The Waterstone by Rebecca Rupp Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Rebecca Rupp
in his ear.
“There, just ahead. I can smell them. Go easy now.”
His bare feet stepped cautiously on dry evergreen needles. Far ahead, a pinpoint of yellow shone in the darkness, then flared and blossomed. Someone had lit a fire. He and his companion moved forward together, setting their feet down carefully, barely daring to breathe. The stone circle rose above them — twelve great rough-cut rectangular stones, set on end, and in the center, lying flat, the thirteenth. The altar stone. Hooded figures moved around it, their shadows leaping, black and gigantic in the yellow firelight. The ground beneath Tad’s feet felt suddenly cold.
Is this real?
Tad thought.
Where am I?
He looked back over his shoulder at his companion and saw, with a shock, a narrow humorous bright-eyed face covered in short red fur. The creature wore a tight leather cap with earflaps and a leather jerkin stitched all over with tiny rings of bronze. In one hand it carried a polished longbow, a yellow-feathered arrow notched in the string.
“We can take them, Burris,” he heard his own voice — gone deeper — say. “We’re a match for her lackeys, you and I.”
A strong hand gripped his shoulder briefly, then withdrew.
“I am ever with you, Sagamore,” the fur-soft voice said.
Sagamore . . .
“Are you all right?” Ditani was saying. “Are you all right, Tad? You were making the funniest faces.”
Tad grinned at her weakly. “Sure,” he said. “I’m fine.”
Inside, his thoughts were in turmoil.
Whose lackeys? What’s happening to me? And who is Sagamore?
On the other side of the fire, Pondleweed and the Hunters talked on.
“This is more than a Dry,” Branica said. “Some evil is afoot. Danger is to all of us, and all should meet it together. It is time for a Gathering of the Tribes.”
“What of the Diggers then?” Pondleweed asked.
Tad pricked up his ears in curiosity. He had never seen a Digger. The Digger Tribe had left the forests long ago — long before he was born — to live like moles in burrows beneath the far mountains. There were all kinds of strange stories about them, none of which agreed. “Wise as a Digger” was a common saying among the pond folk, but even commoner was “mad as a Digger,” which meant really crazy, and “twisty as a Digger,” which meant clever but not to be trusted.
Branica shrugged.
“Who knows what they think under yon stony mountain?” Uncle Czabo put in. He shook his head, making his silver nose-ring flash and glitter. “Perhaps with all their cleverness they make water out of rocks.”
“Best to leave Diggers alone,” Nobono said repressively. “They do not know the Honor of the Hunt.”
“The Hunters, we have sent out word,” Branica continued, “calling all to meet for council at the Wide Clearing in the Piney Forest on the ninth day of the Shrinking Moon. Perhaps the Tribes together can discover why this strange Dry has come and decide then what to do.”
Pondleweed nodded slowly.
There was a whoop of delight from Birdie as she hopped Bodo’s last two pebbles, winning the game. Bodo clapped a hand to his head and moaned.
“Another match!” Griffi shouted.
Nobono laughed. “I see the luck is with the Fishers tonight,” he said.
“It is too late for more playing.” It was Branica, summoning her children. “Bodo and Griffi! When you are ready for sleeping, then we will have some music. Go and wash your faces, all. And unroll your sleeping furs.”
It was clear that there would be no more talk of menacing weasels or terrible stone circles that night — or at least not until every child was fast asleep. Tad snuggled into his silkgrass blankets next to Birdie, his head toward the fire, resolving to stay awake, just in case.
“Now I show you my magic, eh?”
It was Uncle Czabo. He wiped sausage grease off his mustache and stepped forward into the firelight. Then he bowed deeply to the right and the left, flexed his fingers once or twice, and held
“There, just ahead. I can smell them. Go easy now.”
His bare feet stepped cautiously on dry evergreen needles. Far ahead, a pinpoint of yellow shone in the darkness, then flared and blossomed. Someone had lit a fire. He and his companion moved forward together, setting their feet down carefully, barely daring to breathe. The stone circle rose above them — twelve great rough-cut rectangular stones, set on end, and in the center, lying flat, the thirteenth. The altar stone. Hooded figures moved around it, their shadows leaping, black and gigantic in the yellow firelight. The ground beneath Tad’s feet felt suddenly cold.
Is this real?
Tad thought.
Where am I?
He looked back over his shoulder at his companion and saw, with a shock, a narrow humorous bright-eyed face covered in short red fur. The creature wore a tight leather cap with earflaps and a leather jerkin stitched all over with tiny rings of bronze. In one hand it carried a polished longbow, a yellow-feathered arrow notched in the string.
“We can take them, Burris,” he heard his own voice — gone deeper — say. “We’re a match for her lackeys, you and I.”
A strong hand gripped his shoulder briefly, then withdrew.
“I am ever with you, Sagamore,” the fur-soft voice said.
Sagamore . . .
“Are you all right?” Ditani was saying. “Are you all right, Tad? You were making the funniest faces.”
Tad grinned at her weakly. “Sure,” he said. “I’m fine.”
Inside, his thoughts were in turmoil.
Whose lackeys? What’s happening to me? And who is Sagamore?
On the other side of the fire, Pondleweed and the Hunters talked on.
“This is more than a Dry,” Branica said. “Some evil is afoot. Danger is to all of us, and all should meet it together. It is time for a Gathering of the Tribes.”
“What of the Diggers then?” Pondleweed asked.
Tad pricked up his ears in curiosity. He had never seen a Digger. The Digger Tribe had left the forests long ago — long before he was born — to live like moles in burrows beneath the far mountains. There were all kinds of strange stories about them, none of which agreed. “Wise as a Digger” was a common saying among the pond folk, but even commoner was “mad as a Digger,” which meant really crazy, and “twisty as a Digger,” which meant clever but not to be trusted.
Branica shrugged.
“Who knows what they think under yon stony mountain?” Uncle Czabo put in. He shook his head, making his silver nose-ring flash and glitter. “Perhaps with all their cleverness they make water out of rocks.”
“Best to leave Diggers alone,” Nobono said repressively. “They do not know the Honor of the Hunt.”
“The Hunters, we have sent out word,” Branica continued, “calling all to meet for council at the Wide Clearing in the Piney Forest on the ninth day of the Shrinking Moon. Perhaps the Tribes together can discover why this strange Dry has come and decide then what to do.”
Pondleweed nodded slowly.
There was a whoop of delight from Birdie as she hopped Bodo’s last two pebbles, winning the game. Bodo clapped a hand to his head and moaned.
“Another match!” Griffi shouted.
Nobono laughed. “I see the luck is with the Fishers tonight,” he said.
“It is too late for more playing.” It was Branica, summoning her children. “Bodo and Griffi! When you are ready for sleeping, then we will have some music. Go and wash your faces, all. And unroll your sleeping furs.”
It was clear that there would be no more talk of menacing weasels or terrible stone circles that night — or at least not until every child was fast asleep. Tad snuggled into his silkgrass blankets next to Birdie, his head toward the fire, resolving to stay awake, just in case.
“Now I show you my magic, eh?”
It was Uncle Czabo. He wiped sausage grease off his mustache and stepped forward into the firelight. Then he bowed deeply to the right and the left, flexed his fingers once or twice, and held