“It is the best idea ever dreamed of.”
“And what if it is all destroyed next year? Or the year after?”
“Great art requires great risks, brother.”
Nizam snorted, though he was short of breath. “Oh, this is art now, is it?”
“Of a sort,” Hiraz replied. A grin stretched across his face.
Nizam continued walking backwards, carrying one end of the stone phallus up the grass-covered hill.
“Think of all of the head scratching and postulating,” Hiraz said. “‘Oh, these people must have prayed to these large penises and offered sacrifices to the stone breasts.'” He shook his head. “It kills me inside that I will not be around to see it.”
“Here,” Nizam said. They stopped and dropped the heavy cylinder. It sank slightly into the moist soil. While his brother took a shovel from his sack, Nizam looked out over the past year’s progress. Already, hundreds of graveless headstones had been sunk into the ground. He wondered if there was anyone actually buried out here. Centuries of conflict between horse-riding raiders and settled peoples had taken place in these hills. The restless souls would be spinning in their graves.
A deep hole had been dug and together, Hiraz and Nizam lifted the penis on end and dropped the bottom half in. Hiraz stood back and admired the work.
“It is beautiful, is it not, brother?”
“Whatever you say, Hiraz.”