it they who turned. From this height he could also see the empty meandering rivers and the dry ocean bottom where fish once thrived.

He didn’t cry. The time for crying was long past. He stood and stared until the ship rose over his last and greatest work.

There, perfection. Success. The view of the monument at this height was exactly as he’d planned. Pekelo’s grin went wide; his last effort had not been in vain. The eye had the beginning of a tear at the bottom of its right eyelid.

Seeing his work from space gave him proof that his plan bore fruit. Reluctantly, tears welling up in his eyes, Pekelo, moved aside so that others could come to the bridge and stare at the last monument. Thousands of years from now, his children’s children would travel into space and see his great carving staring back at them. As Pekelo turned to leave, he saw that the pilot was wiping away tears as well.

~

The people did survive the trip and flourished on their new planet. Eventually, their travel through space on a ship was spoken of less and less until it reverted to myth and legend. The people of the new earth, with surprising insight, unwittingly named the forth planet from the sun, Mars, after the God of War. Pekelo’s greatest monument survives to this day and has been viewed by the new earth’s probes. Though some call it a huge pile of rock, but others call it, The Face on Mars.

The End