The Stone by the Stream (Part 9)
Prowling down the road and whistling, the acolyte soon disappeared into the trees. Cynthia stood where she was, the limbs and branches taking on a threatening aspect as she struggled to decide which way to go. The path forked before her, one way leading home and the other leading to the clearing.
Inexplicably, she burst out in laughter. The events of the morning and the night before came washing over her — death by water, Temple intrigue, the eerie call of the naiad, promises of oracular insight, secrets in her family, and the lurking threat of violent death…
And not three days ago she’d been stultified with the boredom of her existence!
So she laughed. She laughed the way she’d seen other women cry when they found out their youngest child was dead of fever. She laughed because her situation seemed so ridiculous, so unreal and yet so very real, and because if she didn’t laugh she would either lose herself in despair or madness.
For several minutes she filled the air around with her desperate laughter — at last settling herself enough to think again.
The acolyte had named two options: either go home and ask her family what they knew about the stone… or to go back and visit the stone herself.
The thought of visiting the stone filled her with dread — even if it wasn’t guarded, the Temple must have been keeping it under observation. And not only that. The naiad’s song from the night before still rang in her memory, a sound that contained all the beauty and terror of Earth all at once.
She’d started along this path because she wanted to know about the naiads. And she still did.
But actually meeting one? How could she bear it?
And even that was tame compared to what the acolyte had hinted at — using the stone to commune with the gods themselves!
Oh what had she been thinking before? No sane human being would want to be an oracle. Even if one managed to do it perfectly, it was a life of balancing on the edge of madness, cosmic despair, and terror of Infinity.
For if the naiad was terrible — aching with beauty though it may be — how much more unbearable must the gods be?
No. No, the thing was unthinkable. She would go home, forget everything, and live out a normal life. The Huntress demanded too much of her, she couldn’t stand it, she was only human!
What mattered the ecstasy she’d felt in her brief contact with the stone?
Yes, that’s it. She’d go home, mentioning nothing to her parents, and cover over the whole thing. Surely the balance she’d disturbed with her questioning would return in time. Surely she could go back, surely she could live out a peaceful life undisturbed by divine mysteries…
With slow steps at first, gaining momentum as she went along, Cynthia headed along the path leading home. Yes, surely this was the right way! Ducking to avoid a tree limb that reached out into her way, she though of happy times at home, warm in the embrace of mother and father. Rocking her brother and sister to sleep at night, helping her father work the plow, and baking bread in the oven with mother on winter nights.
Another branch from another tree grasped at her thigh, but Cynthia dodged this one just as well. Yes, surely she’d be able to go back to life as it was. Always wandering the woods with Ariadne, always keeping the flame alive in the hearth, always listening to her father’s tales of adventures and distant lands he’d seen in the war, always…
Always wishing for an adventure of her own.
“OUCH!” Cynthia shouted, suddenly sprawled across the ground.
Disoriented for a moment, she spun her head back to her feet.
She’d tripped over a jutting tree root extending out into the path. Cynthia had seen it before she’d tripped over it, but hadn’t lifted her foot high enough to avoid it. Rising up from the dirt path and dusting herself off, rage swelled up in her breast and she shouted, “Idiot! How could I possibly have been so stupid?”
Trembling more from frustration than pain, she spotted a scarlet glisten on her left hand. Cynthia held the hand close to examine it.
Blood. Flowing in a fine ribbon. Dribbling from the wrist, as it turned out, rather than the hand. It wasn’t much blood, to be sure, and there wasn’t much pain. Still, the silky ribbon of scarlet blood — her own blood, she reflected, as if struck by the thought for the first time — fascinated her and opened up an unaccountable resonance in her mind.
She was telling herself tales, Cynthia realized.
There was no going home, not really — the priestess and her veiled threats had made sure of that.
And even if she went home, it wouldn’t be home anymore — the acolyte and her hints to ask her parents about stones and oracles had made sure of that.
She should have known better than to let the acolyte fill her ears with stories. As Cynthia’s mother was fond of saying, “Gamblers and storytellers only play with stacked decks.”
Though the thought terrified her, Cynthia knew she would have to go back to the clearing eventually — and sooner rather than later. But then the thought of what she might discover by asking her mother and father questions — was that any less terrifying?
No.
And she’d have to face both those terrors before the end.
Cynthia took a deep breath, almost relieved to accept she was already committed. Whatever she might have liked, this thing would have to take its course. It was only a question of which terror to face first.
Fortunately, the blood on her hand made that choice easy. The wound needed cleaning and bandaging, which would be easy enough to do at home.
Faintly smiling that a bleeding hand should be her decision-maker, Cynthia continued with resolute steps along the path home.