Faithful Pebble
Part Thirty-One
"You mean, you don't know?" She looked back at him. Her hood tilted.
Curious, surprised almost, the wanderer wanted to say something, anything in answer to the astonishment sprouting from the bottom of her voice, Iris. Quickly, his mind blurred over his interviews with the villagers, the Madame, the Pick-pockets, the Hero and the Woodcutter, but nothing in those conversations clicked, nothing blossomed to clue him in of what she was implying, nothing but—
"But then again, you don't seem to be the hero type." The watch light flittered over him. No doubt, Pebble's eyes covered by that ugly crinkled brown coarse hood subtly followed its leading as it dipped and danced and tottered away.
He stepped before her putting a finger to his chin. The rumor that led him here, the rumor that flittered from mouth to mouth at any inn and bar this side of the mountains now tickled his mind. He had heard it in passing, eavesdropping while eating and drinking and resting before a lonely fireplace found in the bar in the next town over. An old man had said it, growled it really at a young lost warrior dressed in black armor and blind naiveté. "Only heroes looking for glory and a death wish go to that village!"
Only heroes? At the time he wondered why, but the only story he could discover in response to his inquiries was the girl's. Had he taken those hesitant mumblings for granted? The wanderer wondered, second guessed them in light of her reaction, and if he really admitted it, the reaction of the villagers. They were almost too friendly, too willing to bring up her story. Was there another?
Apparently, there was. One not meant for his ears or any other's not born with warrior blood. He hummed… He pondered… Her next question interrupted him.
"You can see in the dark?"
The wanderer clamored up the rest of that hidden alleyway until he came upon the slab of rock she had mentioned earlier. He paused in front of it, lifted a hand to caress the rough tattered surface squinting as his vision sharpened under the harsh light drifting from her hand. Filled with awe, the man ignored her question and substituted it for another. "This… Is this a—"
"It rolls. Here let me show you." Reluctantly, the man stepped away and let the girl meander to the rock her back hunched too far over, her dirty cloak fluttering with the movement. With outstretched hands, clawed and tainted and filled with mud and dried black blood, she gingerly pushed the rock over until it slid silently revealing tunnels—no, the dark vortex out of which he had been lost.
He stared at the rock and then up at the well shaft thinking about his three-hour journey to find a girl who had mysteriously disappeared. He sighed heavily. It wouldn't have taken her five minutes to move the stone and escape. He rubbed his stubbled cheek before placing green and brown and strong fisted hands on his hips. He tutted, "And I was resting against this too."
Thank you for reading and reviewing! - Calla