Circle of Stone

The Story

Page 57

Bill - 2001-05-12

edon's calloused handed held a handful of clay streaked soil.

Working the tough soil between fingers used to long bouts of toil he eased the bits of clay and rock out leaving only the nurturing dirt to fall to the ground. It was an action that was intimately familiar to him, for too make the land in the foothills of Torrigon fertile required no small effort.

The Roof of the World loomed in the distance, giant peaks glistened like diamonds from the ice and snow covering them. Each year the storms swept down from their heights trying to uproot his family and their life work. Wind and ice would claw at the stone cottage raised by his hands and tear at the fields tilled with back breaking labor. Yet his farm, like the pines of the mountains, clung with deep roots and would not yield.

Each spring, after most of the snows had receded back to their majestic heights, he would stand with his wife and son and see tender green shoots poking through the snow. That was the cycle of his life. He needed no fancy jewels or riches to prove that his life had worth, just the bounty wrought from the land. His land.

Looking up from his toil, he looked across the cottage to the fields. Acres of land, tilled by hand, yielding a harvest where none had come before. The neat stone walls bordering the fields testified to the large rocks wrested out of them. The blackness of the dirt spoke to the labor of love to cleanse handful by handful the choking clay from the soil.

That toil had brought his family a good and simple life. Of food there was plenty, what the soil would not provide the livestock always did. His son took pride in keeping the chickens and sheep, and even though he was but six winters of age, the animals could not have been in better care. He could find the most well hidden egg and no lamb had ever been lost while he watched.

Each morning, his boy would run into their room and wake he and his wife. A simple meal of flatbread, perhaps sweetened with honey, would start the day and then they would be off. The tasks were endless, but fulfilling, and the harvest in the fall all the reward they needed.

His wife was a good woman, pleasant of features, and good of heart. She had snared him years back and shared his dream of leaving the village of their birth for something more. If he was the muscle and bones to their farm, she was its spirit. A gifted singer, and talented in running a house, she kept them clothed, fed, and more important in the long cold winters, happy.

While they had no neighbors for miles, every now and then some of the folks from the valley would venture up for trade. Aedon's bounty was great and he was willing to share his excess for some things he could not readily provide. Part of him knew that he was getting the poor end of the trade, but he never minded sharing what they did not need.

Turning back to the soil before him he stared at the dark patch that he knelt in. It would do. Pushing himself up, the large farmer walked slowly back to the cottage. Leaving the thin grove of ancient pine, he walked upon the freshly laid stone path to his home.

Stepping into the cottage, the warmth of the hearth dispelled the cold spring air. The lingering smell of once barked breads mingled with the aromatic scent of pine and oak, used for timber and fire. His pack, full to capacity, lay on the rough hewn table that dominated the kitchen. Slinging it over his shoulder he turned to leave.

Before stepping back out to the yard, his eyes fell on the main hearth. Built from the stones in the field, it was a massive structure that kept them warm, even on the coldest of nights. Many evenings were spent with their boy running about to the tunes his wife effortlessly spun.

"Good bye" he mumbled in a deep but gentle voice.

Stepping back outside, he hefted a large wood cutting axe and tied it to the side of his pack. His clothes were made of rough home spun wool, but fitted like a second skin. Even though they had been carefully mended over the years, their quality still showed in the fact that they were far from thread bare.

Finally, seemingly satisfied with the load of his pack and gear, he made his way back down the stone path. Entering the small grove, he unsholdered his pack and pulled out a small bag. Reaching in and removing a handful of seed, he began to carefully toss it across the patch of ground he had tilled.

Satisfied he knelt to ground. Setting off to the side of the tilled patch were two thick stones. Grunting with the effort of lifting the heavy rocks he set them upright with care. The weight drove them down into the loose broken soil.

Bethany, daughter of Helvedd, may your slumber be as joyous as the life you provided, was carved upon the first.

Duncan son of Aedon, our light and joy, read the second.

Normally a stoic man, tears washed down his weather worn face. The wildflowers he has seeded would take well here, and the ancient pines would provide a fitting home for his wife and child. A large part of him wished to join them, on whatever journey they now were on. Still, he knew that would not be Bethany's wish, and he would honor her spirit as best he knew.

He was never sure what had happened, just that they both caught fever.

For a week they lingered, and finally departed this land. When they did, he knew that this farm was done. What good to toil on a harvest when no wife was there to use it? When no son would dance through the tall grain playing hide and seek? Who would since and dance in the long winter evenings?

There was no more sense in putting off the inevitable.

"Good bye Son... good bye wife of mine. Sleep well, you will lie comfortable here. Know that you will never be long from my thoughts."

With no more words to say he turned his back on the grove. Walking quickly he headed down to the valley. There were people there, while not friends, who knew of him. Perhaps there he could find a life again. Not to replace this one, but to begin again. Aedon was not a man to give in easily and this challenge would be met like all others, with determination and the effort of two hands.

George - 2001-05-14

revor knew the end was near. His arms felt leaden and he was barely able to lift his sword to parry the next blow. His heart raced and sweat poured from his body, both from exertion and fear. He saw the dead lying at his feet and knew he had put up a good fight. Now he would die with honor. If only he could see Selene before he died. If only he knew she was safe! And what of Azari? He saw the faces of his family as well. Sasha would be crushed. He regretted the feud between he and Regan. All these thoughts flashed through his mind as he stood panting and raised his sword for one last parry.

But no blow came. Trevor had closed his eyes as he waited for the end. Now he opened them to behold an incredible sight. Bandits all around him fell slowly, as if they were falling asleep. To his further astonishment Selene appeared, tears rolling down her pretty face. He watched as she shoved one of the bandits out of her way and he just fell over like a dead man. He was speechless with shock. She stood before him babbling on about how it was all her fault and was he hurt? The exhausted knight took stock of his physical condition. He had many cuts and abrasions, but fortunately none were deep or life threatening.

Finding his voice, Trevor rasped, “Selene, what are you doing here? What’s happening? What happened to them?” He swayed with fatigue and nearly dropped his sword. He let the tip rest on the ground and leaned on his weapon. She was saying something about getting away before they woke up. She looked worn out and the knight summoned what little strength he had left and lifted his sword again. Logically, he should kill his enemies while he had the advantage. But honor forbade such actions as dishonorable, something far below a knight. He sheathed his sword, took Selene’s arm and led her away from the bloody battlefield. He cast nervous glances over his shoulder as they walked, expecting the bandits to return to life at any moment.

They walked in tired silence for a few miles without sign of pursuit. Trevor led them away from the main trail in case the enemy did indeed follow the trail. Though he was tired, Trevor remained alert. Selene walked quietly, her face averted. A steady rushing sound ahead drew them to the promise of fresh running water. Silver reflections shimmered between the trees as they approached. Trevor stopped on the bank of the river and began removing his armor. Selene tried to help, but he had to show her how to remove certain items. Stripped down to soft leather breeches, Trevor dropped to his knees and thrust his head under the water, washing the matted blood and sweat from his face and hair. He sat back and splashed water on his torso and scrubbed as best he could without soap.

Refreshed, he stood up and wiped his hair and face. Seeing Selene was still crestfallen, he moved closer to her and reached out with a gentle hand. He put a finger under her chin and lifted her tear stained face up. He had badly misjudged this young lady. There was steel under all that royal fluff and bluster. The knight gazed into her teal eyes with compassion. He spoke softly, earnestly. “Thank you, Selene. I owe you my life. What you did showed real courage. You have nothing to feel sorry for.” The golden light of the afternoon sunlight made her skin glow and her eyes seemed to see deep into his soul. Her lips were full and inviting. Perhaps it was some shred of leftover magic that caused Trevor’s next actions, but more likely it was just his nature manifesting itself. He leaned in close to Selene, his eyes never leaving hers. She seemed to know what was about to happen as she parted her lips. Slowly, ever so slowly their lips touched, backed away slightly, then touched again. Trevor pressed his lips against hers and closed his eyes, savoring the feel of her softness. He slipped his hand behind her neck and gently pulled her into the kiss.

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