Forge of Stones

by Vasileios Kalampakas

  * * *

  Faint light entered the quarters they had sequestered for her and her newborn child. It was not so much a room as it was a crevice, a hollowed out cavity of rock somewhere underneath the city, just another small cave forming part of a complex network whose size she could only guess. Her mind wandered to such meandering thoughts whenever Amonas came to mind. Their child was here in her bosom, being fed for the first time. Where was the father? Where was her love?

  An instant later her eyes locked with the tiny sparkling things that were her baby’s windows into the world, and saw the crystal blue water of the oceans staring back at her. She could almost hear the gurgling of virgin waterfalls in his small cries and throaty sounds. The boy was a heart-tearing reminder of his father, even from the way he stretched when he fell asleep kindly, craning his neck before it settled cosily on her chest.

  He had only been born the night before in a damp cave full of strident men, their endless, mirthless cacophony silenced by the sudden and unexpected cries of a child gasping for air and a mother suffering the pains of labor. They had turned and looked with astonishment; their croaks and hawkish, almost unintelligible cries had been choked in concert, replaced with whispers of amazement and gasps of wonder.

  The two men had been very kind and helpful to her, mindful of her dignity as a lady. A doctor was among the crowd of kinsfolk, and he alone was allowed to attend to her. Some more men offered to hold their cloaks and form a screen for her to give birth in something that could almost equal a privacy of sorts under the unfortunate and inappropriately timed circumstances.

  She had given birth then and there, amongst the company of complete strangers but somehow the feeling in her heart was that she was among family indeed, something more than friends. The kinsfolk seemed to embrace her the minute they saw her distress and need. After her labor, all that remained of the pain was a numb memory. Her heart soared as high as the suns when she laid her eyes upon her son for the first time, and she wept from joy. Only after the doctor asked of the boy’s father, did she shed tears of sorrow.

  The men in the large underground chamber had been in constant fruitless debate only minutes before, but the sight of a woman seeking refuge and help stirred them to action and concordance. In her matter there were no voices in disarray, no arduous discussions with no end. They offered their help and assistance immediately, as if she were to them a sister, a wife; indeed like a mother to them all. Someone sent for nursemaids to attend to her and see to the child. Others pulled their cloaks and stripped themselves of their clothes to make something soft for her to lay on, as well as sheets to feel warm in the dampness of the cave.

  They all seemed eager to help in any way they could. The birth had seemed to offer some sort of rest from their incessant deliberations that had seemed to lead to nowhere in particular, far from an agreement. She was not told the details, but they had been trying to decide what their next action would be. As far as she knew, laying in her makeshift cot and cradling her baby in his serene sleep, they had yet to reconvene and decide while at the same time a young girl that brought her water had told her the army had begun the attack on the walls of Pyr only minutes ago.

  And still these people waited, idly sitting on their hands, knowing not what to do. The thought painted her face with a bitter grimace. What good would it do them, hiding in these caves wishing everything that caused them trouble would simply go away? Was this the kinsfolk indeed? Were these people ready to give their lives at the flick of an eye in a moment’s notice, for a bright future free of tyranny and lies?

  She found it hard to believe. Perhaps they were indeed good men through and through, but this reluctance to commit openly to battle, however grim and dark their chances were, had the smell of cowardice about it. She did not wish to dwell on that thought any longer though; it would only make her remember Amonas and the pain inside would make her cry like a poor lost soul. She still had an obligation to her child, and she intended to keep it.

  Once the child woke up and she regained some of her strength, she would ask to see their leader; ask to talk to him and try to stir him into action. That was the first and simplest thing that she could do, she thought. Make them fight as they should. Terror filled her when her mind recoiled at the possibility they just might give up; simple-minded fear taking over them, begging for their lives to no avail. She hoped that would not come to pass, for then that would mean that her son’s life was forfeit along with everyone else’s in these caves.

  The child seemed to stir slightly, as if his sleep was troubled. Her brow furrowed at the thought that perhaps he was already sensing there was something wrong with the world he had been delivered into: it was harsh, demanding, and uncaring, but did her son have to know so soon? Perhaps he could sense the absence of his father’s touch. She certainly did so, and felt a twinge in her heart as she saw a shadow touch the cloth screen to her chamber. Her heart skipped a beat hoping it was him, that it was Amonas who had at last come back to them both. But her mind told her otherwise, and soon her eyes proved her heart wrong once more.

  The shadow belonged to the young girl that had been called to tend to her. She had brought her a small basket of food, and a jug of water. She looked up at the young girl who was eying her sheepishly, afraid to make eye contact as if Celia were some noble woman or a priestess of some sort. The girl had hair like amber fire and held a small lantern, letting off just enough light for her to find her way in the dark maze of caves.

  The girl approached Celia with hesitation, and left the small basket of food at her feet where she lay. There was some honey-bread in the basket, some goat’s milk and boiled eggs as well; a small feast indeed under the circumstances. Perhaps they had brought some supplies down with them or had stashed some from beforehand, in case of an emergency. Still, they were being deprived of food that would be surely needed sooner or later. It only meant these were indeed good men, and caring people.

  As the girl bowed slightly and turned to leave without speaking a word, Celia asked her in a hushed voice, the rocky walls adding an echo of strange authority to her words:

  “Do not bow to me, girl. I am not special in any way. Thank you for the food but please, I need some answers, I would have to speak to the person you call leader. Please, I need to see them now. Lead me to them through these caves, for I cannot find my own way.”

  The girl was surprised at that request, worry flashing on her face:

  “But lady, you have just given birth. You should not move so soon! You’re still weak and-”

  A fiery look on Celia’s eyes was all the girl needed to know she had chosen the wrong words. Celia’s voice was like steel when she said:

  “I was never weak, and I would not be called so now. Can you take me to someone in charge, someone who makes the decisions, who knows about things? We’re all wasting time here.”

  The baby stirred uneasily in his sleep. While Celia instinctively rocked him gently, the girl nodded with bewilderment before speaking in a confounded voice as low as a whisper:

  “We have no leader, not now anyway.. I’ll show you to the one who gives us advice and holds our knowledge, my lady. There’s no one else who could answer your questions better.”

  “I see.. Please, help me up. Hold my child for a while.”

  The girl nodded briskly and took Celia’s son in her arms carefully and gently so as not to wake him up. Celia managed to stand up on her own, though she felt her sense of balance was off and her feet felt heavy and cumbersome. She nodded then to the girl who promptly returned her the child with a faint smile on her lips. Celia returned the gesture more broadly and nodded for the girl to lead the way. The girl then picked up her lantern lighting the way for Celia as she turned and they left the chamber.

  She had been quite dizzy and disoriented from labor when they brought her in and she had given only a passing amount of attention to the sprawling system of caves that seemed to branch out in many different directions. Small chambers of sorts w
ere arrayed almost randomly; some seemed natural and some were seemingly carved out by men, the signs of chisel and pickax still easily spotted, not eroded by time yet. Some seemed to be occupied; many housed families, small and large; children trying to play hide and seek in the dimly lit passages that had become their impromptu playground.

  There was no central passage or hallway to speak of though some of the corridors were larger, and she could see men walking past going about some business or duty; some were carrying supplies like food and clothes, and even carting weapons and armor. Each face she saw as she walked about the underground home of the kinsfolk was filled with tension, uneasiness and doubt. Even in the dim light of a lantern and a few sparingly situated torches, it was not difficult for someone to spot the tell-tale signs, especially for someone like Celia.

  After all she was a dancer, experienced and trained in reading people’s expressions, understand their feelings and react to them through her performance. She almost missed her dancing days, she thought. Everything looked brighter then, at least in her memory. Perhaps it really was but it might also have been the grim darkness that surrounded them, not just the one in the caves.

  Another thing that struck her as odd was the way people looked at her in passing. Some did not even register her presence but others turned and went wide-eyed with surprise, some pointed and whispered, and some even made movements of obeisance, like bowing and nodding reverently. No one seemed inclined to stop and ask her what was on their minds, even though it was more than certain that she had somehow managed to become some sort of popular person. It must have been the dramatic circumstances under which these people came to know her, crying and shouting in the agony of labor.

  The girl barely talked though she did seem to turn around and look at Celia and the baby more than once. She also went about the passages, corridors and the larger cavities where hallways met with astounding ease, especially considering the poor light and lack of distinguishing features in such a maze of wild irregularity.

  Keeping track of time without sunlight was an almost impossible task. In these caves, only faint distant echoes of water dripping down from some parts of the rocky ceiling could remind someone of time passing by, the sloshing sound of each drop on the cave floor like the tick of those terribly intricate clocks men had devised. Still, it was impossible to keep count. Celia did not know exactly for how long they had been walking but her legs, feet and back knew all too well. Strained as she was from the labor, she felt her energy drained now from the walk. It felt as if she had been through a small tour of Pyr itself. She thought that might not have been that far from the truth.

  As she was about to ask her young guide how much longer they would have to walk, the girl stopped short of a small corridor that led to a somewhat brightly lit cavity. Flickers of light danced about the entrance, as a large torch cast its light to the otherwise dark hollowed out space that seemed to connect many corridors and passages. The girl turned and bowed slightly almost in a curtsy, and pointed Celia to the entrance with a slight nod. She said:

  “This is the chamber of master Perconal. He is a strange sort, but his heart’s in the right place. Saved me and my brothers from the streets.”

  Celia nodded thoughtfully before asking with a sincerely sympathetic voice:

  “Well, thank you for your help.”

  “Sent for me if you need anything, lady. My blessings to you and your boy.”

  Celia smiled warmly for the first time in what felt like ages, and replied in kind:

  “My blessings to you and your brothers as well.”

  The girl smiled briefly and nodded before parting company. Soon she was lost in the darkness of one of the corridors, her tiny light drowned in all the darkness of the caves.

  Celia entered the brightly lit corridor, always firmly holding her son in her arms with some apprehension, a mother’s instinct that would not be appeased no matter what. In front of her she saw a small chamber filled with candlelight, their scent more than enough to break the smell of cold damp rock that sometimes reminded her of an outhouse. Another thing that caught her attention was the sound of jingling bells and chimes of some sort making a strange sort of music.

  The small cave was irregularly shaped in an angular way; the bookcases and an old study were massed together near the corner of the jutting rock, while a somewhat larger space to the right of the study, a sort of crevice, housed a small cot and a cupboard of what at a glance seemed to be antique wood. A wizened old man was hunched over an over-sized book, while around him an assortment of various books, scrolls and maps lay strewn around at random; candles had been lit and left in precarious positions with or without holders, hot wax dribbling profusely. The man was wearing a simple set of robes, brown and unkempt.

  It reminded her of a minister’s surplice but this man’s clothing bore no resemblance to anything of such pristine delicacy. He had not registered her presence, though indeed she had not spoken a word nor had she announced herself when she entered the corridor. She also saw the source of the strange jingling sounds; the old man was wearing a jester’s hat, wisps of grizzled white hair jutting out from underneath it. He otherwise looked quite solemn, his hands tracing the pages of the book he was engrossed in. At length, she decided it was time to speak. At that exact time, her son woke up from his sleep crying loudly in her arms and she tried to rock him back to sleep again to no avail.

  The old man turned to look at her with a startle. His brow furrowed with annoyance momentarily but then a hint of recognition appeared on his face. His voice was pitched high but sweetly grazed by time, lilting and musical; the voice of someone with a gift for storytelling:

  “Lady Celia. Please, be seated. In your condition..”

  Celia shot the old man an exasperated stare before replying above the sound of her son’s crying:

  “Well now! What is my condition, really? Is it any graver than the rest of your people’s condition? Is it any graver than the Territories being torn asunder by civil war and a bloodshed that will not stop until they’ve turned everything to ruin and the rivers into blood?”

  She realized she was almost screaming now, her anger getting the best of her while the child in her arms seemed at least as aggravated as she was, his crying continuing unabated. The old man sighed and nodded, understanding he had offended Celia somehow. He then talked to her earnestly in a clear-cut, straight manner, his tone of voice curt and precise:

  “Alright. I see you’re not a lady for the courts and idle banquets. You are Amonas’ wife, strong of heart and proud; nothing short of a fine match you two must have been. And this is your son I’d wager. You know, his birth stirred as much talk as maidens bathing in a public fountain.”

  Celia’s face was withdrawn, not even the hint of a smile adorning her features. The girl was right; this man reeked of strange tidings and unfamiliar manners. He was strange without ever letting one understand why, she was sure. Her son would not stop crying, the old man’s voice strained to raise itself above the child’s. Her silence was his cue to continue:

  “Anyway, you’ve come to see me, so I guess you had some questions for me. One always comes here seeking answers. I’m quite honored by your presence, though I’m pretty sure you won’t like the answers, no matter the context. So please, let’s get to the point.”

  “Indeed, let us. For starters, who are you?”

  “I thought the hat was a dead giveaway, but I guess you wouldn’t have imagined it as it is so out of place. I’m Perconal, the jester.”

  Celia simply stood there looking at the old man in disbelief. He then lifted his hat slightly as if to greet her, and with a trick of the hand seemed to produce a baby’s rattle which the newly born boy could not even hope to grasp yet; its sound though seemed to calm him. The baby’s crying settled down as if magic had put him in a trance. Feeling her slightly distrustful of him, almost wary, the jester made an effort to lighten the palpable uneasiness between them and said with a wide grin:

 
; “What? Don’t believe me? Want me to juggle? I can juggle the baby. No? Just kidding.”