The Cast Wheel

A rusted iron handwheel was bolted low to the canal sluice pipe. Its curved spokes held still in the midday light. I paused before it, listening to the muffled rush of water beneath the flags. Moving deliberately, I angled my crest and guided my left brow horn between two heavy iron spokes. I planted all four feet into the grit and leaned forward with measured weight. The axle resisted, then gave way with a dry, sharp shudder, pivoting a fraction of an inch before seizing tight. Rust flakes settled across the stone. I held my stance, braced against the iron.