|
|
(back to page 4)
Every stone in the world has a cutting point, a place on the stone where the cleanest break may be achieved. The men who made those weapons knew how to find that fault line, how to split a stone as neatly as a slice. As every stonemason has understood since the gods were born, when you add edge to weight, your cutting power doubles. And once they had mastered how to use it, nothing resisted their stone; the skull of a foe, the neck of a beast, the crest of a slope–everything yielded to it.
And that is how our young man with the wild tawny hair and the deep-set eyes first came to such a closeness with stone; he found that he had a gift for using it expertly. He understood economy–how to get strong results from controlled circumstances. His weapons and tools seemed neater, more efficient, more powerful than anyone else's because he realized that no dagger need be too long, no axe too heavy–a weapon's power only springs to life in the hands of its user, and those he made for himself always had perfect balance.
His gift with stone saved the young man's life once. One day, breaking branches in the trees where the forest had been forced back from the hill of Newgrange, he heard a noise. He looked up and saw a bear glaring at him from the ferns. She probably had cubs nearby because bears, by and large, tend to leave people alone unless they fear for their young.
He had no intention of troubling this creature, but the bear didn't know that. The brown fur stood up at her neck; he could see the red-pink of her gums, the white spikes of her teeth, and the rage and terror in her eyes.
On the ground near his feet, his bare toes felt a heavy rock shard, long as a short sword. He stood very still, watching the bear carefully, his feet teasing the shard of stone into position. With a great roar, she rushed toward him. He bent swiftly, snatched up the shard, and drove the stony spike high into the bear's throat.
The force of his thrust almost broke his hand, but he had enough strength to twist the weapon. He saw blood on the stone, not much, enough to tell him he had wounded the animal. The bear stepped back and collected herself to attack again. But the young man lunged forward, this time roaring wildly. The bear recoiled farther; the young man struck–again and again, until the bear keeled over backward. He jumped on her and hammered the shard into her neck over and over until she was dead.
Now: the people of Newgrange had their own government–Elders and Eldresses who passed the laws and made the decisions that regulated life on the hillside. They addressed all spiritual matters too, such as when, why, and how to make sacrifices to the gods.
One year, as the leaves turned gold, the Elders held a special meeting. The harvest had again been abundant, and as they blessed their fortune they began to discuss, in the warmth of the moment, finding a way to thank their ancestors, honoring their dead. The Chief Elder, his face very serious, said, "We must build something that we will be remembered for. We must build a structure that will not only respect our forefathers but will also preserve the spirit of our people."
A great meeting was called, to which almost everyone on the hillside came. But the arguments grew so heated that they had to convene again, and again, and again. To and fro the discussion raged–what will constitute an eternal honor, and how is it to be done?
I've said that almost everyone on the hillside attended those debates. One voice didn't speak–our wild young man stayed away. Nobody uttered surprise at his absence, and many expressed relief. They'd always found him a little odd; he didn't say much to many, but in the previous few years they'd avoided him even further, because they'd begun to fear him. With good reason–one day, he had suddenly and openly killed two men. His status as a warrior may have placed him above punishment, but his deed caused the hillside fear; folk evaded him, didn't meet his eye, chose not to work alongside him.
What they didn't know–and he never told them–was the reasons he had killed the two men. The day after the bear's death, the young man had grown despondent with remorse; he couldn't endure the fact that when he had killed the bear, he had also orphaned her cubs. So he took off into the forest to bring them back and try to rear them. He never found them. Three, four, five days he searched, checking lairs, taking risks–but no cubs.
When he returned to Newgrange, he came upon a commotion. A bunch of lesser men had found the cubs, had killed one, and were burning the second cub on the spit. The young man raced up the hill and arrived as the squealing cub, two months old, shuddered and died, blood oozing from its eyes, its fur scorched black.
He killed the man who was holding the cub. With an axe lying nearby he split the fellow diagonally from shoulder to hip, and then he pounded a hole in the man's forehead. The first cub was already being skinned by one of the men–a nice fur cap for the winter. He killed him too, this time not bothering with attacking the body–he just split the man's head wide open. The bystanders, who, a minute earlier had been laughing at the sport with the bear cubs, scattered like chaff in a wind. But from that moment, everyone avoided the young man.
He made it easy for them. The incident filled him with dreadful feelings, and he took off into the forest again. Thereafter, his taste for lone roving grew larger. He also knew that his rage had been released, and he knew that when that happened, he had no way of reining it in. So whenever he felt angry, he vanished for days or weeks at a time.
While he roamed, he looked at everything he saw in the world and tried to imagine its origins. That was how he came to love stone. Everywhere he went he scrutinized some new boulder or slab, relishing the sight and bulk and feel of it. And who's to say he didn't now and then run his tongue over a rock and taste one of life's joys–a fresh little pool of rainwater in the hollow of a crag immediately after a shower?
Came the day of the last big meeting. No matter what the wild young man's reputation, regardless of how rough or dangerous or foolish he was generally thought to be, a number of Elders believed in him and began to raise his name as the man for the job. He might seem unsteady at times, they agreed, perhaps a touch mad, and his rages might cause havoc, but the Eldresses perceived in him the potential of a great doer as well as a dreamer. And the Chief Elder believed him the best weapon maker, the most intelligent of the farmers, and something of a visionary–and so he persuaded him to come to the final meeting. This was to be the day of decision.
From early afternoon the people began to assemble in the Long House, the Elders' parliament building. A great, wide fire lit the darkness of the windowless chamber. Men, women, and children squatted on skins scattered across the mud floor. The Chief Elder spoke first. He announced that, although he wanted to hear further argument, he hoped they would now decide as to how, and with what, and where, they would build this great eternal monument. So far, all they had agreed was that they should use wood.
The wild young man had come in late and stood near the door. He kept his head down, looked at no one. The Chief Elder, who had personally invited him and asked for his views, called him forward; reluctantly he came up to where the Elders stood, coughed to clear his throat, and spoke.
(continued on the next page)
If you’re enjoying this excerpt and you’d like to sample other books, join our Online Book Clubs.
|
|
|
