The wind blows over the forest and the clouds darken. Soon it drizzles. The caretaker invites the Contractor to dinner. Inside, as the rain patters against roof and sides of the cabin, the two men share a simple meal of lentils and back bacon and black bread. For a long while the two men are silent. Eventually they talk. When the do, they talk about the cabin.The Contractor reassures Pepple of the care that went into his home. The floorboards were the smoothest of the boards, also chosen for their sturdiness, and braced beneath. The boards that made the walls were thick, layered, and any gaps filled with moss. The roof is watertight. This last assurance is proved by the lack of leaks, even as the rain grows violent, lashing against the east wall.
Pepple commended him for the time and care he put into his work.
It's a dying thing, laments the Contractor. He puts down his spoon and sighs.
My grandfather, he says, was a Stonemason. The last with a shop in the county. He cut stone in such a ways and with such speed of practice so as you could hardly believe. All with a hammer and chisel. Selecting right rocks from the quarry or old ashlars from fallen homes far back in the forest - each depending on the job - and with these chipping, chipping, chipping away quick and right, then fitting them like so, like so - for a job as easy as setting a stone wall or as hard as carving a full panel frieze, with vines and foliage and animals, all following a pattern, one by one, till it meets.
That last job, he continues, was his best but now it's lost. A temple or chapel for a wealthy man. But octagonal, maybe circular, I don't know. And I forget where it was built. Then he died one day and the spot lost with him.
Pepple stands from his seat on the bed and removes the dishes. The Contractor leans back in his chair.
Now, says the Contractor, tapping a cigarette on the back of his pack, people like us almost don't exists. It's not a lack of skill, but a lack of patience. Cheap materials, assemble them quick. Easier. Machined. They complain about boredom, but boredom exists either way. And they complain about unpredictability, but where there's the unpredictable there's the failing and the genius of the human hand.
They both light their cigarettes and listen to the rain.
Pepple insists the Contractor say in the cabin that night. He tells him he knows of a small hunting shack in the forest, and leaves with an umbrella, the Mauser slung over his back. The Contractor, alone, uses a candle to look at the titles of the books on the shelves. He moves then to the desk, opens the desk drawer, and finds a slip of paper and the Assessor's silver pen. He jots down a note, then blows out the candle and turns to bed.
The next day the Cooper arrives. He meets the Contractor under the oak. They know of each other vaguely - their sons both play in the same midget baseball league - and so they talk about their son's progress and batting stances.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
