Faithful Pebble

Part Eighty-Four

Brushing dirt from his hands, the wanderer sunk a shovel into the soil. He found it on the cottage grounds leaning against the tattered porch. He'd snatched it without thinking and now, he appreciated the coincidence. He steadied it a moment appraising its craftsmanship, its sturdy yet solid design. Black as ebony, you could barely tell where the metal began and the wood ended. It reminded him of something or someone. A thought pulled at the wanderer's lips. In seconds, his smile glimmered to life, but only for a moment. He spied the grave next to him. He spied the flowers upon its shallow ravine and immediately his smile faded. The moment came. The moment went. The wanderer followed suit.

Walking towards the front of the house, the hearty young man rubbed his neck and rolled his shoulders. As he did so, the wanderer wondered. He eyed her, Pebble. Or was it Iris? He stopped. He frowned. He stared. He wondered which name she preferred. No, he could easily guess that. She hated the village and probably hated the name they gave her. Still, which name? He wanted to ask. He wanted to whisper those words into the outer curve of her ear. Pebble or Iris? Is Iris really your name? He eyed the sky tipped blossoms nestled bleakly about her and for a moment, his frown vanished. His thoughts whizzed. His smile tilted. She was a puzzle, he admitted. She was a puzzle and suddenly, unexpectedly he decided he liked it. But that thought came quickly and then it quickly retreated. It was true, he supposed. The wanderer wondered many things. However, many of those things he had yet to receive answers for and many of those things seemed to grow darker and more foreboding as time ticked on. It bothered him. It bothered him more than he liked. Once more, he frowned and this time the frown stayed.

He watched her as she sat quietly on the steps. From the cottage's little porch, she stared out into the woods. Valiant trees surrounded them like thick and dark curtains. And like curtains, the forest hid them, isolated them from the world and everything in it. It was comforting. It was lonely. It was dark and empty and vast, like the well and its tunnels. Again, the similarities did not escape him. The man sighed quietly, despairingly, resolutely. Even with her hood, in spite its pointed direction, he knew where her attention lingered. Even as masked as she was, he knew where her gaze wanted to rest. It didn't want the bows of the trees or the dance of the high grasses about them. She was waiting for him. For speech, for interrogation, that was her expectation. She must feel obligated, he figured and understandably he did not blame her. After what he just did, after what he just saw, questions were inevitable. Who. What. Why. How. How was such a bothersome question. The wanderer conceded. He agreed with that answer, though he'd never tell her why.

Taking a breath, the wanderer folded his arms. He walked to her and silently sat down. For a time, he too just sat there staring out into the forest. Without thinking, his eyes scanned for life, out of habit, for movement, out of desire. He wondered how much the boy saw and how much he understood. The wanderer's frown deepened. His gaze drooped to the logs hidden close by in the grass. The wanderer spoke first. "You lived here, didn't you."

A moment came.

A moment left.

It was an obvious question.

The girl just looked away.

The wanderer watched her. Patiently and gradually, he turned. His back leaned against a time worn support beam. It bordered the cottage's tiny porch and barely sustained its battered roof. Teetering questionably above him, it struck a thought. A decision was quickly made, though his gaze didn't waver from the girl. His thoughts barely strayed as well. He tilted his head, the wanderer. The wanderer knotted a brow. "Who was she?" he asked.

Silence ensued.

Silence lingered.

Silence— "My Mother."

There was no emotion. The cadence of her voice was steady and rigid except for a trivial hiccup, except for that undistinguished quiver. It made him angry. All of this made him angry and it surprised him.

The wanderer's chin tightened. He rose to his feet hoping to dispel the sudden rush, his quickening blush. "Do you know why this happened?"

Pebble put her head in her hands. Her hood draped over them hiding those long and sharp and blood drenched fingers. She nodded quietly behind them. She did not trust her voice.

"Why?" he asked.

When she didn't answer, after the seconds tick-tick-ticked into minutes into moments into stale impatience, his shoulders drooped. He followed suit, the wanderer. He turned. He crouched before her carefully resting his hands upon her upturned knees. In silence, he waited for her lift her head, to unveil her hands and tuck them away. Still, like the sky-tipped blossoms about her, his Pebble didn't move. Like the sky, like the sun, like the ancient forest itself, she sat unchanging starring into the recesses of her hands and heart, into the crudely mended stitches of her brown and coarse and tattered hooded cloak. The wanderer saw this and shook his head. This wasn't working.

His joints cracked as he lowered his knees. They sunk to the ground like the shovel had moments earlier, like his anger was starting to. It faded into despair, into silence, into compassion. The wanderer let his forehead fall. He rested it gently against hers. On the way down, he let his lips graze her left temple. One the way down, his hands lifted to cradle her ears over her hood, to tilt her head as he kissed it, to hold her gently as she leaned into his embrace. Only then did she stir. Only then did his voice lower to match her own.

"Please," he whispered. As gently as he could, the wanderer spoke softly like he did those many hours before within the heart of the well, before that wistful snake like rope and beneath those never ending stars. Like then, he spoke, his voice floating quietly about them. "Please let me help you," he asked. "What happened to your mother?" The wanderer opened his eyes. He sat back on the porch pulling her further into his arms. With a courage he did not feel, the wanderer asked the question she was dreading, the one that made her tremble as the words drifted calmly out. He didn't know if she'd answer. Still, he asked it. Still, he endeavored. "Iris," he said. "How did you fall? Please tell me. Did someone push you?"

When she shook her head, he shushed her.

When he second guessed, she spoke quietly.

He wasn't expecting her answer, but still it came. Quietly and quickly, it came soft and still, steady and rigid. Dribbled in tears, her story started with four words. "It was my fault. Everything is my fault."

It's coming. - Calla