Mista Jones's Arc

Chapter 1 of 6

Mista Jones drove his shovel into the damp earth and pried up a wedge of clay. He had chosen this hollow in the Grim Forest with care. The trees leaned close, hiding the work from any eyes on the ridge. Every block he pulled from the ground was another stone in the walls of a shelter that hunted folk would one day need. He worked through the morning, widening the pit into a proper quarry. Wooden braces went up against the loose walls. A narrow ramp let him roll carts in and out without strain. He stacked rough clay blocks and pale stone onto a pallet, sorting them by size as he went. A gray squirrel watched him from a low branch. It did not flinch when his pick struck rock. Mista Jones glanced up and nodded at it, then kept digging. The small animal felt like proof that the site stayed quiet. No boots, no voices, just the steady bite of iron into earth. By midday he had filled his old wheelbarrow with fresh rubble and parked it at the lip of the pit. The rusted bands on its rim were caked with new mud. He stepped back and looked at what he had made. A working quarry. His own supply, hidden and steady. Then the squirrel bolted. Mista Jones froze, hand tight on the shovel. Somewhere beyond the trees, a branch snapped under weight that was not his own.