He called her name, three times, and Ronke knew that she had to get up out of her bed, and get to work. She walked down the spiral stairs to her basement studio. Calls such as this had made a home studio, accessible twenty-four hours a day, absolutely necessary. There was only one large block of stone in her studio, the only one that could be the source of a call so loud and clear. She picked up her tools and began to carve.
For some parts she used her hammers and chisels, for some parts she used her rasps and files. For all parts she used the guidance of the call to direct her motions. She knew that people thought her a talented artist, as if there was something within her that made these beings from the stone. She knew that she was not an artist, she was a liberator. She did not create them, she freed them.
After many hours, it was still dark but she could sense morning drawing near. His top half was almost completely emancipated. She looked into his face, feeling almost guilty to be pausing, but too tired to go on.
“Soon,” she said. “Soon.”
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