The Gift of Stones

29

ENOUGH. My father’s stories are a mask. I owe it to my mother and to him to tell you only what is known and not what he would wish us to believe. Doe had bled to death for sure and father had, indeed, found her beneath the shadow of the hawk. He had wiped clean the arrowhead, and placed his ear against my mother’s chest. She was entirely cold and still. In that my father told the truth. She was no more than stone.

It was not easy for a one-armed man whose stump was swollen and in pain, whose eyes were full, to lift my mother from the ground and balance her across his back. And then to stoop and to pick up the arrowhead. And then to walk with them through bracken to the springy path which joined the village and the shore. For once he did not feel the wind and spray upon his back. My mother was his shield.

The stoneys and the merchants were quite used to seeing father on that path. It was the path which led him to the outside world and on which he would return weighed down and weary with new tales. The magic ship had come that way. The talking goose. The boy who had the gift of flames. It would not seem so strange to see my father stooped and slow returning to them by that route. What he carried on his back, that shining something in his hand, they took to be some teasing evidence with which he’d complicate his lies.

In fact he did not say a word. He had no breath. He put the body on the grass and, holding mother by an ankle, sat down at her feet. He placed the arrowhead on her chest.

It was some time before the first brave men found time and inclination to take a closer look. My father’s world and Doe’s was hardly theirs. They felt no duty to the corpse. Unlike the people from beyond the wood they did not fear the dead. They saw no need to truss up the bodies of the slain or to placate them with provisions for the grave. For them the dead were powerless. They could not punish those who lived. They had no weapons of revenge. They had not been liberated from this world to carry out some mischievous design. There were no ghosts. But still, a woman dead and murdered — at a guess — by those same men who had swept through the marketplace and knocked the merchants down, was cause for some alarm. There’d be no recompense, for sure. Those horsemen did not seem the sort who’d pay their debts or recognize the rules of trade. They were the sort to fear.

‘What happened here?’ My father wet his lips to make reply. But he had no chance to speak. A stoney had sunk down onto his knees and, leaning over Doe, was staring at the weapon on her chest.

‘What’s this?’ he said. He hesitated for a moment as if to seek some reason why he could not take the object off the corpse. And then he reached and lifted it. ‘So light,’ he said. ‘So smooth.’

My father’s neighbours turned their backs on Doe. They passed the arrowhead from hand to hand and shook their heads. They did not know this stone — if stone it was. There were no flattened planes or impact dents where the hammer stone had struck. There were no fractures at the arrow’s stem, or facets where the arrow had been flaked. The blade was flat and thinner than a cuttle shell. It was hard and sharp. Its surface was the colour of winter oak leaves and as smooth and cold to touch as bacon skin. Then one man noticed what the rest had missed. He pulled the broken wooden shaft from the arrowhead. He pushed his little finger in the hole it left and held it up for all his friends to see. At first they were confused. And then they knew that flint was second-best. This stem was something flint could never be, as hollow as an acorn cup and twenty times as deep.

They turned upon my father now. What kind of tale was this? Invention was my father’s craft. They thought the arrowhead was father’s trick. ‘Come on,’ they said. ‘Let’s hear.’

I do not know which of the many tales he told or who he blamed or how my mother died. If he’d invented naked warriors who’d slid down lightning from the sky, or animals, half horse half wolf, who’d sworn vengeance on the world, the stoneys would have taken it. Their sense of what was true or not was punctured by the arrowhead. A world that could produce a weapon as perfect and as beautiful as that could produce a thousand wonders of my father’s sort. In fact my father did not try to concoct a story to explain the arrowhead. He turned it in his hand and shrugged and claimed he was as ignorant as them. But we know father and we tense when we hear him using phrases of that kind. ‘I’m just as ignorant as you,’ he said, ‘of where this arrow has come from, or where the stone, or where the people with such craft. Not here. Not us, for sure.’ And then the one-armed village story-teller voiced the one thought that lay siege to everybody’s mind. He said, ‘So now we know why trade in flint is bad.’