Stonework

Straggly grass found its way up through the loose rocks along the sandy path. The mountains loomed on all sides, and the wind blasted and whistled. Ruined stumps of trees marched to their sad end for a while, but up here there was nothing but the dull grasses and the orange lichen on the rocks. I marched forward, both hands struggling to hold the box.

The wooden chest was bound in leather and etched with mystical symbols. The lock was sharp black metal and did not match the ancient figure work on the wood and leather. While those lines were flowing and shapely, the lock was plain and even unbeautiful. It took both arms to hold it out in front of me. I had born my burden for several miles today, and for many days before.

I turned around a corner in a path and saw the shrine. The stone was colder, and there was no grass. An ancient woman wrapped in grey and blue sat facing the valley. The sunlight leapt from the rocks in bright darts of crystal as I walked—the stones were flecked with small gems. I staggered up the slope of the path and into the small landing that had been cut from the mountains ages ago.

“The final hand,” I said, as I laid the box down before the woman.

She stared, blind, at the valley. The lock undid itself and fell in pieces from the leather and wood, crumbling even as it dropped to the stony ground.

“It is not the final hand.” The woman stood and stared through me. My arm pulled loose and I collapsed in pain. I gasped for air as the blood pooled beside me.

When I opened my eyes night had come, but the glittering stones now shone red in the moonlight. From the blood beside me, grass grew. In place of the woman was a child, nearly lost in the ragged grey and blue garments. The pain took me again and I did not return.