Faithful Pebble
Part Forty-Two
He said, he would help her. He said, he needed time! The boy pondered this watching the well, waiting impatiently for something to rise out of it, a hand, a head, hopefully two. He wondered if the wanderer could do it, help the well-dweller. His hero hadn't done it. It had been a year, nearly two since the man gave him the necklace tucked under his shirt. He looked once, looked twice, looked three times around the small little grove before pulling out the chain. It was silver, a simple crudely made creation dangling heartily a wrought iron pendent welded into the shape of a coiling dragon, into the shape of It. The pendent was ugly like the fabled monster, heavy and cold, crafted to look cruel and blood thirsty both in its bejeweled ruby eyes and abundant knife-tipped fangs.
It lived in the woods. And It was guarded by those select individuals whom the Village's Headsman deemed brave enough to keep It at bay if it ever attacked, and mean enough to keep the villagers out, if they ever ventured in. His grandfather was afraid. "Too many people wandering into those contemptible woods would certainly tempt the beast to come after us. If roused, it could break its imprisonment." He had said that—he, his grandfather, the honorable mayor and head spokesperson for the town and its slight council of five men, two women, and a ghost—had said that while stuffing his face with boiled potatoes.
His grandson sat at the dining table casually nodding along with his mother. His bright green eyes were as big as his dinner plate and noticeably bigger than his mouth, which was now bulging from spoonful after spoonful of buttered peas and candied yams. His mother was practically shoving them into it, cooing between flying bouts of admonishments and the occasional huff of "My! Aren't we a growing boy!"
"And you know what it would do then?" His grandfather coughed and then sputtered through his curling mustache. "It would seek us out and hunt us down like it did before. And who knows how many of us would be left this time." It was bad enough that nearly a third of the men had died that day twenty plus years ago, when It first appeared, when It attacked the miners deep in their caves, lost in the center of the woods, creating the Grave of the Fallen. They couldn't use so many casualties. Not again.
"Certainly, not again!" His grandfather had said that. He slammed down his fork. The table shook, his daughter tisked, and his grandson frowned.
Thus, the Headsman forbade it, entry into the woods, and his guardians ensured that the rule was kept—permanently.
Everyone knew this!
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You know, I really appreciate all the support I've gotten for this story. I know it's riddled with mistakes, but y'all keep reading any way. I means a lot. Thank you! - Calla