The Stone of Cuore

by Stephen I. Carmer

Alexander’s Painting Studio

  The boat raced down the river over chutes of foaming white water. With the sound of thunder amid a downpour of torrential rain, neither Platov nor Tate could see what was ahead. Nor could they hear the growing roar of the river. Then with an unexpected thud the boat rebounded off a dark rock. Tate attempted to guide the boat with a single paddle. But then boat was caught in a rush of gushing water. Gaining speed in the fast-moving chute, the boat toppled over a cascade. Then in the confusion of lightning setting the sky ablaze, the boat swirled around aimlessly in a complete circle before being captured by the strong currents again. Gaining speed, they could hear the oncoming torrent over the grumbling thunderstorm. The boat struck boulders again, bouncing off to one side only to rebound back. Tate’s paddle broke and helplessly they went down a foaming chute. With a resounding crash the boat struck rock solidly, splintering into pieces.

  Tate and Platov were washed down the river in a deep torrent of raging whitewater. Pulled by the currents, nearly drowned they came ashore on a wide plateau of gritty rock. Checking themselves to see if anything was missing, both caught their breath. Illuminated for a split-second by a flash of lightning, they could see the dark outline of a cave carved from the sandstone cliffs. Platov led the way into the narrow overhand and then seeing no creatures inside, he went inside. The chasm lit up again with earsplitting thunder while the rain poured down in torrents. Tate jumped back then Platov conjured a lightning ball and sent it hovering against the low ceiling. Strange markings in the shape of men covered the walls with worn scratches and faded colors. Platov stared at the figures and felt a strange magic among them.

  “What are we going to do?” Tate asked as he pulled off his sopping wet shirt and wrangled it with his hands. He pulled out his sword and wiped it down with the wet shirt.

  “We be wandering now,” Platov said and already missed the comfort of Sabian’s village.

  “Wraith be finding you here?” Tate asked pensively. He too was examining the strange cave painting. He took notice of what appeared to be a man holding a spear.

  Platov shrugged as he did not know if Wraith was hunting him down. Reaching down he checked to be certain he still had Sage and then he turned over his pouch, pouring out the river water and finding the labradorite stone safely inside.

  “This dragon, he be flying overhead?” Tate asked as he watched a streak of fire high over the canyon. In a flash of lightning, he saw the shape of a dragon flying against the dark, stormy sky.

  “I don’t know where Scorch be,” Platov said with resignation. Then stripping off his sopping shirt, he wrung it out just as Tate had. Water poured out onto the floor of the cave. “So we stays here until morning, then we departs.”

  Tate sat down next to Platov. “I be going with you.”

  “Don’t hast to,” Platov said. “Wraith, he not be seeking you.”

  “We stick together,” Tate said. “I got no magic, but I thinks of something if the wicked one shows his face.”

  Platov nodded. “Suppose Sabian be fit when he finds we sunk his boat.”

  “Suppose,” Tate agreed. Just then a bolt of lightning lit up the river and with blast of thunder, Platov’s lightning ball was snuffed out.

  Platov conjured another lightning ball and both stared out at the rain coming down. Watching pensively over the river, the only sound was the rushing water as the rain finally subsided.

  Feeling the gritty sandstone under his fingers, Tate felt cold metal. Curiously, Tate dug away at the floor pulling up a large coin. He held it up while Platov examined the worn coin. Tiny but unreadable letters surrounded the figure.

  “I wonder what it is worth?” Tate asked as he held the coin out.

  Platov shrugged, “it is like these figures painted on the wall.” He turned around and studied the faded figures intensely, burning the markings and symbols into his memory. Then he examined the coin again.

  “The coin has the magic of these figures,” Platov said. “They are the same.”

  “It would be best to discard the coin,” Sage said.

  “No, I found it,” Tate said.

  “Then put it into your pouch, but be aware that it might attempt to trick you one day. The coin is cursed,” Sage advised.

  Tate dropped the coin on the ground and then kicked it away. The coin rolled into the shadows of the cave disappearing into the eroded rock.

  Both stared out at the river for a long time before finally dosing off into a wearisome sleep. It was not until morning when the light of day finally reached deep into the canyon that Platov awoke. Exploring the cave a bit more, they examined the many scratches etched into the sandstone. There were many more figures to be seen in daylight. Then decided that they best be far away before nightfall came again, the two of them took to a narrow pathway that followed along the edge of the river. In places the path was missing and they had to wade through water and climb over boulders. Then the unexpected sight of eroded stone steps carved from the very sandstone canyon walls caught them both by surprise. A massive column framed an ornately cast pair of bronze doors.

  Curious of their discovery, both crept up the weathered and broken steps and studied the symbols over the keystone. They were the same as the coin that Tate had found and discarded the night before.

  A crow angrily scolded them and sensing something enticingly mysterious, Platov held out his stone. Commanding the doors to open, they both jumped back as the massive bronze entry cracked open. With the creaking of long unused hinges, the doors swung open. Tate and Platov stared into the dark cavern beyond. A skeleton was sitting just inside the door. Holding a spear, the bones once must have been the guardian of the forgotten place.

  Creeping slowly around the guardian, they slipped closer and stared up at the vaulted ceiling towering over their heads. Steps led up into a long corridor but beyond, all was dark. Then the sound of the wicked crow heckling raucously made them both jump.

  Tate reached down and examined a rusted spear and shield that lay on the floor. A nearby skeleton suggested the previous owner. Platov was sensing a strange magic and hearing a soft enchanting voice singing deep inside the dark cavern. He took another step and then examined the skeleton suspiciously.

  “What are you boys doing in there?” A husky voice from outside the door bellowed. Tate dropped the rusted spear while Platov whirled around to stare at a man standing just outside the door. He held a long spear with several skewered fish. Over his shoulder he held a basket woven with reeds.

  “We be looking,” Platov answered meekly.

  “Be best you not being going in there,” the man bellowed. “It be haunted with ghosts that will not take kindly to the likes of you.”

  Tate not needing another warning dashed out the doors while Platov jumped in right behind him. The massive bronze doors closed with a thud. The tempting singing of the siren was extinguished. They both cowered at the man who had found them. He was short, but strong with a thick bushy black beard. His eyes were dark as night, his face fierce, and his bare skin tanned from spending his days fishing in the river. With powerful muscles, the man stared down at them both.

  “I have not seen the likes of either of you before,” the man said.

  “We came from there,” Tate gulped and pointed up the river.

  “I see the wreckage of a boat, was that yours?” The man inquired.

  “Yea, we crashed upon the rocks,” Platov replied.

  “That part of the Adzes River is not passable,” the man scoffed. “Come then, you best not be hanging around these doors. Some say that a temptress will beguile you with her song.”

  Platov and Tate gulped as the man’s eyes bore down on him. Platov had heard the song of the siren.

  “I am Jamos,” he said and then pointed down the river.

  “I am Platov.”

  “Tate.”

  “Then come along, mighty strange to find you both rambling about,” Janos said. “A wonder you didn’t drown in the
river.”

  Obediently, the two marched down the stairs and then picking up the narrow pathway along the riverbank. Long braided ropes dangled down from the very top of the cliff. Janos wanted to show them how to use the ropes to climb to the top.

  “Ye be holding on tight, puts your feet where I puts mine,” Janos instructed.

  The climb to the top was incredibly hard and the boys lagged behind their guide. Stopping at a place where there was a wide foothold, they looked down at the river rambling along far below. Then they started climbing again while struggling to find places to put their feet. Janos was far ahead of them and only looked back occasionally with encouraging words.

  At the top of the cliff they found large stones that were turned upright. To these the long ropes were tied. Beyond were the stone walls of the village.

  “I know what to do with the likes of you,” Janos said as they started out. He still had the day’s catch of fish in his basket. Stepping off briskly, the boys followed him but at a distance. Undecided whether to go into the village or bolt, the boys considered their options carefully. Janos looked back once or twice but otherwise did not wait for them. Reaching the town’s walls, they decided to go through the gate. The village was bigger than the one they had left. With turrets spread along the top of the protective wall, the village appeared well prepared for any threat. Inside the walls, much like Pristina, hovels filled every available space. Janos was waiting for them in the market square while pointed them out to several jolly looking men. Women with scarves tied over their hair glanced up and shook their heads.

  “Do you suppose they will tie us up?” Tate asked suspiciously.

  “I do not know,” Platov said apprehensively. The men were pointing and laughing. “Maybe we just be on our way.”

  A woman with a worn, linen white scarf tied around her head stepped forward. She waved at the reluctant boys to come closer. The men laughed boisterously and were talking about going to fetch someone.

  “They be thin,” the woman said.

  “They not be eating,” another woman approached. Then she gruffly squeezed Tate’s arm as if to check if he had any meat on his bones. Tate flinched but then was dragged away by the woman while the first one took Platov with equal vigor.

  “All skin and bones. Eat now!” The woman said and stirred up a stew of boiled fish bones, she ladled out a small morsel into the bottom of an earthen bowl. Forcing it into Platov’s hand she stood back and watched. Tate was honored equally.

  Now while spooning up the meager portion of fish soup, another man stormed across the square. He was tall and wore a dirty shirt covered with colors of all sorts. Splashes of purple, blue, red, orange, and green all mixed together into a muddy mess. His hat was just as stained while his fingers were covered in colors like his shirt. He walked with a determined attitude directly toward Platov. His eyes flashed and his nose was long, but also covered in blue paint.

  “Ye be helping the painter,” Janos said. “He thinks he is famous.”

  “They hast no experience!” The artist scoffed as he studied the boys carefully. His name was Alexander and according to the fishermen, he was very temperamental. But he was the only one in the whole village that could afford to hire two helpers, so Janos and the women were very hopeful. To earn a meal, was to have a job to pay for it with.

  “Ah, gives them a broom to sweep up with,” Janos said. He walked around the boys as if he was now scrutinizing their value.

  “We be just passing,” Tate said.

  “We broke our boat,” Platov admitted.

  Alexander examined their faces and then grew angrier. He threw his hands up in the air and stormed off in a rage. But as Janos indicated, that meant that they were hired and would at least get a decent meal if they helped the artist a bit. With a nudge, Janos sent them chasing after the great artist.

  Inside his workshop, Alexander had a great mess. Paint pigments, some dry and some mixed with a smelly oily mess in bowls, brushes lying all about, flat glued up boards, some painted, others just piled up, statues half-finished, and clutter filled every nook and cranny. Platov and Tate cautiously looked over the squalor and wondered what they should do.

  “Holds it up!” Alexander demanded. He was moving his painting board around then he pointed at a shield leaning against the wall. Alexander wanted Platov to stand in the light holding the shield just so, but he did not explain very much. Then in a rage of angry words, Alexander showed them both what he wanted. Platov held the shield up while Tate picked up a sword and held it out. Framing them both with his hands, the artist picked up a paint brush. Then making a great deal of noise clicking, complaining, sneezing, and blaming the boys for not being exactly correct, he began to paint.

  “Hold still!” Alexander demanded again and again. The shield was heavy and Platov’s arm was growing tired. Tate likewise was twitching as holding a pose for a long time was becoming tedious. Alexander jumped out from behind his painting and rearranged them both, then complained of the fading light. Finally, outraged that nothing was the way he wanted it, he threw his paint brush down and stormed around in a fitful mood. Demanding that they start over first thing in the morning when the light was right Alexander dismissed them.

  Chapter 7: The Commission