Forge of Stones

by Vasileios Kalampakas

  Stirred Within

  Sleep never came that night to her, and her tears flowed freely. She stifled the worst of the sobs and moans that welled up from her insides, but still she wept. Come morning her face was that of a sad older woman, with eyelids swollen from the crying and the sleeplessness. She felt horrible and the child within her seemed equally disturbed. How could it not be, if its mother was in such a terrible state?

  She had left her windows closed, the drapes and curtains tightly drawn shut. She cared not whether the suns had risen and a new day had dawned. She wept for her only love, the one half that matter most in the world. The other half, his own half as well, was stirring uneasily in her belly. She tried to think comforting thoughts but all she managed was to utter with a croak:

  “Sleep, my loving child. Sleep, for I cannot.”

  She wandered aimlessly around their home, every once in a while hugging herself as if vainly trying to land herself in Amonas’ arms. But it was to no avail, for he could not appear out of thin air. And still she cried, at times silently with tears welling up in her eyes and at other times fitfully, with sobs that she could not contain released in languish.

  She pined for the father of her unborn child, to hold him and caress his face. To kiss her fears and troubles away. But he was not there. He was nowhere, it seemed. As if he had been spirited away, by the same sort of devils that had caught poor Philo.

  No body had been found though, and no one had come for her or her child. Philo would never talk, he would never give up his blood brother, mentor, and friend. She suddenly felt a pang of fear in her heart as if it had been struck violently, nearly coming to a halt. Was the child safe with her? Did she need to run like the wind and the winter streams? Disappear like she had never existed?

  And what about Amonas? What had happened to her love? She could not for one second think of him as no more, as a dead body, limp and unmoving. He must be alive, somewhere. In hiding, running for his life. He had that other man with him. He would be running to protect him as well. That was why he hadn’t come forward to her, or sent a message that he was well and alive.

  It must have been a matter of secrecy. How tired she had grown of all these dark affairs, so many lies heaped upon lies. The lies they had sworn to break and burn away, those very lies were probably what kept them alive even now. What irony, to have had your life built around what you despised most.

  It was the only way, they had kept telling to themselves. The only way they could change things once and for all, the only way they could spread the truth and uncover the deceit that had blinded them all. And that was the way he was gone now, perhaps forever.

  The dark thought contorted her face into a mixture of anger, pain, and weeping sorrow. She held her head in her palms, sobbing silently. She was constantly going through the same phases: Sorrow and then anger; then a faint sliver of hope would dawn upon her and recollect her thoughts, compose herself somewhat.

  And then fear would grip her once more, the uncertainty for her child sweeping everything clean, and the vicious circle of gripping emotions and harrowing memories of happier times would start anew.

  She would weep and cry, throwing herself against the walls until she could stand it no more; then she would think of her loved one that might be dead and might never kiss her again, never hold his child in his arms.

  The thought made her weep once more, all the tears of the world coursing down her cheeks like the torrent of pain and anguish that ran throughout every living thing swept through her soul. She would suffer like no other had suffered before and that would not stop until she either died herself, or saw her love calling her to his arms.

  The child stirred within as if it was calling out to her, as if fear had touched it deep inside, past the warmth of his mother’s belly, and an icy chill had crept up all around it. She tried to soothe her child and in spite herself started to sing an ode to the streams and fields; a song of merry melody, a melody that would have Amonas smiling and laughing within moments. She would not cry at the thought, nor think him long gone. She would sing it in quiet waiting and strong hope. She would sing it for their child’s sake.

  And so she did, and her voice echoed in her empty house which suddenly felt brighter, warm and full of charming smells like cinnamon and naristhel; lermentis leaves, honey-spice and mint. All those smells that brought the senses joy, and a smile on their face.

  The child felt quiet now; the singing had relieved it of its fear and brought back the warmth in its heart. It felt like it was asleep now, comfortable in its mother’s womb who herself felt soothed, her fears cast away for the moment; her hope shining brighter and her heart beating with renewed vigor and hope.

  Her mind was filled with thoughts: He would be alright, Amonas. He would be fighting or running all the way back to me, like the lovely fool he is.

  She strolled around the house for a while, thinking that she could no longer sit there idle and miserable. She had to find out what had happened, see for herself. After all, she felt it was not really safe sitting in their home anymore. Neither for her, nor for their child.

  It sounded foolhardy and unnecessarily risky, her mind told her. But her mother’s instinct shouted that she should run away to find another shelter. Somewhere where she might give birth in safety. She was due anytime soon and each day could be the day their child would be born.

  Her condition made moving all the more difficult so she would require some assistance in her endeavor. She thought about moving out to the countryside, take what coin she could and find some good people, some family to take her in at least until she gave birth.

  But things were about to get hectic, she knew. Soon there would be very few people that she could trust. Amonas had chosen to keep her well away from the Kinsfolk; she had only met and knew Philo, who was supposed to be her guardian and protector should anything happen to Amonas.

  She had been frightened at the thought, but had accepted it as a realistic precaution. The irony now was that with Amonas missing, and her protector unable to come to her aid she would have to fend for herself. She thought: ‘Poor Philo, what horrible fate must await him at the hands of those tyrants?’

  She would have to turn to the Kinsfolk for their help. At this time of need with an uprising boiling right under her feet and the child almost on its way, what should she do? Run away, fearing for their lives everyday? Never knowing who to trust, with war raging throughout the Territories? No, she decided that that would be foolish.

  She might have been a fool in her own life, but that was before she was graced with Amonas’ and her child; now she would give her all to protect it. This was her best bet then: find the kinsfolk before all of Pyr turned into a nightmare, and stay with them until it was ended and a new day dawned.

  For better or for worse she would be amongst friends; free men and women, brothers and fellow believers in what was just and right. She felt like it was time to accept that there would be nowhere safer than right in the heart of things, from where the revolution was about to spring out like a restless fountain. A revolution overflowing with the tears of the downtrodden, the poor and the wretched; the ones that were made to disappear in the middle of the night, their cries haunting the streets like ghosts trapped in a hellish afterlife.

  The knowledge of the deeply rooted injustice of the tyrannical masterminds of the Ruling Council, the lies and deceit they spread through the ministers with the single purpose of breeding sterile and harmless minds like sheep, that knowledge alone had made her subscribe to Amonas’ purpose.

  She saw the truth behind his words, behind every poor beggar and every blind soldier; behind every child that died of hunger and every old man that was hanged for blasphemy and sin. Such terrible things no God would allow if he had anything at all to do with the real world.

  Such reminiscence steeled her and made her finally decide. She would seek out the kinsfolk and join them, participate in any manner that she could. Not just for the safety of her unborn chi
ld, but for its future life.

  She knew then instinctively that Amonas would have been proud of her making such a decision. Not out of a childish conception of bravery and duty or a vainglorious attempt at posterity, but because she genuinely cared and actually hoped their child would grow up as a free person; not bound anymore, not a cripple in mind and soul, but a person free to build their own destiny, free from the oppression of the spirit, the misconceptions and the prejudice.

  A person that could think of his own and decide for himself would live in a world of endless potential. Someone that could dream of reaching out to the stars without fear of being damned as a heretic, a blasphemer, or a raving madman.

  If it was a boy, she thought to herself and smiled, she would like him to be like his father but not too much. She’d like him to carve his own destiny and raise a family of his own, set the example for those around him, be a man cherished and loved. He could be anything he’d want: an artist, a poet or a painter to put down on paper and canvas feelings, emotions and thoughts that none would have dared before him.

  He could be a man of reason and logic and make something useful out of things like the steamers. Perhaps think of new, exciting and purposeful things to make the lives of people easier, and carefree.

  He knew from the bottom of her soul that her son would grow to be come a wonderful man, just like his father. A father that he will meet and grow to cherish and love, a father who would help him become happy and whole in his life.

  She smiled at how she corrected her thoughts and bit her lip thinking what it would be like if the child was a girl. She would be born a free woman, and she would have all the time in the world to become whatever she wished for.

  She could become so many things that were unthinkable then, she thought. She could become the thinker and the tinkerer in the family, and then a baby brother could become the dancer like his mother.

  These thoughts of merry prospect brought her glee and her face shone. She could not wait for Amonas’ to return. She now felt it would be impossible for him to miss the birth of his firstborn. She would tell him all about her plans when they met again. After she had smothered him with kisses.

  ‘But first things first,’ she said to herself. That blessed reunion would have to wait.

  She picked up a rather small sack, and carefully put inside some things she would either need or would miss terribly. Some letters from Amonas that would also serve as proof he was her husband, if the need for that ever arose. Celia also took the flute he had carved for her which she played to him on the colder nights, the both of them wrapped together under heavy sheets, playing endlessly until the break of dawn; making love without a care.

  She packed a few clothes along with her nightgown and a blanket or two in case she had to spent a few nights on the road. She took some leftover bread-pie from yesterday with her, and remembered to fill a flask of water from the well before she would be off.

  It would be best not to tell anyone, not even dear Rovenia. It would do her no amount of good to upset her and make her worry without being able to help in any way. Once she was gone, it would not be long before the revolution proper began; then no one would be safe.

  Her small sack was packed to the brim, ready to burst. Outside, dusk was falling but she would wait for the night sky to appear. It would be easier then for her to find the men she was looking for. She would try some of the places they had met with Philo, certain inns and some artisan’s stalls that stayed open past the usual times, in some of the ill-reputed corners of the market. As an afterthought she took her large kitchen knife, just for good measure.

  She might not look like it with a bloated belly and all that came with expecting a child, but she could move real fast. A dancer, a really good dancer like she was, has certain qualities that can be put to more than one use. Her mind wandered briefly to a particularly fond memory involving Amonas, and she giggled in spite herself like an adolescent, infatuated girl.

  Oh, he would be back and she would scold him properly for leaving her alone like that, she thought. She heard her voice in her mind: ‘A pregnant woman mere days before being due, a world-shattering uprising in the works, and the husband off on a tour!’

  Then she suddenly broke down in tears, the tension that had kept her going suddenly released. The fear and uncertainty did not return as she had expected, but she felt like slapping herself for trying to lose herself in forgetfulness and act is if nothing serious was happening. Things were not like she could be all play and games when she saw him again.

  She composed herself and stopped crying and let the tears down her cheek run dry. This was all deadly serious, she knew. She knew for a fact that Amonas might be dead. She knew it in her heart though that he wasn’t; it was just that life could be so full of surprises, and most of them unpleasant. So she turned her heart into ice and gave the macabre thought some consideration. That only made her cold and distant from her usual self.

  At that moment she vowed on her life, and the life of her child: she vowed to fight in any manner or way possible for the future freedom of her child, and if it turned out to be so, in memory of her loving husband, Amonas Ptolemy; to honor his legacy and offspring, as he would have wanted so.

  Time passed slowly, and she grasped the opportunity to have a last look around their house. She looked in their bedroom where he had loved her with passion and care. Sometimes he was a strong lover: unyielding, discovering every inch of her body with a conqueror’s lust. Other times, he was soft, mellow, caring and delicate; like the gentle breeze that caresses the flowers and meadows and flows freely wherever it pleases, always welcome to enter.

  It was here where their child was conceived. It must have been one of the coldest nights, when he took her under the sheets and made her forget the world existed, in such a way that she could not remember now whether it was truth or fantasy. The child in her womb though was real enough.

  She was caressing her belly absent-mindedly when she walked through her kitchen, the wood stove unlit, the fireplace glum and silent. It was as if the room itself mourned her leaving. She would miss preparing their meals with loving warmth, making sure there was always uwe on the table in one way or another. ‘Amonas loves uwe,’ she alone heard her voice say.

  She had been quietly absorbed in thought, her gaze fixed to nowhere in particular when she happened to look outside the street. Night had finally fallen. It was time she left.

  She lit up a single candle in their bedroom at their window sill, as if in memory of the time they had spent together. She gathered her small sack and went outside careful to close the door forever behind her.

  She noticed lady Rovenia must have been outside, because she could see no candlelight from within. Perhaps she was already asleep; early to rise, early to bed. She thought she should have said goodbye, but it might have been just as well in the end. Her love went out to her as well.

  Soon she was mingling with the night crowds of Pyr; common pyres lit up the streets and the more lively parts of the market. One could find anything he desired in the market of Pyr, as long as one searched hard enough in the right places; that much she knew.

  On her way to one of the inns, she noticed she was attracting unwanted attention; surely it seemed that a pregnant woman should not be walking outside in the market all alone. She should have thought to somehow cover her belly to accommodate for its shape.

  All she could really do now was try and stay in the shadows. With one hand she clutched her sack over her back, and with the other her solid kitchen knife hidden in inside her dress. She felt ready for violence, but she dearly hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  Wading through the crowds, she reached one of the inns Amonas had once said were more than sympathetic to their cause. It was one of the few places she had seen Philo in public. When she did so it was indeed more of a social gathering; a man meeting a friend, escorted by his wife.

  For a woman to have a drink amidst the company of men, even with her husband pr
esent was bordering sin. She thought that was about to change soon, and entered the inn as any man would.

  Some of the men in the tables nearer to the door turned around and looked at her with stout disapproval, some even voicing their objections and threatening to call the procrastinators to make an example out of her. “A pregnant woman no less”, she could here some of them say in what appeared to be disgust.

  Those few left their coin on the table and got up to leave in a boisterous but rather pretentious manner. Most of the others who had protested more mildly returned to their drinks which seemed rather more interesting than an unscrupulous woman of what they thought to be lower moral fiber than their own.

  Those who did not return to their drinks and kept on pointing with some even calling her names, she ignored in an exemplary fashion. Soon they focused their attention on other matters, and her entrance was then only memorable in passing. She wished they would all drink up enough to pass out and remember nothing of the matter at all.

  Before she could reach the innkeeper, the man approached her and drew her aside by the arm, quietly and gently:

  “Please lady, what are you doing? Why aren’t you at home? This is no place for a woman; no less one carrying!”

  He seemed genuinely concerned. Celia felt instantly he could be trusted so asked him straight as an arrow:

  “Do you know a man named Philo Dutur, or Amonas Ptolemy?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed and his brow arched, becoming tense. He was evidently disturbed by the names and certainly surprised. He replied with a question of his own, his hand still gripping one of her arms:

  “What are they to you?”, his voice steady and demanding; he no longer seemed to be just a gentle, caring innkeeper.

  “One is a friend, the other is my husband. Please, I am looking for friends in a time of need,” she uttered with sincerity, putting the sack down momentarily to reach in her pouch and offer the man a generous amount of coin.

  As she did so, the man recoiled at the sight of the coin. He took a step back and released her arm:

  “My apologies lady Ptolemy. Please, I need no venom; not from you kind lady.”

  She motioned her to come around his serving bar. He gestured with one hand for her to wait there, and she indulged him so. He went around the tables, filling up the cups of his customers with beer, wine, mead and spirit; each one to his poison. After he had a second look, he leaned over the bar and told her in hushed tones, imparting hidden knowledge:

  “Where you stand, there is a hatch on the floor. Feel around for a handle with your hands and pull it open. I’ll call for my brother to watch the place while I make some excuse and come down with you. Wait for me there, I won’t be long.”

  She nodded in acknowledgement and the innkeeper ventured a smile, revealing a few bad and broken teeth, and a silver one that must have cost him a small fortune. Still, it seemed genuine and since she was flying blindly it would make little difference if she had went to some other place.

  She comfortingly thought that any place she would try that night would be somewhere she would be treated at least as a friend, and that lifted her spirits somewhat.

  She cast a few guilty looks around as if she was about to try something forbidden, and kneeled down carefully, with a hand on her belly. She found the hatch and the small handle, and pulled. Faint light was shooting upwards and she could see a small ladder going all the way to the cellar floor.

  She threw down her small sack first, and then carefully placed her feet on the steps one after the other; her large belly giving her a little bit of trouble. She was standing in the inn’s cellar, and looking around her she could see row upon row of glass bottles filled with a variety of wines.

  There were also much larger casks and barrels; some smelled of wine, and some of beer. A metal contraption filled with pipes and resembling a large sort of cauldron must have been a still, but she wasn’t all that sure about those kinds of things.

  Until she had time enough to look around the innkeeper showed himself, coming down the same way she did moments earlier. He was a short but sturdy man, thick red mustache and a slightly bald scalp that gave off a friendly, jovial image. He proffered his hand and bowed slightly before introducing himself:

  “Rewe Dutur, at your service lady Ptolemy. I did not know you knew Philo personally.”

  Her expression was kind, but somewhat severe, almost grave:

  “Why do you say ’knew’ kind sir? What have you learned of him?”

  The short man looked her straight in the eye with a slight blur forming up on his own, and said with pained finality:

  “I do not expect to see my brother ever again. But do not lose hope on your husband, we have confirmed he and his friend were not captured. Let’s make sure my brother gave his life quickly and painlessly, and not in vain. Come now, please. Philo and Amonas were probably betrayed somehow; we must also assume you are not safe in the streets. If Amonas is still alive, getting hold of you will be one of their priorities. I will lead you to somewhere safe, at least for now. It won’t be long. Have you had foreword, did someone approach you and lead you here?”

  Rewe had gestured for her to follow him through some cellar corridor, all the time talking to her.

  “No, no one did. It was my decision. I hope I am not imposing on you or your people. I felt it was time. With Amonas missing, and the child on its way. I thought..”, she shrugged apologetically and though in her mind she had all the reasons laid out, she was now at a loss for words.

  Nevertheless, she was following Rewe’s steps through what appeared to be a hidden door cut away in the dirt, leading to a small tunnel of sorts. Rewe had produced a torch from some place only he knew where to find in the total darkness, and lit it up with ease using what appeared to be a small stone. He took notice of her surprise and told her kindly:

  “Even better than flintlock, my lady. It was most fortuitous you decided that on your own. If it was that somebody had lead you here, I would have reason to believe we would not live through the night. As it is, none of us would have approached you. We had been left with strict instructions to distance ourselves from you in any way possible. If someone came to you, he would be one of their lackeys, not one of our own people.”

  “Amonas’ told you to leave me be? Fend for myself?”, asked Celia quite puzzled as they made their way through the small winding underground passage that was dug intermittently between layers of lime and dirt with small wooden frames supporting the ceiling where needed.

  “Amonas thought that if it came to that and he was not around, you were more than capable of protecting the child and yourself. He wanted you to stay indifferent to them, never become a target through which they might be able to test his loyalties.”

  She was surprised and felt both proud and slightly put off. Amonas would not abandon her or the child like that. But she understood that if he could not be there for her, he had thought the best way to protect her was to keep her away from it all, as he had been doing almost from the start. “Oh, Amonas, that thick skull of yours..”, she whispered as she followed close behind Rewe who turned his head slightly to ask, never pausing in his stride:

  “Pardon, my lady?”

  “Never mind.. Rewe is it? I was just thinking aloud. I want you to know, I believe Amonas will return. And I always have hope for Philo. He is the sturdier man I’ve ever met. He will hold out as long as he has to.”

  Celia was being truthful but ultimately she was simply wishing rather than thinking clearly. Rewe was not as blunt as before when he said:

  “I would hope so too, lady Ptolemy. But please, let us pick up the pace. Can you do so without causing trouble for the child?”

  “You’re being too kind, Rewe. I am fine, lead faster if you must.”

  Indeed Rewe quickened his pace and soon they were walking rather briskly through a series of turns and twists through widening and narrowing tunnels, some crudely cut into the rock and others finely bored with care and precisio
n.

  They must have been walking for at least a quarter of an hour before Celia at length broke the silence and asked:

  “You said we were not far but I have to ask, are we there yet?”

  Rewe turned his head around to reply, a silver tooth from his mouth casting off a shiny reflection of the torchlight:

  “Perfect timing my lady. Right around the next turn we will be heading back to the surface. We will part ways there.”

  “And in whose company will you be leaving me, Rewe?”

  “All in good time my lady. I think you have more questions than I can answer, so have some more patience.”

  “Alright then.”

  Celia nodded her acceptance, and noticed they had now reached a crossroads of tunnels. Rewe then used the torch as some sort of knocking apparatus. He used it to knock on what seemed to be finely cut limestone, in a series of rhythmic knocks using pauses in between, as if playing part of a tune. She rightly guessed it was some kind of code.

  Indeed, a strange kind of challenge echoed backs a series of knocks from the other side of the limestone. Rewe seemed to pause for a while, and then proceeded with a different series of knocks. The limestone slab was slowly pushed aside and strong candle light filled the underground tunnels. A small simple wooden ladder was lowered, and Rewe motioned Celia to climb it. Silently, he bowed and waved her goodbye before losing himself back the way they had come. Celia squinted at the bright light as she came up the stairs, onto what seemed to be a very plush kind of cellar, with exquisite bronze and silver decorations on the walls. A whole wall was devoted to a grand collection of what seemed to be wine bottles. A young man dressed in simple manservant’s clothes greeted her, bowing and saying:

  “My lady, fear not. You’re among friends. Please wait here, while I call for my master.”

  Celia nodded her thanks and the man went up a small staircase briskly. She was in a cellar once more, from what she could gather. But it was a much different cellar alltogether; it looked older and much better cared for. It was much larger, and though she was not an expert in wines, from the little she knew she could see the owner of the cellar had fine and expensive taste. There were even Feuillout bottles to be found. And there was a manservant on duty here almost at all times, it would seem. She was in no ordinary tavern or house.

  As her mind tried to orientate herself, a smiling old man in a luxurious servant’s suit complete with velvet vest came down the stairs to greet her. He seemed a rather upstanding and polite man who helped her make the last steps up the stairs, offering his hands as support. She looked rather mystified and as she was ready to ask the venerable servant where she was exactly, his long experience and hard years of service prompted him to greet her before she had time to open her mouth:

  “Greetings my lady. I see you are carrying. Please, lay down on the couch. It might not be suitably comfortable, but I suppose it will have to do for now. I shall bring you refreshment and something to eat. Please do not hesitate to ask for anything at all. Whatever you might need, I am at your disposal.”

  The old man’s voice was tactful, polite, and convivial. He seemed to make proper use of language and etiquette like a most experienced butler would.

  “Kind sir, I am fine. I have to thank you for your hospitality in advance but tell me though, where am I?”

  The old servant bowed somehow uneasily, but said with a business-like smile:

  “Excuse me for not greeting you fully and properly, my lady. The trappings of old age, you see. You are the honored guest of his eminence Ursempyre Remis, Lord of the House Remis.”