The Stone, a short story by Tony Wren
Tom bought the land at auction. It was only 10acres, regarded as practically nothing in farming circles, but it conveniently adjoined the upper meadow. Combined, they became a viable proposition, and he was determined to have wheat planted there by next spring.
“Yer’ll ‘ave a right job there then, Tom,” said Walter, when he mentioned his plans to the neighbouring farmer.
“What about that there stone on top o’ yon‘ill then?”
Tom knew right enough what he meant. It stood, a rough hewn grey monolith, overlooking the countryside for miles around.
Some 40odd years before, it had aroused a great deal of local interest, at a me when ley-lines had stirred the scientific world into a flurry of activity, with claims of hidden forcefields deep beneath the surface. “Won’t be no trouble shiftin’ that,” said Tom, confidently. “Tis only ‘bout four foot ‘igh anyhow, near as I can remember.”
“That’s all you knows,” replied Walter, with a chuckle. “I’ll tells yer this, them there mon’liths be a damn sight bigger’n that.
Like as not its sunk down over the years, cos it’s been up there a good while, that’s fer sure. ‘Twill be like it’s got roots on it whenyer tries shiin’ it.
”“Don’t talk da,” replied Tom, a little annoyed by his friend’s obvious amusement. “A pint says you won’t‘ ave it shied by next market day,” replied Walter.
“Yer on then,” said Tom, with a sudden determination in his voice.
It was a bright, cold morning when Tom left the farmhouse, and made his way up over the frosty fields. A heavy mist lay swirling in the valley below, but high above he could plainly see the dark silhouette of the stone against the pale pink blush of a dawn sky. It stood, as if waitng, like some ancient sentinel.
When he finally made it to the top, the view was magnificent, with the patchwork pattern of fields spread out before him. As he rested, he began to experience a slight dizzy sensation, and watched, fascinated, as the fields began to slowly spin around.
It was like being at the centre of a wheel, with the stone as a central hub .“No time fer all this,” he said to himself, and stood up. He still felt a little dizzy but was ready to start.
“Reckon we’ll see ‘ow tall you be.” he said, addressing the stone, and taking hold of the spade, he sliced down deep into the soft, dark soil. He dug until he had made a hole well over a metre deep, but still the blank face of the stone continued down, its freshly exposed dark, damp surface shining in the morning light.
Tom paused briefly to catch his breath. “Darn if ol’ Walter b’aint be right ‘bout you…but I’ll ‘ave the measure of you yet. ”He reached for the heavy iron bar, and lunged swiftly downwards, putting all of his strength into the action. The dull point of the bar buried itself deep into the soil at the bottom of the hole. Tom braced himself, ready to apply his full weight to the free end of the lever, when he was suddenly aware of a tingling sensation in his hands. It grew to a dull vibration, which trembled up his arms. He tried to relax his grip, but it was as if his hands were frozen to the metal. A sudden fear ran through him, as his muscles became tense… unable to move.
Next, a deep throbbing sensation, which seemed to fill his head, shaking every taut nerve of his body. His chest started to heave… he could feel his heart pounding, as if it burst at any moment. And the pain! It twisted like a knife inside him, building into a final agony as the world spun and darkness closed in around him.
“Reckon I’ll be ‘avin’ that pint then,” said Walter, with a grin, when they met a week later.
“Aye, I changed me mind ‘bout that stone,” said Tom, quietly. “Reckon it’ll stay where ti‘s after all.
Got ter recognise as ‘ow ti‘s part of our ‘eritage an’all that.”
“Our ‘eritage then, is it?” Walter laughed
