The Stone of Lamfedios

The Stone of Lamfedios 12

- 12 -

 One morning Charia sent the horses back to the village. There had been little fodder for them during the mountain journey, and their steps had become more uncertain. The sound of their hooves, echoing from the steep and stark mountain sides, receded. Charia reached down to the ground, gently brushing it, when she rose she released a pinch of dust which drifted in the direction of Cliff Village. She uttered a few prayerful words for their safe return.

 "We must continue on foot," Charia said, as she hid the saddles beside their camp. "The horses have given us a good start, but I will take them no further." Then she started to adjust the straps on the saddle bags and showed Gemma how to pull them over her shoulders like a rucksack.

 Finally she pulled her staff from its compact holster, sang a few quiet words and it lengthened to chest height; with a notch at its top it resembled a plain walking pole. Gemma too held her white-pine staff in readiness for her journey, further into the unknown.

 Their route continued along narrow, stony paths. Often they descended into steepening valleys, to continue beside dry, boulder strewn river beds deep in shadow. There were many ascents, sometimes these would commence with a barely imperceptible rise before a steep and arduous climb. Each high mountain pass had its own character, Charia named them for Gemma. Sometimes this was to distract the girl from the drop beneath the slim ledge which gave access to the next valley. Occasionally there were narrow tunnels roughly hewn into great cliffs. Each high place offered a brief rest and time to ponder on the extensive views of this vast and unattainable landscape.

 Charia pointed to a fine silver ribbon, far away in the south. 

 'The Sea of Tor, I have never been there. Perhaps now I never will.' She added wistfully.

 Gemma thought of holidays far away, in distance and in time. In another reality she had lazed on warm sands. She felt tired. Why was she doing this?

 She looked at Charia's sad face and knew the answer.

 The ravens were constant companions, forever vigilant, and yet often finding time to display further amazing feats of agility as their game continued. Sometimes they were joined by their own kind, perhaps a territorial exchange. But as the birds continued their task, circling farther and farther from the travellers, so the local ravens left them to continue their vigil.

 That first night Gemma missed the reassuring sounds of the horses as she lay on the hard ground, using her pack as a pillow, still surrounded by their smell on her blanket. The ravens settled to keep watch, perched on rocky vantage points, high above them.

 Having passed several strenuous days, walking in the mountains, Gemma was feeling exhausted. She had become blase about the stunning landscape. Each magnificent peak, each precipitous and sheer ravine blended into insignificant scenery. 'When you have seen one mountain, you've seen them all.' She thought as she forced her aching legs to take her through yet another 'dreary high pass'.

  The sound of a telephone made her feel disorientated; bringing her attention to her lounge at home and making her take an involuntary step as if to answer it.

 Her mind must be playing tricks on her. She had heard of mountain sickness, perhaps she had it. Well her mum always joked that Gemma was a hypochondriac, catching every deadly disease that was vividly portrayed in the hospital soaps, she avidly watched on TV.

 The wind blew through her hair, her legs and back ached and yet the sound of the telephone had seemed so real. Perhaps, she reasoned, her mind had been tricked by the call of a distant bird, or some dislodged shale that had chinked its way down a steep cliff face.