The Rowan Block

The news of the gatherings spread not like a shout, but like the slow, inevitable creep of a vine. It was carried in the quiet spaces between words, in the shared glance between the baker and the potter, in the satisfied hum of a well-made tool. And it reached Jorun, the master woodcarver, in his workshop, a place that smelled of cedar and time.

Jorun had always been a skeptic. He had seen fads and fancies come and go, each one promising a new way of seeing, a new way of working. He believed in the simple, honest truth of the wood, in the dialogue between his hands and the grain. He had no need for new words, for new philosophies.

But the silence from the gatherings was different. It was not a boast, but a quiet invitation. And so, one evening, with his favorite gouge tucked into his belt, he left his workshop and walked toward the sound of the silent chorus.

He found them in the courtyard behind the weaver’s shop: Maren at her loom, Doran with a piece of cool iron in his hands, Rue with a handful of soil, and Nyra, her eyes closed, simply listening. There were no words of greeting. There was no need. A space was made for him, and Jorun, the old master, the skeptic, sat down. He did not know what to do, so he did what he knew. He took out his gouge, and a small, unfinished block of rowan wood, and began to listen to the story it had to tell. The circle had widened.