Inspired by folklore surrounding the Apprentice Pillar in Rosslyn Chapel, outside Edinburgh.
Artistic license has definitely been taken, but I tried to be at least somewhat accurate in my descriptions. I HIGHLY recommend visiting the chapel if you get a chance!
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Artistic license has definitely been taken, but I tried to be at least somewhat accurate in my descriptions. I HIGHLY recommend visiting the chapel if you get a chance!
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During my last visit to Scotland, I stopped to hear a mass at a well-known chapel outside Edinburgh, where the fifteenth-century stoneworks have become famous for their intricacy, beauty, and in some instances, artistic hideousness. When the service was over I took the time to gaze on such notable features as the peering faces of the one hundred Green Men scattered throughout the chapel, the Seven Sins and Seven Graces cut into the ceiling, and the grim Danse Macabre on the eastern wall.
Above this last scene, I noticed the face of an old man carved into the stone with an expression of anguish, bordering on hatred as he stared at some feature behind me. When I turned to follow his graven eyes, I saw he was staring at a beautifully carved pillar, different from the others nearby, which were in the classical style with strong lines and little flourish. But this column was wrapped in garlands of flowers and leaves so delicate they almost resembled lace. Not only that, but a chain of entwining dragons surrounded the foot of the pillar, and at the top the continued theme of greenery, punctuated by scrollwork, was so deeply carved that the capital seemed almost hollow in the dim light of that place.
As I observed the pillar, I heard a voice in my head seem to speak:
“They call it the Apprentice Pillar, but I call it a curse.”
Turning, I looked instinctively back at the carving of the glaring old man above me. Was it my imagination, or were his eyes actually moving, shifting from the pillar to another nearby face carved into the stone: that of a sad-eyed young man.
I did not actually see the old man’s mouth move, but the words in my head continued to speak in what I could only assume was his voice, and while the phenomena was shocking to me, the sheer emotion in it soon directed my attention to the story it told, rather than the means of telling.
“I was the Master Mason in charge of this temple’s construction, long before the heretics came to burn this place and smash the windows,” the voice said, with no small amount of both pride and venom in it. “The sketches for every design you see were addressed to my hand alone, carried directly from Rome. It was I who brought the finest masons in the world to build this place, I who directed every stone’s placement, I who invented entirely new ways of cutting and carving to release the beauty that was trapped in every block placed on the hill.”
“Yet that upstart…that boy…” If the carving were flesh, the Master Mason might have spat on my head with disgust. “He is the one remembered.”
“He was no one, a mere apprentice to one of the newly appointed men meant to cut Bible verses into the walls. He had no business even touching that pillar, which was the last to be completed. It should have been the crowning masterpiece of the chapel, it should have been mine. Can you not see the fine work made by my hands, there?”
Some unknown force guided my gaze to another pillar a short distance down the way. This too was beautifully carved, with more of the deep hollowing and elegantly shaped leaves. But this Master Pillar still featured straight, clean lines, incredibly precise, but lacking the complex beauty of the Apprentice Pillar. The Master Mason did not seem to care about my own opinions of his work.
“I had been given the sketch for the final pillar, and it was like nothing I had ever seen. If I were a sculptor, working in clay, perhaps such a thing could have been worked and shaped, caressed into beauty with the work of gentle fingers. But to hammer and chisel such intricate shapes out of sandstone…” He went silent for a few moments, and his eyes seemed more downcast when I looked back up at his face. “I needed to study, and seek advice. My own master still lived, across the sea, so I decided to take the sketch to him, leaving orders for the other masons to continue work on the chapel, but not to touch the final pillar. It was destined to be mine.”
“And that…wretch. That upstart. That pretender. He stole it!”
I wanted to put my hands over my ears, but since the voice was in my head, it would do no good.
“He claimed an angel spoke to him in a dream, told him exactly what to carve and how to carve it. And none of my men dared stop him. They claimed they couldn’t, he worked too quickly. Too quickly! To carve a pillar of that size? Liars and heretics, all of them,” the stone face scoffed.
“I returned from my travels and found the construction had progressed well. I felt…confident, again. My hammer was warm in my hand, and I had practiced new techniques with my old master for months. I could do Rome proud with the knowledge and experience I had acquired, and was ready to complete the final pillar. But when I stepped into the chapel, I saw what treachery lay before me.”
“And that whelp…he dared to smile at me. Tell his nonsense about dreams and angels. Wasn’t I proud of him? Wasn’t his pillar much finer even than my own? Perhaps he would pass over his time as a journeyman, and proceed directly to a Master’s status, like my own.”
“And with every word his spoke, my rage rose. My hammer grew hot in my hand, but light as well. This boy, a Master? He was a puppy, a liar, and an usurper. I would teach him a lesson. I would show him what became of thieves. He would never carve stone again. He would never breathe again, or look upon the face of another living being.”
The old man’s voice ceased in my mind, but for a moment I saw him standing before me, not just a face, but a whole person: ragged and weary with years of travel, huge arms and strong hands from decades of shaping stone. I saw the blessed, beautiful, arrogant young man before him, standing proudly beside the Apprentice pillar, showing off the work God had achieved through his hands.
And I saw the Master Mason smash his hammer into the boy’s skull.
The bells rang out then, and I heard them in my ears, not my mind. The phantoms vanished before me, and when I looked back at the carving of the old man’s face, it was still and stern as it had been when I first noticed it. A shudder ran through me, and I decided to take my leave.
As I wandered through quieter places, I found myself wondering about the strange voice of the stone. Was it a curse that had trapped the Master Mason in the stones, sentencing him to look upon the Apprentice Pillar for all eternity (or at least, until some far-off time when the chapel stood no more)? Was he merely a prisoner of his own rage, and guilt for the talent he had robbed from the world?
Though I have visited the chapel a handful of times since then, the stones have had little else to say on the subject. But rage still burns in the Master’s eyes, and sadness in the Apprentice’s. Whatever lost name placed them in the ceiling must truly have been a talent indeed.