The Watching Stone

I am a traveler—a cartographer, as the scholars call it. They are much wiser than I, and so, I have become accustomed to following their judgment without question. I am doing so now—though I must say I have begun to regret it. The past month has been a test of my resolve, and I struggle each day to keep my mind. I have journeyed alone through the wilderness, charting every obstacle in anticipation of the road that my superiors hope to construct–the road between our village and the city. But there is no road for me—each step is a mystery. I might have drowned in the deep pools of the moors, misplaced my footing upon the crags of the rocky hills, or been swallowed by the night beasts whose eyes I feel staring as I fall asleep. My will is strong, but my patience is not so–it is my greatest adversary.

As I have grown, I find that I no longer seek the mysterious. These days, I am more content to know than to wonder, and I find my days in the wild more and more difficult to endure. I no longer crave adventure for the sake of discovery–only for the monetary value that such adventures are worth. Most men would not dare to take on such a perilous quest at the risk of their lives unless they were, as I once was, an avid traveler well-versed in the natural world. Like a ranger, I studied all the secrets of the land. I took care to learn which creatures lived in every burrow, nest, or hive. I grew to recognize what plants were poisonous and which were nutritious. I traveled far distances and charted each dell, marsh, river, or forest I crossed. In fact, I was so wise to the ways of nature that it became my livelihood, one that I relished. I longed to know the world, and exploration became my greatest passion, burning in my chest like an ethereal fire. But as time passed, I began taking jobs only out of a sense of responsibility. If not for me, who would walk these dangerous paths? I am the only person qualified to cross this wilderness, and therefore, I must carry on with my current mission. 

As I emerge from the tree line, I face a field full of yellow stalks as far as my eyes will reach. They are so tall that whatever lies beyond is hidden from my view. 

I pause before these monstrous weeds, staring into the endless, golden sea. Today was supposed to be the end of my journey, but there is no sign of civilization—just the swaying, amber stalks. I check the compass in my pocket and see that I am right on course. I tuck the compass back into my pocket and check my pack for supplies. I have just over a day’s worth of food and double the amount of water. I look out into the field—the final obstacle that stands between me and my destination. If I succeed, this place will serve as the bridge between the village and the outside. I straighten my hat upon my brow and disappear into the tawny weeds. 

I plunge into the grass and am completely enveloped by the stalks. As I move, their coarse bristles scratch my skin. Small beads of blood dot my exposed arms, though I continue to push through. I beat the thick strands back, and my forearms shield my face from the army of golden sentinels. As I struggle through them, the wind whistles loudly and fills my ears with its laughing whisper. The smell of stale earth haunts my nostrils, and I feel it invading every crevice. Like reaching hands, they touch my face, my hair, my neck, and my arms. They encroach upon my bare skin, softly cutting like a thousand tiny blades. Endless strands of golden straw surround me, and I find myself bewildered, increasingly unsure with every step. I try to remember where I have come from or where I was going, but I can not see beyond the field. I feel confused—a prisoner of amber. There is a dark cloud inside my brain that obscures any reason I may have possessed, and even the compass at my waist has been drained of all its power. Time is equally absent. I can not comprehend… 

Then, I hear a violent rustle in the grass, and I wonder if there is someone there–another prisoner like myself. My heart grows hot, and my cheeks flush. I have to find this person! I run after the sound until I reach a brief break in the reeds, and I see her. She stands before me, and she is silent. Her hair resembles the grass–the long, flaxen strands falling well below her shoulders. Her head is oddly tilted as her golden eyes watch me. 

I ask her purpose here, but she doesn’t answer. 

She stands still, never expressing any intent to help, but I feel as though I’m saved. I feel as though I have been wandering through the weeds for days, alone and confused. I have been lost, but this young woman has discovered me somehow. I wonder whether she is a prisoner as well, but she does not cower. She has no marks on her soft skin or pieces of the infernal stalks in her long hair. In fact, she appears to blend into the grass when the light catches her just right. At first glance, I doubt whether she is real, but I know that this is madness. I must believe she is real; otherwise, I will lose all hope. And yet…

I notice that she is much smaller than I am. Her face is still immature—her cheeks plump and her eyes filled with youthful mischief. I wonder how a child could lead me from the maze when I, a well-educated adult, could not navigate it.

I raise my brow, and she giggles. She holds out her hand to me. I hesitate, but she smiles and reaches out. Slowly, I allow my fingers to uncurl, and I take her small hand in mine. Her fingertips are coarse like the grass, but the rest of her hand is smooth. She runs through the stalks, taking me with her. She is fast, but I have no problem keeping up with her. My strides are much longer, after all. 

I am reminded of my sister when she and I used to play in the woods behind our family home. Marie and I would run through the trees, over the log we used as a bridge across the stream, and in the meadows where wildflowers grow unchecked in their brilliant, untamed clusters. There, we used to dream, looking up at the clouds and the stars. We named them and made them our own. As I run, I remember what it was like back then—so innocent, so free. 

As we run, I can hear the crickets in my ears and see the sun reflecting off the yellow blades in ribbons of golden light. I smell the earth, but it is inviting like fresh dirt in a rainstorm or morning dew. Slowly, the grass begins to grow taller—the weeds towering high above our heads. I think of how Marie and I used to hide from our parents in the corn stalks just outside the village. As we run, my clothes begin to loosen, and they pool around my ankles and down over my arms. I’m almost tripping over them. My hat falls over my eyes, and I have to hold it up with my free hand. It is just like my father’s when I tried it on as a boy, too young to fill its brim. I kick off my shoes since they are now too large for my feet. My toes touch the cold ground, and the fallen stalks are coarse on my bare skin. I let my pack roll off my shoulders. It’s too heavy for me now. My maps spill onto the flaxen carpet and are left behind. 

“Where are we going?” I ask, but my voice sounds different. The pitch is much higher. The tone is light and airy, as if some growing burden has been removed from my throat. But remains silent–she only pulls me onward. 

Soon, I realize that she isn’t leading me anywhere. We play, running through the reeds until we’re too tired to go on. We sit on the soft ground and stare into the sky. It is so brilliantly blue that I can’t take my eyes off it. But I stare at her sometimes, too. She glows in the golden afternoon light, and I feel warm next to her. She smiles at me, and my cheeks grow hot. I don’t want to leave, but she has other plans. 

As the sun begins to set, she takes my hand again and pulls me up with ease. Her hand fits perfectly in mine, and we stand face to face. Her golden eyes sparkle in the orange light. 

“Can’t we stay a little longer?” I ask, but she shakes her head. She pulls me to her and tugs me along. She looks ahead to the edge of the lea. 

We run as the sun pursues us from behind. It is right on our tail when we hit the end. Here is where the grass meets the orange, red, and yellow trees. Beyond here, there is no more grass, and I can see ahead. I see firelight, and I can hear voices beyond the forest. It must be the city–the one that I had been searching for so long ago–but now, when we are so near it, I can’t remember why. It’s not important to me anyway. Whatever I was before is not important. I’ve never been happier than I am at this moment–with her beneath the sun and the trees, surrounded by the grass. I hesitate at the edge, hiding behind the caring strands, but she beckons me forward with her warm smile. 

Someone is waiting for us–not someone, but something. A giant, flat-faced Stone stands upright ahead of us, but there is something strange about it. In the middle of the smooth surface, there are three holes—two small ones above a larger one. It looks like a face, and its eyes peer into me, seeing me for what I am. 

Suddenly, I am cold and cower before the Stone. I cover my eyes and turn my face. But she won’t let me. She takes my face in her hands. She looks into my eyes, and I can see the last of the sunlight swimming in her golden irises. 

I nod and turn back to face the Stone just as the sunset rests on its lifeless face. The Light streams into the holes and catches there, igniting tiny fires in the empty crevices. I stare at the fires, and I feel them burning into my eyes. I feel the sun focus on my crown, setting my hair ablaze, while the Stone transforms my irises with the golden firelight. When it is done—the sun gone and the fire extinguished—I am no longer afraid. I turn to face her, and I finally see her. She smiles, knowing that I can see. She takes my hand and leads me home. Together, we walk to the grass and disappear into its sweet caress forevermore.

Written in October, 2019.