Ширли Мерфи - The Shattered Stone [calibre]

It was perhaps an hour later, as they made their way along the edge of the hills, that Toca whispered, “There’s a farm there, cows are in the field. And horses in a shed, I think.” He took Thorn’s hand and guided him away from the shelter of the hills onto the open fields, then along them until they came to a fence, nearly ramming into it in the darkness. They stood there in the blackness, silent, while Toca tried to pull the cows to him. The little boy’s hand tensed in Thorn’s and grew sweaty. Then after a long uneasy time, “I can’t. There’s something the matter. It’s not like—like when we’re together. It’s not so strong now, I don’t know if I can.”

Thorn felt it too, as if something were awry; felt a weakening of the security he had grown used to as they travelled, the wholeness and gentle strength that had surrounded them when they were together. Now it was fragmented, shattered.

“Maybe you’re trying too hard.” But he knew that was not it.

“We have to go into the field. I can do it closer.”

But even in the field and quite close to the cows, it was perhaps half an hour before one reluctant animal, snorting softly with uneasy curiosity, came to Toca from the dark lump that marked the little herd, and let him put the rope on her. She stood tensely for some time until the two of them had soothed her, though when Thorn began to milk her at last, Toca, at her head, seemed to have endeared himself to her sufficiently so she let her milk down all right. They got nearly a full waterskin—a hard job, milking into the small mouth of the water-skin, and her fidgeting. As Thorn finished, a light burst out in the dark field, and they saw that a door had been opened, that there was a house there. A figure stood in the light for a few minutes, then the door was closed. Thorn and Toca slipped away, through the fence and up into the hills as quickly as they could.

“It was different,” Toca repeated. “It isn’t the same as with all of us together.”

“ How different, exactly?”

“The strong is gone, the strong thing.”

“What strong thing?”

“The thing that makes—that helped me call the birds down, the thing that makes you stronger.”

Thorn looked down at the child and knew he was right. It was as if Toca’s increased strength, Zephy’s increased ability for visions had grown as the four of them grew closer together. Had grown as strong, he realized, as if they did indeed carry the runestone as they had intended to do. As strong as if they had had the runestone all the time—Zephy’s vision, Elodia’s dreams . . .

He stood staring into the night. What had Meatha done with the stone? Stripped of her clothing, then tied across Dess’s back, what could she have done with it? She had been so silent, Zephy said. Meatha had not fought back, she had not screamed as Clytey had . . .

Could she have held the stone in her mouth?

Could she have held it there all the way to the mountain, held it until she was left alone at the death stone? But Zephy’s vision had not shown that. He tried to see Meatha again as Zephy had seen her last in Burgdeeth, to see Meatha’s hands and feet being tied, to see her lifted across Dess’s back, see her face pushed into the dung and grime that was smeared across the donkey and saddle, see her face turning away, pressed against the leather . . .

And then he knew.

He pulled Toca up, and they began to run hard up the hills.

*

After Thorn and Toca had gone, Zephy lay for a long time beneath the rock shelter, wakeful and uneasy. The others were sleeping. The baby woke once and fussed, and she took him up and calmed him, then lay him back beside Elodia. Her growing restlessness made it almost impossible to lie still. She tried to feel if Thorn was in danger, but she could be sure of nothing. At last she rose and went outside, to stand gazing down at the dark valley and at the two rising moons.

Then when Thorn came at last, charging over the crest of the hill suddenly, with Toca some distance behind him, she could only stare. He pushed past her into the shadow of the shelter, she heard Elodia groan, then out he came dragging Nida’s saddle. She watched him, perplexed, as he pitched the saddle down where the faint light from the moons could touch it. His knife flashed, and she stared in amazement as he ripped open the stitching she had done. An excitement was growing in her; she knelt beside him eagerly as he reached into the straw. Toca stood over them, a silent little figure.

When Thorn drew his hand out, she reached to touch the stone that gleamed in his palm, and at once they were locked in the vision that rose and swept them, the moonlight gone, locked in utter blackness. Torchlight was drawing near them; there were figures dark and still on the stone slabs. Now they saw faces, though, saw Clytey first, then Meatha, saw the faces of Children they did not know. And dark thoughts were there among them. And there were grown men and women, the Children of Eresu who had marched out from the valley with Meatha. And then they saw the tall figure lying still and silent and alone, his white hair catching the torchlight. Zephy’s very soul cried out to him, tried to wake him . . .

The three of them knelt there as one, their hands touching the runestone, willing Anchorstar to wake, willing with all the strength they possessed to wake him. But he did not stir; and as morning began to come, they let go, exhausted and discouraged. They laid the stone down and stared at it, gleaming dully beside Nida’s saddle. Elodia, who had awakened, came to hide herself in Zephy’s arms. From the shelter the baby whimpered in a kind of sleeping panic.

At last Zephy picked up the stone in her handkerchief, tied it, and handed it to Thorn. He fastened it to his belt, and they returned to the shelter to prepare for the journey ahead.

NINETEEN

They had gone a long way by noon and stood at last where they could see an unnatural formation marring the hills below them. Where the hills dropped to the flat valley, the cleft between two separate hills seemed to have filled in: the broad mound was wider than any of the surrounding, rounded hills; it was grassed over, but it was flat on top and out of keeping with the rest. Was this their destination?

As they travelled, their sense of foreboding had grown stronger, drawing them on. Never had their attention wavered, not once had any of them gazed off across Kubal and wondered if they were going in the right direction. They had simply followed that feeling of darkness that had increased, that depressed them now so each was quiet and withdrawn,, staring down on that wide mound.

Thorn knew Zephy was frightened, her brown eyes were dark and calm, but she had begun to bite her lip at one side so it was drawn in, in a twisting pucker. Elodia seemed to have become hardened; the line of her face looked more determined. Toca was the same as always, a sturdy little boy following Thorn unquestioning, steady as earth.

They waited until it began to grow dark before they continued, coming at last to a shallow ravine where the donkeys could be hidden. It was nearly bare, though one end was blocked by a small stand of brush that would break the view of it from below. Tra. Hoppa could stay here with the baby—and with Toca, too, perhaps. Thorn dug out a trough below a trickle of water that came down the hill so it would collect for drinking. He settled the donkeys among the brush, and the children helped Tra. Hoppa hide the packs in brush, too.

They made a cold meal hastily, during which Toca made it clear that he was not to be left behind. Slowly, Thorn took up one waterskin, the knife, the rope. He looked at Zephy, and she nodded. There was no point in delay, it would only make them edgy. They could rest the night and start fresh, but none of them would sleep. They had the runestone, they had all the help they could have. He kissed Tra. Hoppa on the cheek and turned away.