Blood And Stone

Chapter 22: The Unquiet Grave

Twisted and rolling like the tendrils of smoke flying in the breeze, the long, bony wooden fingers buried themselves deep beneath the crust of the earth. The roots snaked their way through dirt and rock, fire and brimstone to tousle the brittle hair of those souls populating the underworlds. Turning and dancing their way up into the trunk of the hallowed tree to solidify into an impenetrable soldier, the roots showed their strength in every fiber. The grass that lay at the base of the tree, crawled its way halfway up the trunk to blanket the deep cherry color with a gentle velvety hug.

Keeping its curling and swirling nature, the tree took a playful and ethereal form, rising toward the skies. The branches spread wide, casting the untouched meadow in a cool shadow. The leaves of the tree fluttered in the breeze, a ghostly white that would reflect the magical light that sparkled against the stars. They swayed back and forth, lightly tickling the toes of the gods. This untouched meadow stood as the picture of perfection, a holy place that reflected the balance of good and evil, light and dark roots twisting together throughout the body.

Lying beneath the soil, delicately caged by the roots of the tree, lay a long-forgotten soul, resting peacefully in its eternity. Though the soul was forgotten and seemingly slumbering so deeply that it should never return to its place outside its earthly grave, the spirit shifted uncomfortably. The reason for this discomfort could not be perceived by any mortal eye nor heard by any mortal ear and yet, there the spirit lay, twitching and shimmering. The light shimmer of awareness melted into a small shiver. The odd twitch of the eyes gave way to a strange jerk of the head, a sudden twisting of the neck. As if it were a corpse reanimating in its grave, each limb shook and trembled, each non-material muscle jumping and clenching. Through the roots, up the truck, along the branches, ending in the shaking and dancing of the ghostly leaves, the spirit began to awaken. The sound of the leaves clashing against one another gave way to a metallic ringing that stung the ears and watered the eyes. With a groan of discomfort and fear, the spirit's eyes opened, shattering the peaceful existence of the skies above with the crackle of lightning.

The clouds that hung in the distance threatened their purpose of discord and forced the spirit to move. Long, thin fingers grasped at the dirt, clawing and dragging the ghost form up through the earth at speeds that would bring fear to even the most vicious of demons. Pulling, dragging, weaving its way through the curling roots, the spirit shattered the shell of peace and beauty, its immortal gasp rippling through the air like the screech of the most dangerous of creatures. The tree itself seemed to fear the sound and the limbs tightened slightly as if to wince away from this newly arisen villain.

Though it had intended to seek out the source of its disturbance once past the barrier of untouched life, the spirit sat upon it instead. It stared at the tree, marveling at its beauty and power, unable to look away. The spirit, as beautiful and haunting as it had always been, could never forget to admire the tree. The tree was the spirit's reason for existence. Charged with its care and protection, the spirit never left and never dared give anything other than its total and complete attention.

As the spirit gazed upon the tree, the soft roll of thunder shockingly took its attention. The awakening of the skies began with the deep blue-grey of the storm that approached from off in the distance. The mere sight of anything that refused to shine with happiness and magic was enough to bring the spirit from its place but the sound of such defiance? It was unthinkable. Impossible. It quite simply did not happen. Such a thing had no right to exist in this ethereal plane. The clouds swirled in sharp, twisted blades of darkness, curling over on itself much like the branches and roots of the tree. Inside the curl, as if it were forming a sphere of sinister energy, lightning stretched from one side to the other, pushing the thunder forward to softly lick at the spirit's ears. Though it seemed quite soft, nearly non-existent to the spirit, the sound must have been a great echoing crash to those close to the gathering storm.

As the spirit studied the gathering anomaly, its attention shifted once again to the tree. Deep within the fibrous cage of the tree, sat the most important object that would ever exist in the present or future. Existence itself was not as important and powerful as the object. A stone, vibrating with the power of the gods, sparkling with the magic of all the realms, and pulsating with the blood of all life. It was a delicate stone, one half of which was made of Blood Onyx and the other, the purest of white quartz.

The onyx was as deep and dark as the everlasting emptiness of eternity. Lying in layers of thin, flaking rock veins of crimson life spoke for the living world. Pulsating from the center as if it held a heart to pump the blood of the body through the scraggly veins of the Blood Onyx. The veins were small, and thin, as if they were held within the fleshy tomb of a canine ear. Delicate little things that cut through the brighter magmatic glow of the Onyx itself. The veins traveled to the middle of the stone and connected silently to the bigger veins in the pure white quartz. The quartz side of the stone was as angular as the onyx but much less sharp, giving it a more pure appearance. It was smooth on its surfaces but the veins within were much larger. They spread to the edge of the stone, allowing the white fluid mist to travel throughout the stone.

The purpose of the stone was unknown by the mortals but could be felt if one possessed enough of the blood of the gods. The gods, like many gods before and after, would mate with the mortals either from boredom or the need for a more powerful hold to balance out good and evil. Otherwise, the stone was only known to exist to the gods themselves, though only one was permitted to see the stone. That one was the spirit whose grave sat below the roots of the tree. This spirit was the protector of the tree and the tree, the protector of the stone. The spirit had been at rest for eons, the stone never changing size, the tree never being challenged, for if it was, the roots would have curled and pierced the spirit's back as it had today.

The Spirit sat prone, straining its ears beyond the capacity of any other set of ears within existence. Nestled quietly beneath the sounds of the meadow and the clash of thunder in the distance, the Spirit could hear the rhythmic thud of the stone, beating like the heart that it was. As the spirit listened, it began to shudder. The rhythm was incorrect. There was a stutter. No, a murmur. The rhythm fell off its usual beat and clattered against itself. Turning swiftly, the spirit let its eyes travel the length of the great tree.

Minute and hardly visible in the perfection sat a small crack within the bark. Careful to not bump the tree in any way, it approached the tree. The crack itself was hardly visible to the naked eye but the break in the pattern of the bark screamed out to the Spirit. It drew nearer, raising one gnarled thing ghostly finger to the bark. None were permitted to touch the tree except the guardian spirit and even then, it preferred to leave the structure untouched. The second that its finger brushed the bark, the crack grew and the small sliver of bark curled in on itself. It doubled over as the clouds had, mimicking the curl of the branches and roots, then whithered and turned black, breaking free from its home to float down to the grass below.

The heaven-shattering wail that burst forth from the spirit, shook the tree. The roots closed their fingers around the earth that surrounded them, as did the branches, curling into menacing claws. The grass clung closer to the tree if it were even possible for it to do so. Ghosts and gods alike shivered in the icy breath of the spirit, their slivers of hope dulling to a mere reflection of what once was.

With a speed that was incomprehensible by the human mind, the ghostly body of the spirit split itself into long stands of soul and snaked its way throughout and up the trunk. As if the strands possessed hands, they gripped every splinter of wood, pulling it tighter into itself and causing a moaning creak. Forcing itself upward, it encompassed every slight imperfection that presented itself, filling in the holes with its being. Erupting in a shower of bright white light, the spirit rose to the branches, curling in its place. It gripped any limb in danger of drooping and cast a protective shell of spirit-made leaves to complete the canopy of power.

The faceless bust of a woman took form on the front of the tree. Her hair flowed like the clear, cool waters of the rivers below. Her arms split into the strands that embraced the trunk, quivered, and shook with the horror the spirit found herself filled with. Softer than a whisper but echoing louder than the scream she produced before, she spoke. "With Blood and Stone, through Earth and Bone, to Body and Soul, for all to see and none to own." Allowing the sorrow to solidify where her eyes should be, she steeled herself for what was to come and let her tears fall silently onto the unquiet grave.